Kennedy
“What do you want me to do?”
My voice is almost a whisper when Isaiah’s fingers lace between mine. “I want you to do what feels good to you.”
If this were any other man, I’d be crippled with embarrassment, but it’s Isaiah and for some reason this cocky shortstop with terrible home décor has quickly become the person I trust most.
Do what feels good.
My body is screaming to touch him, to ask him to touch me, but the room is bright, and I’m on full display standing over him like this.
This position right here doesn’t feel good.
Pulling my hand away, I watch the instant disappointment take over his face but he quickly catches it and offers me an understanding smile instead.
“How about that second bowl of spaghetti?” he asks, following me to his bedroom door, but when I get there, I don’t leave.
I close it with us inside.
This . . . this feels good. Safe. Controlled.
Isaiah stops in his tracks, his mouth parting, his erection straining against his thin sweatpants as he cautiously approaches.
“Kenny?”
I don’t answer, flipping the lights off and instantly flooding the room in darkness minus the glowing rubber ducky night-light plugged in next to his bed.
I huff a quiet yet nervous laugh. “Who picked that one out?”
My eyes have adjusted enough to watch him stalk towards me, closing the final steps between us. With my back flush to the door, he presses his palms to it, caging me in on either side.
“Would you believe me if I said it was me?”
“Not a chance.”
“Good.” He cranes his neck, bending to place a soft kiss on my lips. “Because Zanders put that there.”
I smile against his mouth. “What do you want, Kennedy?”
It’s simple, really. I want to feel confident and prepared. I don’t want these nerves to be rattling through me the next time I’m in a man’s bedroom. But I also have no idea what the steps are to get there other than experience.
Slipping under his arm, I back away towards the other side of the bed, holding eye contact with him while I dip under the covers.
“I want this,” I say once fully hidden by both the darkness and the sheets.
Then I pull my T-shirt up and over my head, tossing it to the floor.
“Jesus,” Isaiah exhales from across the room, running a palm over his disbelieving face. “I’ve always imagined what you might look like right there.”
I watch the careful steps he takes to his side of the bed. They’re calculated and slow, done in a way that makes me think he’s attempting to catalog every moment of this.
He gets under the covers with me, keeping his body to his side, careful not to touch me, with his eyes locked on mine, and not allowing them to drift anywhere else.
It’s sweet in a way I never expected Isaiah to be. In the years I’ve known him, I’ve categorized him as the impulsive team clown, always doing or saying something ridiculous to earn a laugh from his teammates.
But here, with me, he’s . . . patient. And shirtless.
Why is he always shirtless?
“Kennedy,” he whispers, facing me. “I need you to use your words and tell me exactly what you want. Or what you don’t want.”
“I don’t know what I don’t want.”
“Okay. How about we have a safe word then? Something you can say when you’re feeling uncomfortable.”
“I don’t want a safe word with you. I know I might be uncomfortable, but that’s the point of all of this. To get the awkward firsts out of the way.”
“Well, I’d feel better if we had one. I don’t want to accidentally cross a line you don’t want me to cross.”
If I’m being honest, at this point, there’s not a single thing he could do that I wouldn’t want him to. But still he doesn’t back down.
“Fine.” I lift my chin. “If I have to have a safe word, I guess it’ll be ‘Mrs.
Rhodes.’ ”
He barks a laugh. “You picked the one thing you’ll never say?” “Yep.”
“You’re such a fucking brat.”
I smile back at him, my head resting on his spare pillow.
“Here’s the thing, Ken.” Reaching out, he cradles the back of my head, thumb dusting over my jaw. “You’re going to have to set the pace because I have craved you here, in my bed, since the day we met, and that need has only gotten worse now that I know you. Regardless of whatever bullshit I said while under the spell that was Chili’s, the truth is, I’d fuck you right now if you asked me to. I’d go slow if that’s what you wanted. Or I’d make it rough. But I also can’t read your mind, so again, I’m going to need you to use your words and set the pace.”
Words? He thinks I have words to say after that? I try to find some. “I want to take it slow.”
He nods in agreement. “Then we’ll take it slow.”
It’s not like I’m a virgin. I’ve had sex, but it hasn’t exactly been the kind of sex you read about in books or see romanticized in movies. It’s always been straight to the main event and over as soon as he was done.
As a scientist, I tried to justify it to myself—if he finished, at least it was enjoyable enough for him to do so.
But as a woman, I want more.
I just don’t know how to say the words without sounding entirely inexperienced, so instead, I take Isaiah’s hand that’s cupping my jaw and guide him down, his calloused fingers grazing the skin of my throat until I leave him lingering against my sternum.
Looking up, I find his eyes locked on my face, watching me and not letting his attention dip below the sheets just yet.
“Please look at me,” I beg.
I want, no—I need to know the way it’d feel for Isaiah to look at me.
He inhales sharply, closing his eyes to gather himself and when they open, his pupils are entirely blown out as they trail down my throat and land on my chest, looking at me as if I were the greatest thing he’s ever seen.
I’ve never, not once, been looked at the way my husband looks at me.
Wanted. Important. Devastating to his life plans.
His thumb dusts over the freckles of my sternum. “I love these,” he whispers, before shifting to skim the lace of my bralette. “And this . . . this looks so fucking good on you, Ken. What color is it? White?”
I swallow down the nerves. “Yellow.”
A grin hitches on his lips as his eyes come back up to find mine, that birthmark I’m obsessed with hidden behind a smile line. “My favorite color.”
Fuck me. Yes, I knew exactly what I was doing when I picked it out. I knew that he’d ask, and I knew I’d tell him, but now that it’s clear I wore this for him, I can feel the heat creeping up my chest.
Apparently, so does he when he spreads his hand to cover my entire décolleté.
“Don’t be embarrassed with me, Kenny. You know I’m over here losing my shit that you wore that for me.”
My hands are living at my side because I’m awkward and uncomfortable
—the good uncomfortable, I guess, where you’re pushed out of your comfort zone and grow. But uncomfortable, nonetheless.
“Turn it off,” he whispers. “Turn off your brain and do what feels good.
It’s all just a game, right? You and me, it’s all a game, so play along.”
This doesn’t feel like a game. The way he touches me doesn’t feel fake, neither does the way he looks at me—with longing and reverence all at once.
But telling myself Isaiah isn’t in my future helps the perfectionist in me. If I can see this as practice for someone else I may meet down the road, I can fumble, mess up, and learn without the debilitating need to be flawless the first time I attempt something.
Even if that something is as simple as fully exploring a man’s body for the first time.
“It’s hard.”
“Fucking tell me about it.” His tone is dry. “Hard as a motherfucking rock.”
I swat him in the chest. “It’s hard . . . to turn off my brain sometimes. I tend to overthink. Overanalyze. Over plan.”
“I know. I see you, Kenny, even if you haven’t been looking at me.”
There’s a heavy pause, a bit of tension clouding the room. Isaiah may have noticed me years ago, but I never allowed myself to really look until now.
“Come here.” The request is so quiet, I almost don’t hear it.
We meet in the center of the mattress, where I use his bicep as a pillow, my forehead to his. And for some reason that I still haven’t been able to pinpoint, calmness washes over me.
This wild boy who has endless friends, chooses to spend his time with me. He makes me feel centered. He makes me feel normal.
He makes me feel like our arrangement is normal.
With his palm still flush to my chest, I wrap my hand around his wrist, sliding it down his forearm, over his shoulder and around his back, resting it along his lower spine. My nails trail his skin the whole way.
He hums. “That feels good.”
I glide that same hand over his oblique and down to his lower abdomen, where his entire stomach contracts with a sharp breath when I trail my fingertips over the line of hair there.
“Still okay?” I ask, both of us looking down and watching. “Yeah,” he breathes out. “Keep going.”
I take my time tracing every crevice on his stomach, smoothing his chest and curving around the back of his neck to pull him in for a kiss.
It starts slow, soft, and sweet. Our mouths take their time exploring one another as we hide under the sheets in his bedroom. He tenderly cups my face, holding me to him, but in no time at all, it heats, kisses turning long and deep. I hum in approval when his tongue touches mine, sweeping in and taking control.
His hands are gentle as they touch me, but his mouth . . . his mouth takes. “I have fucking dreamed about this,” he pants against my lips. “About
kissing you. About touching you. I don’t want it to stop.” So I don’t let it.
Lifting my leg, I drape it over his hip and as I do, Isaiah pulls the sheets up to cover us completely.
A weird emotion clogs my throat at that. Because this . . . this feels safe to explore, while the lights are off, and we’re hidden under the covers. It feels safe to not be perfect, where no one else but him will see.
Hooking a hand around my ass, he tears his mouth away just in time to look down and watch the moment he pulls my hips into his. His erection is impossible to hide behind the cotton material of his sweats and even more apparent when it presses against my core.
A moan slips from my lips, my back arching when he grazes my clit. “Fuck,” he draws out as he watches himself do it again.
I have never, not once, felt so comfortable touching someone the way I touch Isaiah. In fact, I never have touched someone the way I touch Isaiah.
“Keep going,” he encourages, fingers smoothing any flyaway hairs from my face, thumb gently dusting over my cheekbone.
I languidly trace every dip and curve of his chest and stomach as he patiently watches, holding himself back and giving me room to explore.
“Feels so good, Kenny.”
It’s the confidence I need to keep going, keep touching.
I study the way his eyes shut as my palms cover the expanse of his back. The way his nostrils flare with each exhale as I discover the ropes of his arms. The way his breath hitches as my fingertips trail back down to trace the V that dips into his sweats.
I have this aching need to touch him everywhere, this beautiful boy who used to drive me insane.
Pushing my hips, I roll my body into him and watch his Adam’s apple protrude with his deep swallow.
I lean over and press my lips to it.
“Jesus, Kenny, do that again and I’m going to come in my fucking sweatpants like some kind of pent-up teenager.”
I smile against his skin.
His entire body shivers against me, his breathing turning shallow as I trace a forefinger along the line of the V that dips down to his cock.
“Touch it,” he commands. “Fucking hell, Kennedy, please just touch it.” Wow, this arrogant man sounds fantastic when he begs.
I do as he asks, dipping a hand under the waistband. My fingers trace over his warm skin, over his taut muscles and protruding veins, dusting over the hair there, before sliding down and grazing the soft skin of his erection.
Isaiah grits through his teeth, every muscle in his body firing as his fingers dig into my thigh that’s draped around him. “Please,” he begs. “Please wrap your hand around it.”
“You’re very polite when you want something.”
His chuckle is dark. “Oh baby, I told you already. I’m a good boy, especially when I want something.”
I circle his width with my hand, the pad of my thumb smoothing over his crown to gather a bead of moisture.
“And that . . .” He whimpers against my neck, the desperate sound sending a pulse straight to my clit. “That is what I want most.”
I didn’t know I could have this effect on someone. On him.
The man is experienced, and this is just a little touching, a little exploring.
“Your hand,” he grits out. “Goddamn, I’ve been dreaming of it, Kenny. Of your mouth. Of your fucking pussy. I bet it’s as perfect as the rest of you, isn’t it?”
Isaiah thrusts into my hand, looking for friction, and it’s when he runs his entire length through my fist that I feel exactly what kind of size he’s working with.
Jesus.
“Does that feel good?”
“Shut up,” he laughs, his voice strained as he desperately pushes into my hand again. “I’m hard as a fucking rock for you and you know it. You can feel it.”
My cheeks burn, but I can’t seem to stop myself from telling him, “I’ve never really had the opportunity to ask, so I just want to make sure I’m doing what you like.”
He halts his movements, holding his hips steady, but doesn’t ask any probing, embarrassing questions. Lifting his head away from my shoulder, he looks at me, those curious brown eyes watching and reading, but not in a way that makes me feel silly or inexperienced.
“I’ve never really talked this kind of stuff through,” I continue. “Never had someone I could communicate with.”
“Well, you’re fucking perfect on your first go, Kenny.” He meets my hand in pace. “Of course you are.”
“But tell me what I can do to make it better for you. I want to learn.”
He shakes his head, chuckling at me because I can’t help but want to be the best. And yes, apparently that means at giving hand jobs too.
“You could grip a little tighter if you want.” I do exactly that. “What else?”
“I like it when you give the head a little attention.”
I circle my thumb again, spreading the moisture over the tip before coating my fist in it and running it down his shaft.
“Mmm,” he moans. “That’s it, baby.”
Isaiah’s body is tense, his breathing shallow. He sounds like he’s close, but it’s far too soon. I don’t want this to end just yet.
As much as I love touching him, I want him to touch me.
Reading my mind, he throws his hand over mine to stop me. “I’m going to come too fast, and I really need to make you feel as good as you’re making me.” His lips softly meet mine. “Can I make you feel good, Kenny?”
My answer is a far too eager head nod matched by his soft eyes and boyish smile as I remove my hand from his sweatpants.
He cups my ass, pulling me flush to him. His fingers toy with the seam of my leggings, achingly close to the spot I need them most, as his lips trail down my throat, my collarbone, my chest, tongue darting out to lick over the fabric of my bralette.
“Oh,” I exhale when his tongue flicks over the lace, creating this delicious friction on my stiff nipple. “Okay, I like that.”
His silent chuckle rumbles against me as he does it again, this time closing his mouth over the peak.
Fuck.
“These need to go.” He snaps the elastic material against my skin before slipping a hand under the waistband, curving over my ass, squeezing me in his palm.
My body freezes with a moment of hesitation.
He rolls me onto my back, licking and kissing a path down my stomach. “Tell me to stop, Ken.”
“No.”
He grins against me as he pulls my leggings down in a motion so fluid that it impresses even me. Sitting back on his haunches, he clears them from my ankles and tosses them to the floor.
“Same color.” His attention immediately snags on my matching thong, stroking a thumb over the elastic band.
Yes. Yes, it is.
And now it’s as clear to him as it is to me that I had a plan when I came over.
Did I want to end up here when I knocked on his door tonight? Yes.
Was I perfectly okay if we kept our clothes on and ate spaghetti on his couch if it meant I just got to hang out with him? Also, yes.
Which feels like a problem.
One I can’t think about or diagnose because I’m currently distracted by the giant baseball player laying hot kisses along my stomach as he crawls back up my body, his erection thick and hard against the inside of my thigh.
“You still okay?”
It’s sweet, it is. It’s all so fucking sweet, but even though Isaiah is being so good, so patient with me, part of the reason I knew he was the right man for this job was his experience. I don’t need him to treat me like a fragile bird who might break. I need him to treat me like a woman he can’t get enough of.
I gently run my palm down his face. “We should stop being so fucking polite, don’t you think?”
“Well, it’s either that or me ruining you for all other men, so it’s your choice, wifey.”
“Is that so?” I chuckle.
“You’re the one who wants to date after this. I’m trying to make that possible for you to do so.”
“That sounds like some awfully high expectations you’re putting on yourself.”
His laugh is a little bit evil when he flips us, leaving me straddling him in only my bralette and thong. He pulls at my hair tie to let my hair drop down my back.
“You wanna play, Kenny? Let’s fucking play.”
He smooths his hands over my thighs, gripping my hips and gliding me to rock over his erection.
“Mmm,” I moan. “Do that again.”
“You do it.” He crosses his arms behind his head, an arrogant smile on his lips. “Fuck yourself on me, Ken. Show me what you can do.”
My skin flushes with heat and prickles with anxiety. He’s supposed to be the one in control, showing me, teaching me.
But my body’s natural inclination is to roll my hips and find friction, so I do just that, rolling my entire core over the length of his cock, and it feels fucking incredible.
I drop my hands to anchor on his chest, slowly writhing on him. His sweatpants are light enough that I know, I know he’s going to be able to see just how wet I am. He’s going to be able to see just how much I don’t hate him.
But I don’t care because everything feels so good with him. So easy. So comfortable.
“God, look at you. So fucking beautiful, rubbing your pussy all over me.
Are you going to come like this, Kenny?”
“I think so,” I choke out, rhythmically sliding my clit over the head of his erection.
“Yes, you are. It feels so fucking good. You’re making me so fucking hard. Don’t stop until you come. I need to see it.”
I can see his arm muscles tightening, fighting to stay behind his head. But I don’t want them back there. I want them all over me.
“Isaiah?” My fingernails dig into his pecs. “Will you help me finish?”
His swollen cock pulses beneath me, his eyes closing, as if he needs to try to control himself.
“When have I ever been able to say no to you?”
It’s the same question he asked the morning after we said some drunken vows. This time with a little less bite and a whole lot more struggle through hard-earned breaths.
His hands find my waist before curling around my back, smoothly running up and down the length of my spine. “I . . .” He shakes his head. “I cannot believe you’re here. I feel so fucking lucky.” He palms my breasts, thumbs tracing circles over my peaked nipples, under the lace of my bralette. “And these . . . these are fucking perfect.”
My boobs? No, they’re not. Far from perfect, in fact. Fairly small and uneven, but goddamn do they look perfect in his hands.
Isaiah sits up with me in his lap, bringing his mouth to mine for a quick kiss. Then he whispers in my ear while his hands slide around to my ass, pushing and pulling, guiding me to rock over him.
“I have never ever been more turned on than I am by you, Kennedy Kay. By this little matching set you wore for me. By your fucking hair bouncing down your back every time you writhe on my cock, and I have never, never been more turned on than I am right now, knowing you’re going to come all over me, and I haven’t even had the pleasure of properly touching you yet.”
He drags his hands down my outer thighs.
He whispers more encouragement as we both look down to watch me move over him. “That’s it. You’re doing so good for me, Kenny. God, that feels fucking amazing.”
Isaiah lays back down, his back to the bed. With his palms bracketing my thighs, I brace my hands on his forearms.
The pressure in my lower belly builds fast and heady, ready to spill over. It’s so close, I’m so close. Which has me thinking, why have I never come so easily with someone before? What did I do wrong that I’m doing right this time? Why is it as simple as dry humping this frustratingly charming man?
Why am I in my head right now and why is my impending orgasm leaving me because of it?
A desperate whimper escapes me when the pressure begins to dissolve. I fight to keep it, but my muscles refuse, uncoiling themselves, my breathing evening out as the momentum fades.
“No,” Isaiah refuses. “Give me one. I need one from you. I need to see it.”
His thumb swipes over my panties, right over my clit.
He rubs softs circles there and my hips follow the pattern, the pressure slowly building its way back again.
“Yes,” I hiss through my teeth. “Help me.”
Isaiah slips a single index finger into my thong, right where it narrows, his knuckle grazing the skin just above where I need him touching me most. The moment I’m convinced he’s going to push the fabric out of the way, give himself easier access, he hooks his finger, looping the material and giving himself something to hold on to. Something to guide me.
He pulls my panties towards him, subsequently pulling me, the lace taut and causing delicious friction over my clit.
“Oh my God.” My head falls back from the sensation.
It feels fucking euphoric, having him under me, his finger so close in combination with the rough fabric on my overly sensitive skin.
He moves me, rocks me over his sweatpants, pushing and pulling me by his single finger hooked into my thong.
Like a fucking rein.
And I follow his direction willingly.
“You’re doing so good, baby, fucking yourself on me.” He can hardly get the words out through his ragged breaths. “Use me.”
And I do, I roll and writhe and grind over his length until the pressure boils, spilling over, and my entire body contracts in a blinding orgasm. My eyes are desperate to shut, the release almost unbearable, but I can’t close them. I can’t help but watch the man below me as he watches me, looking at me like he can’t believe he’s seeing me come.
He touches me through it, softly running his hands over my thighs, my stomach, my breasts. He’s soothing and patient as I come down, slumping my entire spent body on his chest.
He holds me. He fucking holds me post-orgasm.
I’ve literally never been held once in my life and now, while riding a high, I’ve got this man’s arms around me and holding me as if he couldn’t bear to let me leave.
And I have to remind myself it’s not the time to get emotional about it. One day, someone else will see me this way too. I can only hope.
I tuck my face into the crook of his neck as he strokes my hair and wraps a heavy arm around my back, keeping me tight to him.
“You are . . .” He kisses my temple. “. . . the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I will die a very happy man after getting to witness that.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever come like that.”
“Yeah? Just wait until I get to use my fingers or my mouth on you. Fuck, I’m going to come just thinking about it.”
I chuckle against him, rolling out of his arms and onto my back.
We’re both glistening with a bit of sweat, me from exertion and him from holding himself back. But we lie there, catching our breaths next to one another.
He extends his leg, sprawling out, and that’s when I see it. The wet spot on his pants I knew I was leaving in my wake, as well as his very hard, very
present erection that hasn’t been taken care of yet.
His hand slips under his waistband, pumping and tugging, and I’m mesmerized by the way his hand moves, the way his forearm bulges.
“I’ve got to hit the bathroom real quick. Be right back. Don’t you dare leave, or I will find out where you live and drag you back to my bed.”
“I feel like you probably already know where I live.”
The naughty smirk he shoots me screams that he absolutely does. “Stalker.”
“Miller had to drop something off at your apartment around Christmas and I may have begged to tag along so I could see you. She told me if I came I had to stay in the car though.”
I chuckle. “It was winter in Chicago and you still decided to go with her?”
“It was the off-season. I was desperate to see you.”
He says it as if it’s not the most obvious statement, before sitting up on the edge of the bed to go to the bathroom.
“Wait.” I grab his arm. “Finish here. I want to watch.”
His brow lifts as he looks at me over his shoulder. “Are you going to help me?”
I’m positive my cheeks are crimson red, but still I nod against the pillow.
Isaiah keeps his attention locked on me as he stands from the bed. Big and tall and proud, he runs a single hand through his hair before using the other to wipe across the spot I left on his pants then dipping his hand into his waistband and using it to coat himself.
Holy shit.
My mouth falls open in shock, while this man stands completely unashamed and unaffected by my reaction.
He pumps himself, his big hand moving along his shaft, but hidden behind the fabric of his pants.
God, I want to see it.
“How are you going to help me with this problem, Ken?” “I . . . um . . . however you want me to?”
He licks his bottom lip. “Are you going to take me in that smart mouth of yours? Suck me off until I’m coming down that pretty throat?”
Oh.
I hesitate. An obvious hesitation because I’m not sure I’m ready to go there tonight. I’m not prepared. The only blow jobs I’ve ever given were all to the same man, who told me they weren’t very good. I don’t ever want to be told that again, and I know Isaiah will walk me through it if I ask him to, I just wasn’t expecting to have to ask him tonight.
My voice is small. “I can do that.”
He hesitates just as long as I did. “Next time.” Pushing his sweats down, he lets them drop to the floor. “Tonight, I want your hand around me.”
It’s the first time all night that I’m mad at myself for turning off the lights because I want to see him properly. In all his glory. I felt his cock in my hand. I literally dry humped the man. I knew he was big, I could feel it, but I didn’t realize he was this . . . blessed.
Thick but not in an ungodly way, and long, but proportionate to him. The man is 6’4”, big hands, big feet, and a big, pretty dick. Pretty as the rest of him. So pretty, in fact, that I have to remind myself I’m going to have to keep my expectations low after him.
“You like my cock, Ken?”
“I’m not answering that. Your ego is already big enough.”
“Mmm,” he hums. “Big was the first adjective on your mind, huh?
Wonder why.”
I huff a laugh.
“Eyes are up here, Kennedy.”
I keep my attention locked on his stroking hand, on the head that’s red and leaking, on the angry veins running down his length.
“I, and I can’t begin to express this enough, don’t give a fuck where your eyes are at.”
“Oh, I get it,” he chuckles as he crawls onto the bed. “I’m just your sex doll now. Only here for your pleasure.”
“Exactly.”
He opens my legs, fitting his naked body to lay on top of me. “That sounds like my dream job, to be honest. If I knew the position was open, I would’ve applied for it years ago.” Placing a soft kiss on my smiling lips, he takes my hand and guides it to wrap around his shaft. “Now be a good little wife and make me come.”
He moves, slowly thrusting into my waiting hand just as he did earlier tonight, only this time there’s no clothing in the way to keep me from
watching.
His body is flush to mine, so not only do I get to feel him throbbing in my hand, but his cock also grazes against my wet panties with every pass.
It feels incredible.
I’m still so sensitive and he’s so hard, and holy hell everything just feels so good.
“Fuck,” he breathes as I pump him in my fist. “I’m not going to last long.”
He laces his fingers through my free hand, pinning mine to the mattress as he circles the pad of his ring finger over my wedding band, the way he tends to do when holding my left.
With his other hand, he desperately grips the bars of his headboard above my head.
I stroke him to the tip, gathering his precum and using it to coat his shaft. “Yes, Kennedy. You’re doing so good. Just like that.”
I continue that motion before switching it up and giving more attention to the head, the way he told me he liked it earlier, keeping my fist tight and my pumps short and shallow.
“Yes,” he pants. “Yes. Yes. Please. Please don’t stop.”
I don’t. I meet his pace as he rocks into me, using my hand to fuck himself.
He looks like he’s fucking me, with my legs open around him, his cock thrusting against my core. God, I just know he’ll be good at it.
His movements grow sloppy, his hips jerky as he nears his release, and he comes at the exact moment I run my thumb over his slit before dragging it down the protruding vein on the underside of his crown.
“Oh fuck,” he curses as he finds his release on my stomach, coating me in him.
I don’t stop working my hand. I continue to stroke him, up and down, wanting every ounce he has to give me.
God, he’s mesmerizing like this. Desperately clinging to me, and I can’t believe I was able to do that to him.
His face drops into my neck, panting and whimpering against my skin. “So good. You did so good. You’re so good,” he continues on repeat like some kind of post-orgasm praise chant.
It works. My ego is currently through the fucking roof.
“You’re okay with that?” he asks. “I’m perfect.”
“I know.” He kisses my throat. “I’ve been trying to tell you.”
He keeps his naked body on me for some time, breathing me in, snuggling close. I stroke his back, toy with the ends of his hair and hold him to me because I have never felt so comfortable with another person.
The heated moment slows to something soft and sweet as we lay together.
He dots warm kisses up across my jaw as he speaks. “As much as I would love for you to walk around for the rest of your life with my cum dripping all over you, I need to clean you up.”
Isaiah lifts his giant body off of me, before grabbing a fresh pair of sweatpants and jogging to the bathroom.
He, of course, still doesn’t go for a shirt.
The water runs while he whistles, and I lay on the bed covered in him, stupid goddamn smile on my face and wondering what the hell just happened.
It’s what I asked for—a lesson in intimacy, but what the hell was that? Is that what I’ve been missing out on all these years? That was just foreplay.
He might very well be right. He might ruin me for any man after him and I can’t allow that to happen because all of this is temporary. All of this is practice for what comes after.
Isaiah quickly returns with that boyish smile and a damp towel in his hand.
“I can do it,” I tell him, sitting up and reaching for the cloth.
“Good for you.” He holds it out of my reach. “Now move your greedy little hands and let me clean you up before I wrap them around my cock and we do this all over again.”
“Jesus.” I startle with a laugh.
He cleans himself off me, the towel warm to the touch. He takes his time, his fingers soothing over my skin with every pass of the washcloth.
It’s sweet and kind and gentle. Three words I now associate with this man when once, I could only think of him as cocky, impulsive, and childish.
“Kennedy.” His voice shakes as if he were nervous, keeping his eyes on my stomach as he cleans me up. “Do you think that maybe you would sta
—”
The sound of a lock unbolting stops his sentence short. Our eyes shoot to each other, keeping quiet to hear his apartment door open and shut.
Footsteps and keys rattling.
Someone is in his apartment. More footsteps. More people.
“Please ignore the home décor,” the male intruder says. “It was my grandmother’s, but I miss her so much that I just had to keep it all up for sentimental value.”
“That’s sweet,” another voice says—a female voice.
“Yeah.” Followed by a heavy sigh. “She meant the world to me.” Cody. That voice belongs to Cody.
Isaiah’s eyes go wide as he stands from the bed. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”
He makes it to the door before turning around and jogging back to me to place a quick kiss on my lips.
“Don’t.” He holds his hands out as if to say he wants everything to stay exactly as is. “Don’t leave, okay?”
I can’t help but allow my laugh to break free when he storms out of the room, making sure to close his bedroom door behind him, leaving my almost naked self safely inside.
There are voices. Lots of voices. Three, maybe four people. I think one of them is Travis. And the last one has a slight Boston accent.
I take the opportunity to redress, throwing on my T-shirt and slipping on my leggings because I know what Isaiah was going to ask me. He wants me to stay the night, but I need some space. A moment to register what just happened as practice not reality.
There are some passionate words exchanged in the living room. A few “fuck you”s followed by so much drunken laughter.
“Wait, please don’t go,” Cody pleads. “We can go to my real apartment!”
A door slams, followed by it reopening and Isaiah yelling, “His grandmother is alive and well, by the way! She lives in Jersey!”
I open the bedroom door to find Isaiah’s head sticking out in the hallway, those words directed at the girl Cody brought back here and Isaiah ran off.
“Well, that was a bust.” Cody tosses his hands up. “Can I crash here at least? Oh my God, you made spaghetti. This is why we’re best friends!”
Cody, Travis, and Rio—one of the defensemen for the Chicago Raptors, Chicago’s NHL team—gather around the bowl of leftover pasta.
“You can call a rideshare and take that whole bowl with you, but you all need to leave.”
Rio’s mouth is full when he turns around in confusion. “Why?” “Where the hell did you come from, Rio?”
“I ran into them at the bar. Saw Cody trying to get some girl to go home with him. Well, to your place, and I had to hear what the fuck he was going to say to excuse these god-awful signs. You still got the one I bought you for the bathroom? Hello, sweet cheeks!” He catches me out of the corner of his eye. “Oh. I meant . . . the sign says. I’m sure your cheeks are sweet too, Kennedy, but I was referring to the sign.”
Isaiah shakes his head, listening to his drunk friend spew nonsense. “Shut your fucking mouth. No need for you to be thinking about my wife’s cheeks in any capacity.”
“Yep.” Rio motions as if he were zipping his mouth shut. “Not doing that.”
Cody turns away from the spaghetti, knowing grin on his mouth as his gaze ping-pongs between his best friend and me. “Hello, Mrs. Rhodes.”
I lift a single finger in protest, but my bite feels less sharp than usual. “Watch it.”
“Kennedy!” Travis’s hands go wide, his mouth full and ringed in red sauce. “This is the best night ever.”
“Some girl made out with him on the dance floor,” Cody explains. “Good for you, Trav!”
Isaiah shoots me a deadpanned glare, mouthing, don’t encourage them, from across the room.
“I’m . . . We’re”—Cody motions to the three of them—“going to leave.” Isaiah opens the door without hesitation. “That would be best.” “Actually,” I interrupt, gathering my shoes, hat, and jacket that are
scattered around his living room. “I need to go home anyway. Early flight tomorrow.”
“But—” Isaiah’s brows are cinched in confusion as I slip on my sneakers. “Good to see you, Rio.” I hold my hand up in a wave. “Cody, Trav, good
game tonight.”
I can feel Isaiah’s stare following me to the door. Once in the hallway, I slowly turn to him, unsure of what to say.
Thanks for the lesson? Thanks for the orgasm? Can you teach me how to give a proper blow job next time?
He blocks the doorway, keeping his friends out of the conversation, brown eyes soft and pleading. “I want you to stay.”
“I know.”
“But you won’t? Even if they left?” Shaking my head, I tell him no.
I expect an argument, him pushing me to do something I’m not ready to do, but instead, he relents. “Can I at least drive you home?”
A smile ticks on my lips. “I’ve got it from here.”
“All right.” He exhales a defeated sigh before the typically happy Isaiah comes back. “And what about me?” he asks, crossing his arms and leaning into the doorway. “Did I have a good game tonight?”
The insinuation in his tone screams that he’s not referring to baseball. “I think we had a great game tonight.”
He chuckles, leaning down and placing a soft kiss on my lips. “I think we did too.”
