Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Franky
I had always suspected Jason Isner was a crude-mouthed asshole jock at his core.
What I had never suspected was how much it would turn me on.
While the science on penetration, sperm volume, and vaginal pH was mixed, the basics were the same: get the sperm into the uterus. And if we could enjoy the process along the way, then what was the harm?
It’s only sex.
Tied to my baby-making dream.
I could separate it. I would have to.
Besides, Jason was giving me this gift. Why not make this enjoyable for him? Not only that, give him a more active role to suit his rollicking id and need to play at alpha baby daddy.
He hadn’t exactly shoved his dick in my face, but it was there: flagrant, rampant, begging for my attention. A little like the man to which it belonged.
I touched a finger to the crown, rubbed along the slit—and sucked the salty fluid off my finger.
He groaned. “That’s my girl.”
I was nothing of the sort, yet that possessive utterance thrilled through my veins. Apparently, I wanted to belong to someone.
The power I felt as I wrapped my hand around him was electrifying.
I thought for a moment that maybe I could own him with this small gesture.
Retain some control over the situation. Stroking up and down, I relished the feel of the velvet sheath over steel.
Part of me wanted to lick and suck, but that was far too removed from the goal.
But touching him felt so good. Watching the pearls of pre-come leaking over my fingers was much more arousing than I expected. My nipples peaked to hard points, my panties turned damp with desire.
His face was creased with an almost savage lust. “You keep that up, I won’t last.”
And we needed him to last, at least for a little while.
“Lie back, Francesca.”
I pulled back the covers and lay down, my head against the pillows. Jason stood over me, drinking me in. I wasn’t the dewy, fresh ingenue he was probably used to. I was closer to forty than thirty, with cellulite dimpling my thighs and a less-than-flat stomach.
He didn’t seem to mind. If anything, my body appeared to excite him.
From the nightstand, he grabbed the scarf he had bought for me to use in my disguise.
“What’s that for?”
“Earlier I mentioned superstitions. Little things we do as part of our pre-game routine.” He wrapped the scarf around my wrist and tied it in a knot. “I usually tie my laces three times.” He knotted the scarf again. “For luck.”
“I don’t believe in that kind of thing.”
He tied it again.
“If you don’t believe in it, then there’s no harm in doing it, right?”
He completed the third knot.
“If it makes you feel better.” It was okay to indulge him on this. Just a silly superstition.
He knelt on the bed and moved a hand to my inner thigh. “So soft,” he murmured as he coasted that hand down over my underwear. Laying the heel of his palm flat against my vaginal opening, he gave me a dirty rub that had me arching off the bed. My instinct was to close my legs.
“I need full access, Francesca. But if that’s not okay …”
“It’s okay.” More than okay.
He peeled off my panties, then parted my thighs once more, all while watching. Devouring me with his gaze. That heated regard, that intense absorption of my body, made me wetter than I had ever been with a man. And he had barely touched me!
“We really should … get on with it.”
“Should we?”
“I don’t want to, uh, waste that erection.”
He snickered. “Are you implying I can’t get hard again?
Or stay that way?” As if I had challenged him, he moved between my legs and spread me further apart.
With his fingers, he touched, stroked, speared, and claimed me, spreading my wetness around, glancing brushes against my clitoris that drove me wild but never enough to get me close.
Which was good. I didn’t want to risk climaxing before he buried himself deep.
“You like this?”
“Yes,” I barely managed.
“And this?”
I loved that he was checking in. I nodded. Nodded again.
“Tell me.”
“Y-yes.”
That pleased him. And oddly, that pleased me. Decades of feminist striving out the window.
“I want to taste you.”
“You-you don’t have to. I know most guys don’t like it.”
“Got a source for that, Professor?”
I swallowed as another lick of sensual flame shivered through me. “Just anecdotally.”
His expression flickered then returned to that confident arrogance I was starting to enjoy. “Some asshole you dated?”
“It was a personal preference.” Of his.
“That left your sweet pussy out in the cold.” He moved in close, his breath hot between my thighs. “Do you like this, Francesca?”
“I-I don’t know. I’ve never had anyone perform cunnilingus on me.”
I was thirty-eight years old. The admission should have been embarrassing, but this was a night for honesty. If we were successful, there would be no more of these encounters. This might be my last shot at good sex.
“Just tug on my hair if you want me to stop.”
“O-okay.”
His tongue lapped between my legs, the sensations incredible. My hips shifted, my core craved. It had never felt … never been so … never … oh.
I tugged on his hair. He looked up.
“Sorry, I-I don’t want you to stop. I just needed to express my … approval somehow.”
“Moan, scream, scratch, tug—whatever works, baby.” And then he returned to making me do all those things. Finally, I had to push him away.
“I’m too close. You need to be inside me now.”
“So bossy,” he murmured, but he moved over me and settled, rubbing his erection—which I need not have worried about—over my soaking folds.
“Please,” I begged, not caring how I sounded. Desperate, and I worried it wasn’t just for a baby.
His chest against mine, the lovely weight of him, the feel of him hard against me—it was all too perfect, and he hadn’t even penetrated me yet. I worried I would orgasm the moment he inched inside, and it would be over too quickly.
I suspected he was concerned about this, too. His hand stroked my ass, squeezed and kneaded. His mouth was close to mine, and his eyes held my gaze as he waited.
I ran my thumb along his bottom lip, desperate to ask for the one thing that terrified me most.
Kiss me.
It was such a personal request, so unnecessary to the goal of conception. At the last second, my innate common sense kicked in.
Kissing would not further the mission.
“Please,” I whispered.
He stroked inside me with a single deep thrust that made me come at once.
“Fuck,” he murmured against my lips as my vaginal walls gripped him fiercely. “You feel … so … tight. So … good.”
“You have to—”
“I know, Francesca. I’ve … got it from here.” He rocked into me, rolled out, maintained the rhythm as those hunter green eyes bored into my soul. Filling me completely, he moved inside, finding points of pleasure I never knew existed.
He moved a hand to where we were joined, his fingers parting my sensitive flesh and stroking my clitoris.
“That’s it, baby. You’re gonna come for me again.”
That had never happened. Sometimes it wouldn’t even happen once, but apparently Jason Isner knew more about my body than I did. Waves of sensation were starting to build and build and build until I could contain it no longer. I moaned as the release wrung me out and left me limp.
He cupped under my thigh and thrust once, twice, three times, finally unloading a roar of pleasure and a flood of heat and baby dreams inside me.
He stilled, but stayed, as if remaining inside me would create some sort of protective barrier, allowing his boys to reach their goal without hindrance. Scientifically, this was absurd, but unscientifically … I was not opposed.
I loved how he felt. Inside, outside, all around.
He lay his forehead against mine. “I have a good feeling about this.”
So do I. But did I mean the baby or something else?
After a moment, I let out the breath I’d been holding. “I-I have to go through my routine.”
“Right.” He slid out, dare I say, reluctantly? Ludicrous, Franky. Absolutely ludicrous. “What do you need?”
“Pillows.”
He passed two over and I placed them under my butt, raising my hips. I was just about to put the coverlet over my body when he beat me to it. Either he was extremely sensitive to my needs, or he didn’t want to look at me any longer.
“I’ll just clean up.”
“Okay.”
You bet I looked as he headed to the bathroom—that hockey butt was amazing.
This whole experience had been amazing, a once in a lifetime opportunity.
As I fingered the knots in the scarf on my wrist, I focused on wishing for conception, praying that his puck found the net.
I was suddenly tired, worn out from the drive and the stress of arriving late, as well as the anxiety of sex with a hockey god.
Though that had been lovely. A memory to treasure, especially if it resulted in the ultimate gift of all.