Chapter 17 Hayes
Hayes
I can’t stop thinking about the blow job.
Was not expecting it.
Can’t get it out of my mind.
Not even as my daughter and her teammates scream on the sidelines of her volleyball match, their little shouts of “Side Out” echoing in the giant elementary school gym.
Rubber soles squeak. A ref’s whistle ricochets. A very aggressive mom heckles the referee like the team has a championship riding on this game.
They don’t; they’re nine, for fuck’s sake.
I clap when I’m supposed to clap, lean an elbow on my knee, and pretend I’m tracking rotations. What I’m actually tracking is the memory of Layla’s mouth, the warm weight of her palm on my bare skin, the way she looked up while she sucked my—
“She is so adorable,” Layla says beside me, chomping on popcorn, clapping for every point being scored by our team and the opponents. It tells me one thing: She knows nothing about volleyball.
I clear my throat and pass her one of the Gatorades I bought during the second set. “Are you cheering for both sides?”
“I want both teams to have fun.” She laughs, twisting the top off.
“Mm-hmm.” I pick up the popcorn from the bleacher in front of me so I don’t kick it with my foot onto the parents below us. “When our side serves, you want to shout ‘out’ only if the ball lands out. Otherwise, we like ‘in.’”
She squints at the court. “Explain the whole rotating song and dance.”
“They rotate when we get the serve back.” I show her with my finger on the palm of her hand—little clockwise taps that make sense but probably don’t. “Setter, middle, outside—”
The metal bleacher welds a cold line into my thigh through my jeans.
Layla nods. “Uh-huh.”
Our knees brush, and my dick tingles.
What the fuck is my problem? Guilt racks my gut.
We’re at my daughter’s volleyball game, and all I can think about is—
“Yay! They won!”
Benny and her junior teammates jump up and down, chanting their victory cheer, no longer having to play a third set. We’ll do something while they have a team meeting before heading back home for dinner.
We hang around for ten minutes, rise from the bleachers.
Layla stumbles. “Oh shit, my calf.”
I hesitate, then reach for her elbow. “Still hurts?”
She nods. “I should take something for this.”
“I’ve got ibuprofen in the truck,” I say, steering us toward the doors to wait for Benny with a hand at her back. “Athlete-dad starter pack. Also pink Band-AIDs with Barbies.”
“Thanks.” She limps along with me, and I’m tempted to sweep her off her feet again—she was so very appreciative the last time. Ha!
Several minutes later, my daughter returns, her best friend in tow, skipping toward us with a look I’m familiar with; they’re about to ask me for a favor. Beg for something.
“Dad—can I go with Madison and her parents to Chicken Shack? Please, please, please?” She takes a deep breath. “Please, Dad?”
Gee, alone time with Layla? Twist my arm.
“That’s fine. No pouting when you get home and have to immediately jump in the shower and get ready for bed.”
Benny and Madison cheer.
Madison’s mom strolls over, keys jangling in her hands, doing that apologetic wave parents do when they know you’d rather have them home but feel guilty telling them no.
“We’ll have her back by seven thirty,” she promises. “We’ll probably hit Target after we eat. I’ll text when we leave.”
“Perfect.” I dig two twenty-dollar bills out of my wallet and begin to hand them to Madison’s mom.
She waves them off. “Nope. We offered.”
Fair enough.
She eyes Layla curiously, hand thrusting forward. “Hi, I’m Skylar, Madison’s mom.” Her gaze shoots curiously between Layla and me, thirsty for information. No doubt she’s going to light up her mom group chats with the gossip.
“I’m Layla. Visiting from Washington.”
When she offers no other information, I can see the disappointment in Skylar’s eyes as her smile tightens, hungry for more. “Washington! Wow. Long way from home.”
Not really.
“Mm-hmm.” Layla twists the top on her Gatorade, smiling politely. “It’s so much warmer here.” A master class in saying nothing.
Skylar laughs because she has to. “Right. Well. We’ll take great care of Benny.”
“I know you will.” I give my daughter’s braid a tug. “Rules?”
She recites, bored, “Inside voice. No running. ‘Please’ and ‘thank you.’ Don’t ask for anything.”
“And?”
“Shower when we get home.” She sighs, then pops up and hugs my neck hard enough to crack something. “Bye, Dad.”
“Love you. Have fun.”
Layla hobbles toward the exit, and my hand remains on her elbow, despite the curious eyes I can feel watching us as I push through the door and we walk to the parking lot.
“Do you mind the gossip?” she asks. Limp, limp . . .
“Comes with the territory.” I say. “Single dad, professional football player. People fill in blanks.”
I toss Benny’s backpack into the back seat of the truck, then dig in the center console for the bottle of ibuprofen, rooting through phone cords, a crushed granola bar, and a tangle of hair scrunchies. I shake out two pills and pass them over.
“We’ll ice you at home. I also have one of those wrap things if you’re interested.”
“Of course you do.” Her mouth turns wry.
“Comes with the territory.”
I drive with one eye on the road—and one on her calf—anxious to get home, relieved when we finally pull into the drive.
From my bathroom I snag an Icy Hot pack, a clean towel, and the bottle of lotion I use after lifts, then tip my head down the hall toward the guest bedroom where she’s been staying.
“C’mon. I’m gonna rub your leg.”
She gives me a wry little smile and limps along after me, fingers brushing the doorframe as she passes.
I take in the room. Rarely walk inside it, appreciate the simplicity of it. White duvet, white pillows, silver lamp. Shutter blinds on the windows cracked to let the light in.
“Lie down? Let me see what we’re working with.”
Layla settles onto the bed, spreading out at the edge of it, and I sidle up, then untie her shoes. Remove her socks. She wiggles her cute little toes.
I work the long line of her calf, find the ropey spot that’s been overcompensating, and ease it with steady circles until it lets go under my hands. She exhales softly, and my self-control lists, then rights itself.
My cock moves.
My hands skim her warm skin—careful, slow passes to get the blood moving in her leg. She inhales.
“How’s the pressure?”
“Perfect.” A beat. “Your hands feel amazing.”
“You think so?”
She nods, head on the pillow. “So good.”
I warm a ribbon of lotion between my palms until it’s slick and hot, then sweep my hands down and back up her calf. Kneading. Heat chases the path I make. The knot at the side finally melts, and I reward the muscle with a long, lazy stroke that makes Layla’s toes curl.
My palms glide higher, mapping the length of her thigh with a slow pressure that coaxes her deeper into the pillow as I rub the hem of her shorts, below her ass cheek.
“Here?” I work the outside quad, steady and sure.
“Mmm. There.” Her voice is fuzzy. Relaxed. “Keep—yeah. Just like that.”
Just like that . . .
“Time to roll onto your back. Let me work your thighs.” I think for a few seconds before adding, “Do we think you should remove these shorts?”
Layla rolls to her back, nodding her agreement. “Oh, for sure.”
Hooking my fingers in the waistband of her black biker shorts, I ease them over her hips, then down, careful of her calf. She lifts for me so I can slide them down her legs and toss them to the white overstuffed chair in the corner.
My pupils dilate at the sight of her beige lace underwear with a scallop trim that conceals nothing.
I already know I want to bury my fucking face there.
My hands roam, learning her body—lazy strokes to map what makes her sigh, firmer ones that have her biting her lip, little circles that pull a soft curse from her throat. Every reaction is a breadcrumb; I follow all of them.
Layla shivers.
I swallow.
My palms—still slick from lotion—press up her thigh. Down again. Up . . . fingers skimming the edge of her panties, unable to stay away. I mean—I can see her fucking pussy, why wouldn’t I want to play with it?
Jesus.
I trace the line where fabric turns to skin, slow enough to make her hips twitch, cruel enough to keep from giving her what she wants. My thumb slips under, not quite moving the panties aside—just enough to make us both shiver.
Her legs spread the smallest fraction.
I knead her inner thigh with the palm of my hand, pushing. Pressing. Oiling up her flesh, wanting to do so much more than that.
“Hayes.” Her breath catches. “Please.”
“Please what?” I murmur, mouth grazing the inside of her knee. “Use your words.”
“Touch me.”
Fuck yes . . .
My finger skims the lace of her panties, and I trace a single, slow line up the center of her pussy, featherlight. Teasing. She gasps—of course she fucking does—so I do it again, circling where she’s aching the most.
I go down on my knees next to the bed, pulling her to the edge, resting her legs on my shoulders, face and mouth and tongue needing to devour her.
“Here?” I ask, voice low, teasing the edge of the lace with the pad of my thumb. Mouth watering . . .
Her head goes back into the pillow, her hands grip the coverlet. When I hook the lace aside, her legs open another inch.
“Good girl,” I murmur, leaning in to kiss the inside of her thigh. “Let me keep that mouth on your pretty pussy until you’re shaking.”
Until you’re coming in my mouth . . .
“I want to take care of you,” I tell her.
“You are.” She pants. “And I really, really like it.”
I drag my mouth higher, slow enough to make her whine, then breathe hot against the damp lace. One kiss to the center—soft, closed mouth, a promise—then I nose the fabric aside and finally taste her.
Holy. Fuck.
She’s sweet and slick and already fluttering for me.
My tongue flattens and slides from bottom to top, a long, greedy stroke that has her hips jerking against my face.
I pin her gently with my forearms under her thighs, mouth sealing over her while my tongue teases her clit in lazy, circling passes.
I take my time.
My hand slips under the lace, and I ease two fingers inside, knuckles pressed to the heat of her while my mouth stays glued to the spot that makes her lose her mind.
“Oh—God—don’t s-stop,” she stutters, voice breaking.
My moan is guttural. My dick? Rock fucking hard.
“Come for me, pretty girl. Mess up my mouth.” Let me fuck you with my tongue.
Her back bows, a desperate sound tearing out of her throat, and I hold her there—steady, relentless—until she shatters, pulsing around my fingers, coming hard on my tongue while I groan and drink every last second of it like I’ve been starving.