Chapter 8 Jones
JONES
I can lay claim to some pretty impressive stats, and for the last few years as a star receiver for a winning NFL team I have, but my favorite one to share is this—ten and three-quarter inches.
Pretty big, huh?
You don’t get into the double digits too often.
That’s nearly as long as a football.
And that makes me a one-of-a-kind guy.
C’mon.
I’m talking about my hands. These hands have won championships. These hands have caught circus catches in the biggest games. These hands are a beautiful target for game-winning passes. I know exactly what to do with these hands.
Especially when it comes to enjoying the soft, sweet flesh of a woman.
A touch here, a touch there, and I can have her melting beneath me.
They’re a multi-purpose asset, and these hands—and other parts—have come out to score quite often after hours.
There’s no better way to enjoy a career as a pro baller, as far as I’m concerned.
Except when it comes time to clean up my act.
Turn over a new leaf. Start fresh. Remake myself into a good, upstanding citizen and kick those party-boy ways to the curb. Fine, I can do that. I can absolutely do that.
And hell, do I ever need to after some of the shit I’ve had to deal with in the last few years.
But a little help would be nice, and there’s only one person I can turn to. One luscious, delicious, fantastic person. None other than the woman I’ve been lusting after for years.
Damn shame we’re going to be spending so much time in close quarters in the next few weeks, especially since everything needs to remain hands-off.
That is, until it doesn’t . . .