Chapter 26
26
[Ruthie]
W hen the Chicago Anchors have a doubleheader, I take a pass on a double dose of baseball. Instead, Lacey Sawyer invited Tulane and me to visit the local aquarium with her and her boys.
Surrounded by three rambunctious boys under six, Lacey doesn’t mention any concerns about Cyrus and his fidelity. She’s less intense than she was at our first meeting, with her focus presently on her sons. She’s a great mom, and I hope we can be friends as I’ll need some when I get to Chicago.
We spend a good portion of our time together chatting about raising children.
“You know how it is,” she eventually says to me, with the assumption that I’m Tulane’s biological mother and I’ve been raising her since birth. Since I don’t know how Bolan wants to play my relationship with Tulane, I simply nod in response to Lacey’s comment .
But I consider how, biological or not, Tulane feels like mine. We have a wonderfully exciting day, pointing out the fish and sea life, giggling at how they open their mouths or flip their fins. Watching her take in this new experience will go down as a highlight of my life. I’m honored and fortunate to share these moments with her. I truly love this child.
We went to the aquarium first thing in the morning and stayed until late afternoon, which means Tulane’s nap time is messed up again and she falls asleep in the car. When I get to the apartment, I make as little noise as possible and lay her down in her crib in hopes she’ll stay asleep a little longer.
But I almost let out a scream when I see Bolan sprawled out on the king-sized bed, face down, arms and legs spread like a giant star fish.
Then I slump against the doorframe and take in the curve of his back. His defined muscles are apparent as he isn’t wearing a shirt. My gaze lowers for his backside covered by loose-fit athletic shorts. There is just something about baseball players. Bolan in those famous pants is something. Bolan out of them is also something.
I chew at my lower lip, feeling like a voyeur watching him sleep. Poor man misses a mattress and a good night’s rest.
The night of the recliner incident, I’d kept my distance on the massive mattress, afraid my nearness would hurt him again.
While I’m watching him, Bolan lifts his head, rubs his nose against the bed cover and then lies flat again.
I should really step away, but I don’t. Instead, I witness him roll over to his back and wince.
“Are you okay?” I rush forward.
He lifts his head again to look at me, but he also lifts his leg, bending his knee toward his chest and then rotating it outward, like he’s working his hip flexor.
“Cramp,” he grits through a clenched jaw.
“What can I do to help?” I’m not a physical therapist or personal trainer, and Bolan has an entire regimen of exercises after catching to stretch and relieve his muscles, but he’s clearly in pain.
He does the same motion again, this time holding the back of his knee and tugging his leg higher against his chest.
Instead of remaining at the foot of the bed, I climb onto it, positioning myself between his spread legs.
“Grab my ankle.” He winces.
I follow his instructions, keeping a firm grip on his thick ankle as he pulls his leg toward him once more.
“Now push. Resistance might help.”
I do as he asks, leaning into his bent leg, but he grits, “Harder.”
Putting all my weight into it, I shove his leg, placing my other hand on his inner thigh to stabilize myself. Only my hand slips and I narrowly miss a part on him I shouldn’t be touching.
Bolan lifts his head again, gazing at me between his spread legs. My attention falls to the definitive bulge in his thin shorts.
“See what you do to me, flower,” he grunts.
I try to ignore it. Him. His dick. Instead, I rotate his leg like he’d been doing before. Placing my hand on the inside of his thigh, I have better control of the movement, rolling his hip flexor and bringing his leg back to the bed.
But I’m still between his thighs and when I go to remove my hand from his inner leg, Bolan claps his hand over mine.
“Fuck. flower.” He drops his head back to the bed and drapes his arm over his face.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, releasing him with my free hand.
Bolan moves his arm and lifts his head once more. “Don’t be sorry. This is what you do to me.” His voice strains. “I’m so fucking hard for you.”
Just looking at him. That thick bulge in his shorts. The length of it. The fact he claims I do this to him spurs something inside me .
“May I touch you?”
Bolan snorts. “So fucking sweet when you never have to ask me for permission.”
I slide both my hands up his inner thighs, digging my thumbs into the solid muscles, before reaching the weight of his balls. I wrap my hand around his covered dick. With a sharp tug, I slip up the length and Bolan hisses.
His head has fallen back. His eyes close. “Yes,” he chokes, as I start to stroke him faster, squeezing harder.
Touching him turns me on in a way I hadn’t ever considered. He’s hard because of me. His body is reacting to my touch. And I feel powerful with his dick in my hand.
I squeeze and pump, and then take the liberty to dip my hand beneath the waistband of his shorts. No underwear. Bolan groans as he lifts his hips to help shove down the athletic wear. I’m not sure if it’s the pain in his back or the eagerness of knowing his cock is destined for my mouth.
In the early evening light, I have an excellent view of his length and girth. The strength and stiffness. And I remember the powerful thrust of this appendage into my body. Memories of him surging into me, taking me up against a cold window, send tingles between my thighs. I want to straddle his thick thighs. Instead, I squeeze my thighs together as I work him.
“Just like that, baby,” he groans as I jerk him faster, watching where the tip is swollen and leaking. Then I lower and give it a lick. Bolan’s hips thrust upward.
“I’m sorry. Sorry,” he mutters as his hand comes to the side of my head. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. Do anything. Mouth. Hands.” His breath comes in short bursts between each command.
Opening wide, I take him in, taking my time to suck along the length that fits in my mouth. My other hand cups the rest. My tongue circles the rim of the crown, and then I draw him in again, hollowing my cheeks. With the increased suction, Bolan’s hips rock again, gentler this time.
“That’s it, flower. Take me. Take all of me.”
I cup his balls with my other hand, gently rolling them. While I’m thrilled with his responding moan, I’m equally surprised by my own body’s reaction. I slip my leg over his thigh and press my center against the firmness, keeping my mouth and my hands on him.
There is something so virile about Bolan. Something that makes me want to be a little wild. Something that gives me permission to be reckless.
Both his hands come to the sides of my head. “Ruthie. Flower.” He grunts in warning, like he’ll pull me off him, but I double down.
“F uck .” Bolan goes off like a river let loose from a dam.
When I finally drag my mouth up his length and kiss the tip, I glance up at him. Head tossed back. Eyes aimed toward the ceiling and blinking.
“I see silver stars. Do you see silver stars?”
I chuckle lightly and sit back, my center notched on his kneecap. Bolan jackknives upright, startling me, and with one smooth movement, he rights his shorts and then grips my hips, flipping me to my back beside him. He twists, settling on his knees between my legs, forcing them to spread for him.
“How about you, Ruthie? How are your hip flexors?” He grabs my ankles.
I could tease him that mine are out of practice, but I don’t need to speak as Bolan presses my legs upward, forcing my knees to bend and come to my chest. He tugs my legs apart, spreading my knees wide. In denim shorts, I can only rotate so much.
“Felt you on my thigh. Tell me you’ve been achy for me, like I’ve been aching for you.”
I lick my lips and answer. “I’ve been achy. ”
“Dr. Adler is here to help.”
His silliness makes me chuckle again, but the laughter quickly drops off when he reaches for the clasp on my shorts, then unzips them. With a sharp tug, he drags them down my legs and off my feet. He leans forward, placing his face directly between my legs and inhales.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he says to the intimate part of me covered by my underwear.
I’ve missed him, too, but I don’t say that as he licks over my damp panties. Then he hooks his finger in the material between my thighs and pulls my underwear downward. He takes his time to remove them and then drags his gaze up my legs until he’s reached my center. He stares a second, inspecting me, admiring me. Then a finger brushes against my clit, and my breath hitches. That same finger dips inward and I arch off the bed.
“So ready for me. So responsive to me.” He pulls his finger back and adds a second, diving into me, and taking my breath once more. Back and forth, he works me, alternating between watching his fingers and glancing up at me.
At one point he says, “Look at you soaking my fingers. Fucking them.” He hums, then adds his thumb to the rotation, pressing my clit.
“Never gonna be the same,” he mutters, but I’m not certain if he means him or me. Because I’ve never felt this before. This undivided attention. This rush of desire. This powerful sense that I’m beautiful, special, important to him.
“Bolan,” I whimper.
“Is my wife needy? Does she want me to fill her up? Stuff her full of my fingers, and then my cock?”
“Oh God,” I cry out, fisting my fingers in the duvet beneath me.
“You’re kissing me,” he whispers, watching where his fingers disappear. “Marking me. ”
My cheeks heat but I have no time to be embarrassed because my lower belly flutters and my legs begin to shake.
“Bolan,” I whisper again, the quiet tone desperate for him.
He curls his fingers inside me, and something clicks. I go off like the perfect hit. A line drive to centerfield, only I’m headed out of the ballpark. This is so much more than a grand slam. It’s fireworks over the stadium.
I cover my mouth with my hand to prevent the scream that would surely wake Tulane. I arch into Bolan’s touch, dragging out the sensation until I have nothing left and collapse back to the bed.
“Yes,” Bolan whispers, finally removing his fingers and then dipping them into his mouth.
“You’re so bad,” I tease, my voice unrecognizable as I twist my head to see him better. His large body still between my spread legs.
“And you’re such a good girl.” He presses a tender kiss to my lower lips, and I shiver at the intimate touch.
Then he shifts his entire body, pouncing onto all fours over me, until we hear a small cry.
Bolan and I both stiffen a second until another cry tells us this sexy interlude is over.
He hangs his head a second before glancing up at me. “I’ll get her.” Then he leans forward, kisses my nose, and hops off the bed, like he didn’t just have aching hips, hadn’t just rocked my world.
He goes into dad mode and there is nothing sexier.