Page 39 of The Import Slot
“Nah, the thing is, I may have name dropped you to some girls when Jonesy and I were out last night. They’ll only come out if you’re there. They’re good-looking girls, this redhead with great tits, and I think she’s after an autograph.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“I’m not interested, sorry buddy,” I say.
“Why? Ain’t you single?” he says.
“Yeah, but still not interested,” I say.
“C’mon, she said she’s into anal,” Bettsy says with a grin.
“Fuck’s sake, Betts. Leave the man alone!” Johnny says, his head resting on his cushion and his eyes still closed.
“Look, I’ll sign a photo, and you take that to her; with my regards,” I say.
Sure, I fucking love anal, but not with a random chick I’ve never met. Bettsy doesn’t let up about it until we’re pulling into the parking lot of the rink. Now, all I can think about is those damn workout pants Jen wears, how good her ass looks and if she’d be up for anal.
By the time I’m home and in bed, I’ve got no choice but to jerk off to the thought of Jen bent over the edge of the bed, her ass in the air. I’d give it a little spank first and drag my finger from her clit to her ass, gathering some of her wetness. She’d be so fucking wet for me. Then I’d slip a finger into her tight ass—I grunt as I climax, but there’s little satisfaction when I come onto my abs. I want her.
She’s all I can think about, and jerking off morning, noon and night is doing nothing to kill the desire. When I see Jen at our next home game, I’m forcing myself to think of my grandma, because no one wants a raging boner in a jockstrap. My need is insatiable, and I’m struggling to keep it cool. I feel like a horny teenager and it’s beyond infuriating. It’s like Bettsy’s said a secret code word, unlocking a concupiscent need inside me that only the real thing can deactivate.
Things really go from bad to worse when she hurries into our apartment on Wednesday afternoon. She’s wearing a skirt suit and flats, looking for a particular pair of shoes she apparently packed in her boxes.
“Interview?” I ask with a hopeful expression on my face. She texted me to say she was coming over to grab something but didn’t go into detail. I know she’s still applying for jobs here in the city, so it’s a logical conclusion.
“Yeah, but I’m not talking about it. Pretend like it’s not happening,” she says, fidgeting. She’s flapping about like a headless chicken, rifling through her boxes.
“Okay, I won’t ask, but can I wish you good luck?” I ask.
“Just wish it quietly to yourself,” she snaps, standing up. “Sorry, Ry, I’m stressed right now. I don’t mean to be so abrupt. Oh, my Christ, I’m sweating now too. This is ridiculous.”
She walks to the living area, opens a window and sticks her head out. She’s wearing her hair down, but she bunches it together with her hand and fans her neck with the free one, which of course turns me on. I imagine my fist bunching her hair together while I–
“Why is it so hot in here?” she asks, pulling me away from my thoughts.
She leaves the window open and moves back into the living room before deciding to lose the suit jacket. “I’ll have to put it back on when I get there,” she says, but I get a delicious view of her curves and the swell of her breasts in that dress shirt. I want to rip it open and bury my face in her chest.
“Can I ask?” I try to distract myself. I know she’s turned down that job offer that requires her to work in a different city, so she’s probably banking on this.
“No,” she says firmly, holding her hand up. “I’m so nervous, I can’t right now. I’ll tell you all about it once I’ve finished,” she says.
She’s rooting through her purse now and drops a pack of tissues. Bending down to pick them up, she turns away from me, leaving me to see the round swell of her ass and that’s me done. My mind jumps to an entire list of dirty things I want to do and sticking my face in there is one of them.
I’m wearing unforgiving grey sweats and her jaw drops when she pops back up and looks at me. I dash around the other side of the kitchen counter to cover my lower half, but it’s too late.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” I say, pulling my attention to a takeaway menu Danny has left on the counter.
She pauses for a moment before responding. “But you don’t eat fried foods during the season,” she says, eyeing the menu. Either she’s doing me a favour and not mentioning my trouser snake, or she’s genuinely worried about my nutrition plan.
“No, but I can look. Like food porn.” Fuck, terrible choice of words. I can’t help myself. Sex on the brain.
She doesn’t utter another word; she only lifts an eyebrow in wonder before checking her watch.
“Right, I need to get going. How about a good-luck hug?” she asks, grabbing her suit jacket.
“How about a good-luck handshake?” I try, but I know she’s a hugger and she knows I never turn her down for a hug.
“What’s going on?” she tries again. I stare at her before taking a deep breath, but thankfully, she must think better of it. “Actually, I’ll ask you another time. I don’t want to be late. I’ll see you later for dinner if you’re still sure?” she says.
