Page 243 of Scoring the Player
I’m floating, can’t feel my bones.
Lasting inside him as long as I did used up everything in my chamber.
I was floating, even as he entered me. A wild hum rippled under my skin, melding with the throbbing of being split open by every drag and plunge of his cock.
I grunt as he pulls out of me, then grunt again when he bites my ass.
He tugs on my hips, raising them up, and I look back as his head dips down.
I moan as his tongue pushes inside me, shivering when he suctions my rim, eating out his cum.
Themmmsounds he’s making, mixed in with the slurps, hit me with the sudden urge to pull him into my arms and sink my cock back inside him for the night.
He pulls back and squeezes my ass. “Goddamn, baby. That ass is perfect.”
His leg kicks out as he tries to climb out of bed, but as soon as his foot lands, he wobbles, and I reach out and steady him.
“Where are you going?”
“Was gonna get a cloth, clean you up, and check your hole.”
I grin. “Come here.” I drag him into my arms. He burrows against my cheek. I push back his curls and kiss his forehead before he catches my lips in an unhurried, sated kiss.
CHAPTER 60
SALEM
THREE WEEKS LATER
Hmm.
I’m standing in the doorway of my bedroom. Well, mine and Blue’s. He’s here every chance he gets, including last night when I got in from a stretch of road games. I have him for two nights before we both head back out on the road. It’s no surprise he prefers being here over Los Angeles, though I fly to him when I have longer breaks.
He’s seemed a little off. I didn’t think much about it, but that’s the fifth time he’s picked up the glass and put it back down on the nightstand in the same spot.
I clear my throat.
“Fuck!” He jumps.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He steps back. “Figured out the Tart-jelly thing?
Pfft.Looks like I’m headed toward my seventh failed attempt. I’m not sure what’s clashing the flavors, the gelée or the tartes Tatin, but I need a break. “You just picked up the cup and placed it back down five times.”
“N-no I didn’t.” He rubs his palms on the sides of his briefs. “I’m gonna shower.”
“Baby?”
“What?”
“What’s got you anxious?”
His brow furrows. “You know what this is?”
I peel off the doorframe and step toward him. “Yeah. Denzel also struggles with OCD when he’s anxious. He’ll be like, ‘Chill, Fred. We’re good.’”
The lines on his face relax. “His OCD is named Fred?”
