3
GUN
She’s the only one, comes the thought as I feel my first thrust break through her hymen and enter her secret space. Her warmth and softness rolls through me as I groan with pleasure, flexing my cock as I hold myself inside her and revel in how beautifully her body fits with mine, how her curves line up with my ridges of muscles like we were designed to fit together. I know what I’m doing, and although there’s a part of me that’s whispering that I’m a fucking idiot, that after years of self-control, making sure I don’t make a mistake by blindly following my cock and getting some gold-digger pregnant, I don’t give a shit. No woman has gotten to me like she has, and I don’t even fucking know her.
But I do know her, I think as I kiss her lips and slowly begin to move inside her, grinding my powerful pelvis into her mound as she shudders and moans. I already know her in a way I’ve never known any woman. I saw her for who she is in the first few minutes in that room, saw how she swallowed her fear and stood her ground against Coach, how she battled her anxiety and showed up here in my locker room, unsure but still bold. She’s mine, and I’m gonna fucking make her mine. From the inside. All the way. Now and forever.
I growl in ecstasy as I begin to thrust harder. The feeling of my bare cock pressed against every inch of her inner walls is mindblowing, something I’ve never felt. The urge to come inside her is overpowering, unstoppable, like I can literally feel two million years of evolution waiting to fulfill itself through my heavy balls. It’s fucking crazy, but all I can think about is filling this woman with my seed, making her mine forever, giving her everything I have, all of me, every fucking inch.
“You’re mine, Gale,” I whisper through gritted teeth as I grip her wrists and hold her arms up above her head. Her magnificent breasts are squished between us as I move over her smooth skin, and I can feel her climax rolling in as I pump harder, my balls tightening as they prepare to unload into her depths.
Then I’m coming, my orgasm blasting through like a torpedo, racking my body as my eyes flick wide open and then roll up in my fucking head as I roar and ram back into Gale with all my power. She screams, her arms going tight as I hold her wrists down and shout again, pumping once more as my cock explodes, pouring torrents of my thick seed into her hot depths until I feel my own semen rolling out of her, coating my shaft, making my goddamn balls slick. I can smell blood in the air, taste it on my lips, sense it between her legs, and somehow that’s making my arousal spiral higher as I keep coming, keep pumping more of myself into her, filling her again and again even as she overflows onto the table. It’s like my body has waited forever for this moment, forever for this woman, forever for its fate, and it doesn’t want to leave any doubt about what this union means, what our coupling is going to create, what lies in our future.
One more massive explosion and I collapse on Gale, exhausted and spent, like she’s taken all of me and I’ve willingly given it to her. The depth of what I feel right now makes no fucking sense, but it’s pointless to deny something so powerful. This is nature, and you can’t deny nature. This is fate, and you can’t fight fate. This is destiny, and you can’t dismiss destiny.
Somewhere behind our gasps and sighs I swear I can hear my sister laughing, pointing and saying “Told you so, you big dummy!” like this is all part of a Disney cartoon, like it’s clear what’s going to happen in the end, like it was always clear that the prince gets the princess, the king gets the queen, the quarterback gets the . . . quilter?!
“You gonna capture this moment in your quilt?” I whisper after we stay in our hot embrace for what feels like forever but somehow not long enough. I’m still inside her, still filling her, still connected to her like I can’t break away.
She giggles and turns bright red, blinking and looking away at first before meeting my gaze again. Fuck, she’s so pretty. So sweet. So mine.
“Yes, I’ll embroider a cherry on one of the patches,” she says, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. Then she blinks, and I see a sudden flash of anxiety in those big brown eyes. “Oh God, I’m supposed to be interviewing you for this quilt! I’m getting paid for this! I have a job to do!”
“Are you seriously thinking about some fucking quilt right now?” I grunt, propping myself up on an elbow and looking down at Gale with amusement. “Fuck that. Fuck the owners. I don’t want some fucking quilt.” I pause as I see her wince at my admitted overuse of the f-word. “And you don’t need to worry about money ever again. You’re mine now, Gale. And what’s mine is yours.” I shrug and glance down at her breasts, grinning and tracing my finger around her big red nipples. “And what’s yours is mine.”
Her eyes go wide, and I can see I just fucked up. She’s scared. This is too much for her. Hell, maybe it’s too much for me too! What the fuck am I doing?! I just came inside this woman, came like a goddamn stallion, again and again. After years of keeping my cock sheathed, controlling that primal need to come inside a woman, I let it all go for some curvy quilter dressed in blue?
I want to be pissed at myself, but I’m not. There’s a warmth flowing through me, and I caress Gale’s soft brown hair and kiss her gently on the lips. This is real. What Sis saw in her dying vision was real, as fucking cheesy and Disney-like as it sounds. I just had to wait twenty years for my princess in blue to walk out of a white cloud and into my life.
“And now you’re here,” I mutter, completing my thought in words as I stroke her cheek and watch her tremble beneath me, like she’s trying to come to terms with what just happened too, like she’s trying to grapple with the intensity of what can only be love, what can only be forever, what can only be a fucking miracle.
“Yes,” she says, her voice shaking as she blinks up at me. “I guess I am here.” She looks past me, a flash of fear behind those brown eyes of hers. “And now what?”
“Well,” I say, smiling as I roll off her onto the large table and pull her close. “We’ve got three road games out on the West Coast. Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Seattle. We fly to LA tomorrow. So you’d better pack.”
She widens her eyes at me. “Um, how do I explain this to the Wilburs?”
“Explain what?”
“This!” she says, glancing down at our naked bodies pressed together in the steamy air. “Oh, God, I must be crazy! They’re going to think I’m some kind of . . . of . . . whore!”
I snort in surprise, staring down at her and shaking my head. I think for a moment, and then grunt as I make a decision. “Well, we have two options,” I say. “First, we can say nothing. You’ve been hired to put together some quilt about my life, so it’s perfectly reasonable to accompany the team for a couple of weeks.” I look at her and narrow my eyes. “But I don’t like that option.”
“So what’s the other option?” she says.
“The other option is we just tell everyone the truth.”
“And what’s the truth?” she says, blinking like she doesn’t want to admit it to herself, admit that she knows this is forever, that she’s mine and I’m hers.
“I’m gonna tell you what the truth is, Little Quilter,” I whisper, feeling my heat rise again as I reach around to her magnificent ass and rub her roughly, my cock rising like a log against her mound. “Or maybe I’ll just show you what the truth is. All this talk is giving me a fucking headache anyway. We can finish this conversation on the flight tomorrow. Right now I need to be inside you again. I need to fill you again. I need to—”
But just as I lean in to kiss her I hear the locker-room door swing shut softly, like someone had been watching, listening, eavesdropping, fucking spying! I leap up off the table as my protective instincts fire up. I want to explode through the door and catch the spy in the act, but only thing I can think about is shielding my woman’s nakedness from some asshole’s prying eyes, and I grit my teeth as I stand in front of the table, tall and broad as I feel Gale desperately scrambling for her clothes behind me. I’m
wild with anger by the time she’s dressed, and I just barrel through the locker room door buck naked, ready to pound the shit out of the shameless motherfucker.
“Show yourself, you fucking coward!” I roar down the empty hallways of my home stadium. I know this place like the back of my hand, and I thunder down the passageways, kicking open doors and stomping in rage like a man possessed.
“What the fuck are you doing, Gun? Put some clothes on, you idiot! There are still reporters in the building. This is the last thing we need right now. This is the last thing you need right now!” comes Coach’s voice from the far side of the hallway, where there’s a conference room that the coaches share. He was probably meeting with his assistant coaches to do a post-mortem of why we lost the game today. Or maybe he’s the fucking spy! Old perverted bastard. Can’t trust anyone anymore, can I?
“You!” I roar, pointing at him and storming down the hallway, my cock and balls swinging as Coach does a double-take like he still can’t believe what he’s seeing. “Was it you?”
Coach steps all the way out of the conference room and pulls the door shut tight behind him like he doesn’t want any of the assistant coaches to see me. He blinks, his grizzled jaw tightening as he takes a step towards me and stops. “Gun,” he says, cocking his head and frowning like he’s puzzled, maybe even worried. “What’s going on? Have you lost your shit? Did you take a hit to the head on one of those sacks today? Should we have you checked out for a concussion?”
“So you can bench me?” I growl, my fists clenched, my teeth grinding in my tight-as-fuck jaw. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what everyone wants, right? Bench the over-the-hill quarterback. Put him out to pasture. Well, fuck you. Fuck all of you. You’ll have to drag me off the field. You’ll have to—”
All I can see is red as my anger rips through me like a storm wind, and before I know it I’m all the way up against Coach, my big hands gripping his jacket and lifting him almost off his fucking feet. I see real fear in the tough old man’s eyes, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve lost control, that maybe I did take a hit to the head on one of those sacks, maybe my brain is rattled, my instincts running haywire.
I let go of Coach, blinking and taking deep breaths as I shake my head and lower my eyes. I’m about to apologize, try to laugh it off. It was a wild game, and everyone’s on edge after a close one like that—especially a close one where we lose. But then I feel movement at my left, and when I turn I see a guy with a camera, his eyes wide, a grin on his face like he’s delighted, just fucking thrilled.
“Fuck me,” I groan, closing my eyes and wincing when I remember that the home stadium is crawling with press after a game. They’re always looking for a scoop, always trying to get some controversial comment from a pissed-off player, snap a pic that will get re-tweeted and shared and OMFG’d all over the fucking Internet. This is the age of controversy. Nobody wants to hear a feel-good story anymore. Everyone’s out for blood, out to see someone fall flat on his face. And I’ve just fucking handed it over, haven’t I? The local press has already been clamoring for my head, saying that it’s been fifteen years and I haven’t delivered a Championship, that it’s time for me to go, retire, maybe even get cut by the team.
“Thanks, Gun!” whispers the reporter, grinning as he checks his camera and then winks at me. “Great shot. It’ll go well with the images I got of you and your chubby whore. Don’t worry—my readers will love the fact that Grant Gunner likes big women. I’ll spin it into a feelgood lovestory.” Then he snickers and shrugs. “Oh wait. That shit doesn’t get eyeballs or clicks. Scratch that. How about this headline: Old Fart of a Quarterback can’t Get Laid with the Cheerleaders anymore and so he—”
But I’m on him before he finishes his taunt, and before Coach and the assistants can pull me off him I’ve broken his fucking nose, given him two black eyes, and he’s spitting blood and choking for air. It takes four men to stop me from killing the cocky motherfucker, and when they finally get me under control, I know I’m done. This is career-ending shit. I’m done for. Fucking done.
4
THREE DAYS LATER
GALE
“What have I done?” I whisper as I watch Gun announce on TV that he won’t be accompanying the Philadelphia Firestorm on their West Coast trip. The past few days have been a whirlwind of horror, like the decision I made to walk into that locker room has sent the entire universe spiraling into chaos, like all that crap about destiny and meant-to-be, about fate and forever, about love and happiness is total nonsense, just evidence that both Gun and I are insane and immature, childish and out of control.
We haven’t spoken since the police showed up at the stadium and arrested Gun for assault. He was released in a few hours—the reporter chose not to press charges. I guess he expected to settle out of court for a big payout—which is exactly what happened earlier today. Fair enough. Gun did some serious damage. That guy’s smile is never gonna be the same again.
I feel a wave a guilt go through me as I almost smile at the memory of Gun unleashing on that snake of a reporter. I’m violently opposed to any sort of violence, but I can’t help but feel a strange warmth at the way Gun reacted to that pig’s crude taunts. I’ve always been a big girl, and although I have my own insecurities just like anyone, my size or weight has never been a major issue for me. Still, I’m sensitive to any kind of body-shaming or fat-shaming, and the way Gun reacted makes me tighten my jaw and nod my head as I can’t help but think that the reporter deserved it, that if the public knew what the guy said they’d applaud Gun for doing what he did.
But of course the public won’t know about it, because as the news show flips back to the newscaster, I hear about the out-of-court settlement with the reporter. A pay-off involving an undisclosed sum. And a nondisclosure agreement about everything involving the incident.
Everything, including the photographs.
I sigh and shake my head as I wonder for a moment if Gun knew exactly what he was doing when he let himself lose control and pop the reporter upside the head a few times. If he’d just let the guy walk out of there, there’d be scandalous pictures all over the web by now. This way Gun and his lawyers made the photographs and story part of the nondisclosure agreement—most certainly for an additional price.
I sigh again as I look at my phone. No new texts. Not a single missed call. I blink and walk to the window, fighting back a choking feeling as I remind myself that what happened three days ago might well turn out to be exactly what it would have looked like to anyone watching: A rich, powerful athlete banging some chick in his locker room after a game. Meaningless. Immediately forgotten. One of many.
The breeze blows through the wispy fingers of the weeping willow that’s been outside my bedroom window my entire life and will probably still be there when I’m dead and buried. I blink away tears as I hug myself and shiver even though it’s not cold. I’m back in my little town, in the house where I grew up, alone and by myself, like nothing ever changed, like nothing ever happened.
“Maybe it was a dream,” I say out loud as I shake my head and force a smile. But of course I know it was real, and I hug myself again and stroll through my empty house, the same house where I learned how to make a quilt, do the one thing I know I’m really darned good at.
The Wilburs fired me after the debacle following the game. There’s gonna be no quilt, and so they don’t need a quilter anymore. From what I read, they woulda fired Gun too, but his contract had some guaranteed payouts that would’ve kicked in and so they held off. After all, no police charges were filed, and there was no story released other than sketchy details of an “altercation with a reporter” after the loss. Apparently the football league is considering disciplinary action, maybe a suspension. But from what I read, Gun’s decision to sit out the next three games to undergo a voluntary evaluation for a concussion will probably be enough to satisfy the League. There’s a lot of awaren
ess about concussions leading to erratic and sometimes violent behavior. Maybe Gun is doing it just to get some sympathy and save his career. Or maybe there really is some truth to it. After all, the guy did go completely crazeballs there, didn’t he?
“And so did I,” I whisper with my third sigh of the past three minutes, glancing at my phone for like the fiftieth time in those same three minutes. Am I seriously waiting for him to call or text me and say, “Hi! Remember me? Wanna meet up?”
He’ll call, I tell myself firmly as I fight back those annoying tears again. He’s just busy with everything that’s going on. His career is in jeopardy. His entire life just got messed up by what happened in that locker room. He’s got other stuff on his mind. Give him time. Give him space. You waited twenty years for your prince. You can wait a little longer, can’t you?
And so I turn away from the phone, turn away from that weeping willow outside my window, turn away from the chaos of the world outside. I walk to the windowless room that’s my haven, my place of comfort, the place where I do my art, create what I was born to create.
Then I roll out three fresh layers of fabric, sigh one last time, and get to work.
5
GUN
“Get to work, you idiot,” I grunt as I push three hundred pounds of cold, hard steel away from my chest as sweat rolls down my forehead and face in beads. I’m pissed off as anything, angry at everyone in the entire fucking world, with myself at the top of the list.
I did what my lawyers, agent, and PR folks advised: Pay the reporter up the ass and make him sign a nondisclosure as part of the settlement. Squash the story. Delete the photographs. Then bow your head in shame and tell everyone it’s not your fault. If you’re a politician or movie star and do something bad you tell everything you’re an alcoholic and are seeking treatment. Apparently nowadays if you’re an athlete who fucked up, you say it’s one too many hits to the head. What a fucking joke. What happened to taking responsibility for your actions? Standing behind your decisions? Doubling down on what you said and did?
Curvy for HIm: The Quilter and the QB Page 4