7. Chapter 7
“You’re so fucking tight,” JB growls against my ear as his weight pins me against the sheets.
My cheek is smashed into the pillow, and my lips are parted as I fight to stay quiet. He’s got me exactly where he wants me: ass up, with my legs spread wide open for him. I’m completely at his mercy, and I've never felt more alive.
JB's thick fingers press into my hips as he yanks me back onto his cock, each stroke forcing me to take every inch.
“That's it,” he rasps, his thick fingers press into my hips as he leans forward. “You're such a good girl. Do you like this?”
His pace is steady and relentless, and he owns me with every thrust. I’ve never felt so small and so thoroughly taken care of. Frankly, I never realized how much I crave it.
His body pulls away as his hand slides up my spine and fists into my hair. When he tugs my head back, I arch for him, lost in the new sensation.
“Answer me, Coach,” he rasps.
I whimper helplessly, pushing back against him, needing more. “Yes... fuck, yes. JB——”
He pulls me up so I'm flush against his chest and reaches around, sliding one hand between my legs to circle my clit as he continues to fuck me.
“You’re close aren’t you?” he says with his lips against my neck. “Don’t you dare come until I say so.”
“JB—” I gasp, my voice wrecked.
I’m shaking uncontrollably now, grasping the pillow as the pressure builds. I'm about to—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I take in a sharp breath as I sit up in bed, and then look around, panting.
My forehead’s sweaty, my nipples are erect, and I'm... fully clothed?
“JB?” I whisper, glancing at the bed beside me. Throwing the bedsheet back, I'm disappointed to see he's not there.
Was it all a dream?
My pussy is throbbing, aching for the release I was so close to getting just a few seconds ago.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath as I collapse back onto the bed. “We haven't even had sex.”
I drape my hand over my eyes, disappointed in myself. I just had a wet dream about my golf partner.
Ever since our 'moment' in the golf cart, I can't stop thinking about him.
I drape my arm across my eyes, hoping it will erase all memory—or should I say fantasy—of JB.
“You were made for me weren't you, baby?”
I shiver.
Nope. That's not helping.
Every time I close my eyes, my core throbs, reminding me how good he was with his fingers. How they found that perfect spot and made me come so hard I saw stars.
No. There's only one way to solve this weird finger fixation I have, and that's to erase any memory of him by doing it myself.
Blowing out a long, somewhat disappointed breath, I close my eyes and bring one of my hands under the covers. When I reach the waistband of my shorts, I stop.
I'm gonna need to pull some porn up if I want to think of something other than JB.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
My hand hovers over the device, and my head whips to my door.
Wait, that knock wasn't just my brain trying to shut me out of an orgasm? Someone is here at five-thirty in the morning?
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself, scrambling out of the bed.
Who the fuck is knocking at this time?
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Just a minute,” I say louder toward the door as I head straight to the bathroom. I don't have time for a shower, but I can't have anyone see me this sweaty.
I turn the faucet to the coldest setting and close my eyes.
The second I do, I hear JB's voice in my ear. “So fucking close, aren’t you?”
Splash.
The cold water hits my face, but nothing seems to stop the thoughts of JB's firm hands on my ass.
I press both palms flat against the counter and take a deep breath because I need a second.
I need several seconds. Frankly, I need, at minimum, a full psychological evaluation and possibly a new subconscious because mine has decided that the appropriate response to leading in a golf tournament is to think sexy thoughts about my partner.
My grip tightens as I stare at myself.
“Come on, Marlow. You've got this.”
The woman looking back is flushed and slightly deranged. She doesn’t look like she has anything together.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“All right, I'm coming,” I yell before splashing my face again.
Once I've patted it dry, I head to the door.
When I open it, I have to blink several times to check I'm not still dreaming.
“JB?” I rasp, taking him in, and I still can't verify if I'm awake. He's wearing gray sweatpants (a favorite of mine) and a white T-shirt that is doing nothing to help my current heart rate.
“Good morning, Whit,” he says cheerfully.
You're such a good girl.
I swallow down the echoes of my dream and ignore them.
He raises one of his arms, leans it against the doorframe, and takes me in.
Taking my dick so well.
“Is, uh, that what you wear to sleep?”
I slowly look down at my clothes. I've got a matching silk tan cami set on. The thin shoulder strap has half fallen off my shoulder, and I'm pretty sure if he looks close enough he'll be able to see my erect nipples.
Since I can't change what he's seen, I decide to own it.
Standing up straight, I hold my chin up and say, “Yes.”
“Well, I guess it's a good morning to me too.”
“What do you want, JB?”
“Good question.” He doesn't answer. Instead, he tries to take a step into my room.
I stand firmly in the way. “Excuse me—”
“I come bearing gifts, Coach.” He brings his other hand from behind his back, revealing two coffees from the boutique place down the street.
“Coffee?”
“Yup. I think it's a good way to start the day right, and that's imperative if we want to win today.” The coffee smell is too much to ignore, so against my better judgement, I open the door wider and let him stroll in.
He takes his time, studying the closet and the living room. “Never had the presidential suite of a hotel before. It's pretty fancy,” he says, placing the drinks and their holder on the coffee table. He pulls both of them out and makes his way back to me, offering me one.
I am not strong enough to deny myself coffee this early in the morning, so I accept it and take a sip.
“Ugh. What the hell is this?” I wince, glaring at what I can only describe as sweet, creamy, hot liquid.
“Oh, whoops. You got mine. This one is yours.”
We switch drinks, and the second I taste the black coffee, I relax. This is what I needed to get my mind off of having JB in my room.
“Is there a reason for your early morning visit?” I take a few more sips as I head over to the living room, where JB has made himself comfortable on the couch.
“I didn't have your number.” He turns to face me as I sit, his eyes glittering with mischief. “So I had to come in person.”
“Okay. What's wrong? Did you get a stain on your catfish baseball pants?”
“No. It's worse than that. Much worse.” He puts his coffee on the table and scoots closer to me. “It's worn off.”
I wait. When he doesn't answer, I ask, “What has?”
He holds my gaze. “You.”
“I've worn off?”
“My hands.”
Silence.
I stare at him. He stares back, and he's serious, which is almost more alarming than if he was joking with me. “I need to—” He stops, closes his eyes, and slumps his shoulders. “I need to finger you again,” he says without looking at me.
Okay, I must still be dreaming.
“I'm sorry. I think I misheard you,” I say slowly.
He holds up his right hand between us and studies his own fingers. “I showered this morning,” he says, with the gravity of a man delivering genuinely difficult news. “I can't smell you anymore.”
I stare at his hand, then his face. “We really need to have a conversation about your bathing habits at some point.”
“I'm being serious, Whit. It's what saved our asses yesterday.”
“What are you talking about?”
“After the incident, everything fell into place. You relaxed, and my hips loosened. Not only that, but my grip pressure was down. I stopped fighting my swing, all because I had you with me the entire time.”
“It was a coincidence,” I answer, since no other response feels appropriate. “Your swing improved because we worked on it all morning on the practice green.”
“My swing was terrible until my fingers were inside you. Tell me that's not related.”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He cannot be serious.
He's still looking at me earnestly.
I shake my head and state clearly, “It was not related.”
“And are you willing to take that chance today? On the final round?”
I don't answer.
“We'll lose. If we don't repeat what we did...I don't know if our winning streak will continue.”
“You're insane.”
“I'm a baseball player who believes in superstition. I want us to win, don't you?”
“Of course, but what you're suggesting is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”
“Max is going to come out today and play the best round of his life, because that's what Max does when he loses. I've got no chance against him if my hips tighten up again and my grip is wrong, which means—”
“Oh my God.” I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “You're seriously trying to—”
“I just want to win.”
“So do I.”
“Then let's do this and guarantee it.”
Do this... as in let him finger me again.
Would it help us win? Maybe, but not because of luck. It would be because of mindset. JB's superstitious and he's got it in his head that this will help him perform, ergo, if it doesn't happen, I'm not going to get the same player I had during the back nine yesterday.
His fingers dance on his thigh, and my pussy clenches at the mere thought of having them back inside me, stroking me in just the right way.
“Just five minutes. That's all I need to get them wet enough so it really soaks in.”
“What a proposal,” I mutter sarcastically.
On second thought, this could be a win-win for us both.
If he gets me off in five minutes, he'd have his superstition satisfied, and I'd be able to get him out of my system.
Would it be that bad to feel it one more time?
After today, I'll probably never see JB again.
I don't exactly have time to be going to near daily baseball games, and who knows how long I'm going to have to wait for my next chance with a guy.