Tackled by the King: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (10 page)

“Carrie, there you are!”

Jamie's voice cracked through my midday daydream like a defective PA system. I pulled the back of the No. 2 pencil out of my mouth. The pink eraser was riddled with teeth marks and the aftertaste of rubber lingered on my tongue.

I set the pencil back down next to the crossword puzzle in front of me. I was usually a beast when it came to crossword puzzles and would have them done in under 15-20 minutes in one sitting. But in my distraction, I'd only filled up one of the answers – an 11-letter word with the description: “the occurrence and development of events by accident in a happy or beneficial way.”

Serendipity. I took a hearty sip of my homemade peach tea. Feeling the damp spot in the crotch of my paisley yoga pants, I crossed my leg over the other tightly and tucked it under the crotchet tablecloth.

Jamie thumped down the steps and into the kitchen, carrying a half-eaten bowl of dry cereal.

“There you are.” Jamie dumped the uneaten cereal into the garbage disposal and turned it on. She raised her voice over the metallic whirring from within the sink. “Didn't you hear me?”

“Sorry, I must have spaced out.” I tapped my pencil against the crossword puzzle. “Trying to do the crossword puzzle and all.”

“Looks like you're having a tough time there,” Jamie remarked as she peeked at the empty puzzle. “Want a popsicle?”

“No, thanks.” I eyed the inside of the freezer as Jamie fished out the tray of popsicles. “Leave the rainbow long-neck for Jackson when he's feeling better. It's his favorite.”

“Bleugh. Watermelon.” Jamie wrinkled her nose as she pulled out the red pterodactyl. She popped it into her mouth and pulled up the chair next to me.

“So, how's Jackson doing?”

“Poor thing isn't eating much today.” Jamie frowned behind her popsicle licks. “But everything he's eaten over the last couple of days have come right back out, so that's understandable. I can't even begin to imagine what my poor baby is going through.”

“I know.” I took a deep breath, wrapping my fingers around my neck to ease the rising sting in my throat. “But Jackson's such a little fighter, he's going to get through –”

“Aww, would you look at what one of the fellow mommies linked me on Instagram!” Jamie shoved her phone under my nose. I stared at a picture of Jackson's home IV set-up and his packets of medication with a godawful filter and frame slapped on it. Below the picture was a caption that read, “Another trip to the hospital...Please pray for my sweet little boy's swift recovery. #GrievingMama, #StayStrongJackson, #SingleMamaLife, #PrayforJackson, #MyLittleAngel.”

Jamie clicked on the link, which directed her to a YouTube video of Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey's “When You Believe.”

“Oh my goodness. I can't believe ProudMama22 liked and commented on my page. She's only one of the most followed Instagram mommies in New York City,” Jamie gushed. As soon as the video started playing, she started to belt along. “Many nights we prayed, with no proof anyone could hear. In our hearts a hopeful song we barely understood. Now we are not afraid –”

“Are you kidding me right now?” I barked at Jamie's startled face. “Cut it out!”

“What are you –”

I slammed my fist on the table. My peach tea sloshed back and forth in the glass. Jamie looked at me blankly, retracting her phone.

“I'm sick and tired of you rambling on and on about your bullshit Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter followers. Doesn't matter if you get 50 or 50,000 likes or re-tweets – none of that's going to fix your son.”

“What's with you, Carrie?” Jamie lowered her popsicle, her voice wobbling. “Why are you –”

“If you exerted this much effort in real life as you do with this obnoxious 'proud, single mama' persona you're pushing so hard on social media, we'd all be better off, wouldn't we? Why aren't you taking advantage of the times I am home and get yourself some extra shifts? You've got a beautiful voice, why don't you start looking for singing jobs at a local lounge club?! Do something! Anything!”

By the time I was finished with my rant, my face was a flushed and sweaty mess. And almost immediately, I was struck by a wave of remorse, but it felt so good to get everything off my chest. Jamie was stunned, just staring at me with pinched lips.

“You don't know how hard it is for me –”

“It's hard on all of us, Jamie,” I spoke over her, which in hindsight, was pretty unfair of me. “Kingsley Kelly is not going to pay off all of Jackson's bills – things aren't always going to be this easy, Jamie. Wake the fuck up and get it together.”

“You think you've got it all figured out, don't you.” Jamie rose to her feet. Her popsicle fell out of her hands, landing with a loud splat across the kitchen floors, floors that I'd just mopped this morning. “I'm so sorry if you think Jackson and I are holding you back –”

“I never said that –”

“You wanna know why I'm always on social media? Maybe it's not real to you, but it is to me. It's the only place I feel like I matter. Yeah, I may not know any of those people, but I get more support from them than anyone else in this damn house.”

“Oh, really? They're 'supporting' you?” I challenged her. I'd started it, and now I couldn't back down. “How much money are they sending you every month? Free day care, maybe? Anyone? No?”

“Whatever. I don't know what your problem is, but you're being an especially miserable bitch today.” Jamie grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter and stomped out the door. “I need to get out of here for a minute.”

“So I guess you're not gonna clean that up, huh?” I called out to the slam of the front door.

Right as I'd stooped down to start cleaning up the popsicle puddle, the door to Jackson's room creaked open.

“Aunt Carrie? Mommy? Is anyone there?”

I sighed, ripping off a dozen sheets from the paper towel roll and laying it over the puddle to soak.

“Coming!”

Chapter Twelve:
Kingsley

I held onto Ivanka's long braid, jerking her head towards me. My cock pumped in and out of her, the slippery condom drenched in her juices and traces of her milky ejaculate. I screwed my fingers into her hips, drilling harder into her from behind.

As always, the bird's eye view of fucking this work of art was unbelievable. Ivanka's expressions and her light, feminine groans of pleasure were so perfect, it almost seemed rehearsed. I glanced over to the full-length mirror covering the wall next to the bed. Her tits were swinging back and forth, the skin around her nipples pink from all the twisting and pulling. Her ass cheeks were glowing from a mixture of massage oil and sweat, and it was damn near hypnotizing.

That said, I'd been fucking her for over 20 minutes now, and it didn't look like I was close to nutting. It had nothing to do with Ivanka, but I just couldn't get into it. With every new position we'd take on, Carrie's goddamned face would wander into my mind's eye.

I released Ivanka's braid and pulled myself out of her. Wiping away the sweat dripping down my forehead with the back of my arm, I laid back on the bed and propped my head up with a couple of pillows. Ivanka took the hint and climbed on top of me with her back facing me. She spread her legs wide and squatted, slowly squeezing the warmth of her cunt over my tip and down my shaft. I placed my fingers on the small of her back, watching her cute little ass cheeks bounce as she rode on my dick.

I licked my lips and closed my eyes.

The mischievous grin on Carrie's face as she disrobed in my living room was all I could see. She shed her clothes one piece at a time, teasing me, fully aware of what she was doing to me. Her heavy tits weighed down naturally from their size, and her large suckable nipples were swollen stiff from the cold air blasting out the air vent above. I've always been impartial to stretch marks, but something about the way Carrie strutted towards me, proud and unashamed of her body, just took me to a different place. And when she did a 360 to show off that impeccable hourglass figure just for me, she flaunted her magnificent ass, each round, meaty cheek jiggling as she moved.

With the wet noises of Ivanka's bouncing cunt as my soundtrack, I pictured Carrie hoisting herself up to the coffee table in front of me. She cranked her legs apart as far as they would go, hooking the heels of her feet onto the edge of the table. As she fixed her eyes on mine, she stuck her fingers into her mouth and lubricated herself. She wanted to make sure I was watching her.

Carrie squeezed her left titty with one hand before slowly carrying it to her face. I watched, mesmerized as she bowed forward to meet her tit halfway. While she stuck out her tongue and circled it around her own nipple, she reached between her legs with her free hand and wiggled her finger into her cunt.

Carrie's low, erotic grunt felt raw and unforced. She wasn't worrying about looking pretty and was just letting loose, pleasuring herself like I wasn't even in the room. Eventually, she let her tit fall back into place.

Her glistening nipple was dented with teeth marks. She focused on her cunt instead, forcing a second finger into the slit with her. Her bare ass cheeks were squeaking against the glass of the coffee table from all her squirming. With every thrust of her finger, her generous tits shook along with her panting chest. She snuck a third finger in there, the corners of her mouth curling in a raunchy smile...

“Ah, fuck...”

My eyes opened for a split second. I grabbed onto the side of the headboard, feeling every muscle in my body tighten. All the pent up cum squirted out my cock in one go, ballooning the tip of the condom while still balls deep in Ivanka. Ivanka clutched her chest, supporting herself on the flat of my stomach as she pulled herself off my dick.

“What was that about?” Ivanka asked accusingly as she swung her legs off the bed. She reached for a towel and started patting the sides of her face. “I can't believe how sore I am now... Were you jerking off too many times in the shower this morning?”

“No.” I hopped off the bed and headed into the filthy shower of the backwater motel room.

“
S
kitstövel.
It smells like rat piss in here.” Ivanka's complaints followed me into the bathroom. She scowled as she pulled off her hair tie and the pins in her hair. Her golden locks fell over shoulders, still wavy from her braid. “You couldn't have picked a worse place for our rendezvous, or however you want to call this.”

“We're in the middle of nowhere. No one knows who we are here, and even if they did, they don't seem to give a shit.” I turned on the faucet and stepped aside from the weak water running out of the shower head, waiting for it to heat up.

“I don't see why you wanted to come all the way out here to this disgusting hick town. Why couldn't you have come over to the house like you always do? We always have plenty of fun there, and my thighs do not get feasted on by all these mosquitoes. What if I come down with the Zika virus?
Gud
help me, it's the poor people disease –”

“Did you forget about your husband walking in on us? I don't know about you, but I've got my career to worry about here.” I scrubbed my dick with some soap, averting my eyes. “It's bad enough I'm boning the man's wife. Least I could do is stay out of his house.”

“That's never stopped you before,” Ivanka pointed out. “I thought that was part of the appeal – all that danger of getting caught. When did you become such a pussy, King?”

I turned my back to her and splashed some water onto my face.

Ivanka was right. There was an overwhelming part of me that wanted to plow her on Gunther's side of the bed. But when I actually witnessed – or heard, to be more accurate – that broken rejection in Gunther's voice as he did what he could to get close to his wife, I couldn't get past that doorway again. Of course, I was the furthest thing from a hero. I was still railing his wife. All I did was change the setting.

“Well, if you want any more of this sweet, delicate flower,” Ivanka purred in my ear. She pressed herself up against me, and cupped my chin in her hand as she motioned between her legs. “You better whisk me away to somewhere special...”

“Sure, whatever.” I pulled away from her and reached for the towel on the rack. “I'm gonna take off.”

“No, you're not. I'm not done with you,” said Ivanka stubbornly, turning off the shower. “Why don't we try for round 2 –”

“Maybe another time, yeah?” I poked my head out the neck of my shirt. “Not really in the mood.”

“Not in the mood?” Ivanka laughed loudly, arching an eyebrow. “That can't be right – men are always in the mood –”

“I know what you're doing,” I said calmly, slipping my Nikes back on. “I told you, it ain't right to try to rile me up just to get me to stay. If you want something, talk to me. But I really gotta be somewhere, so I'm gonna let myself out.”

“You know,” Ivanka persisted. The smug look on her face was gone. “I'm just going to call one of my other contacts to come finish the job if you can't handle it.”

“Great. Problem solved.”

I slipped on my beanie and shades, closing the door in Ivanka's gawking face.

XXX