His Pretend Baby Page 22

  But what he did next was even more intimate than looking at her. He climbed up on the bed, still fully clothed, and lay down beside her.

  “Turn toward me,” he said. Then he started touching her.

  First her hair. “It’s not straight anymore, and it’s shorter,” he said, feeling the asymmetrical wedge of riotous curls at the top of her head. His hands then found the shaved sides. “Much shorter.”

  She waited for him to state his displeasure with the cut Mindy had labeled drastic.

  “I like it,” Beau said. “That weave you were wearing before didn’t look like the real you.”

  She wondered how he could think he knew anything about the real her, but then his hands made contact with her glasses. “Are these…?”

  He smiled like a little boy on Christmas. “You’re still wearing the cat-eye glasses I bought you?”

  “I ran out of contact lenses,” she said defensively. “And I haven’t had time to get a new pair of—”

  He kissed her again, hot and strong, his tongue delving into her mouth like a proprietary claim. And once again her kit kat responded, swelling hot and bothered, just because Beau Prescott was kissing her.

  One hand cupped her nape and the other continued his exploration, moving from her neck down to her chest, where he again revved up her nipple, torturing it under his thumb until she was squirming.

  “Mr. Prescott…” she said, helpless with need.

  “Hold on, darlin’. I’ll get to that part of you soon enough.”

  Then his hand was moving down again, and she tensed but he stopped when he got to her ribcage.

  “You’ve lost weight. A lot of weight.”

  She would have thought that would have pleased him as many skinny starlets as she’d seen him out with, but he was frowning.

  “Yes,” she said, searching for some credible explanation for actually being almost twenty pounds lighter than she’d been in high school. “I’m not sick or anything, I just lost weight because…” …because of her previous all-soup diet, because of her recovery from being married to Wayne… but in the end she said, “…because Loretta’s not feeding me anymore.”

  He didn’t laugh at her joke. “I want you to gain some weight,” he said. “That’s an order.”

  “You can’t just order somebody to gain weight,” she informed him. “That’s not how it works.”

  “For what I’m paying you, that better be exactly how it works. In fact, you can start eating dinner with me, so I know you’re working on getting those curves back.”

  Somehow this was oddly flattering after Wayne’s insistence that she workout every single day, even when she was sick, so she “didn’t get fat like some of the other attorneys’ wives.”

  But then he grabbed her butt and all thoughts of Wayne went away.

  “You’ve still got this,” he said, referring to her plump derriere. The weight loss had hit her every place but there, and Beau massaged her backside like an old friend. But he didn’t stay there too long. Soon his hand was gliding around her hip, his fingers, searching, searching until they found…

  Her breath caught.

  “You stopped narrating. Tell me what you see.”

  “What?” she said.

  “Tell me what you see,” he repeated.

  “Um, um, your hand on my kit kat.” She let out another gasp, when two of his large fingers parted her folds. “And now your fingers are going in there, going inside me.”

  “How do they feel?”

  “Big… tight—I mean, they’re making my kit kat feel tight.”

  It wasn’t the most eloquent picture, but a dark smile shadowed his lips like she was saying exactly what he wanted to hear. “I can feel you clenching around me. Do you know how hard that makes me?”

  He kissed her before she could answer and said, “Touch me, too.”

  She could have acted disingenuous, demurely touched his chest or his arms like she didn’t know exactly what he wanted, but the liquid heat his fingers had stirred up came to a boil inside of her and her innocence seemed to evaporate. She fumbled open the buttons on his jeans, reached in, and soon brought his manhood out, thick, rigid, and dripping with pre-cum. Fascinated, she stroked the magnificent beast in her hand, watching more clear fluid ooze out the tip.

  “Fuck, yes, darlin’,” he said. “But narrate it for me, tell me what you see.”

  With his fingers still thrusting into her, relentless and steady, she could barely breathe much less talk, but she did her best.

  “My hand on… your big finger. I’m stroking it up and down… and it’s getting bigger.”

  He slipped two more fingers inside her, and she had to stop. A tide unlike anything she’d ever experienced when she used her own fingers on herself was building inside of her. She moaned. “I can’t talk anymore,” she gasped out. “I can’t… ohhhhh!”

  “Don’t close your eyes,” he growled. “I want you to watch. Tell me what’s happening.”

  “I’m— I’m stroking you. And you’ve… you’ve got four fingers in me now.” She watched his fingers moving in and out of her in a daze. She saw herself clenching around his hand, almost seeming to suck his fingers back in every time they moved out. “It feels so… so… so… good.”

  She let out a loud moan and watched herself cream his fingers. “I’m coming! I’m coming so hard, I can see myself dripping all over your hand.”

  She said this with helpless disbelief. She wasn’t trying to send him over the edge, but that was exactly what she did.

  “Josie,” he said, almost like an accusation. His dick jerked in her hand, and then big ropes of cum spurted out, splashing across her arm.

  She held on to it, so enthralled by the sight she didn’t think to let go until his dick stopped spasming and she realized out loud, “You’re still hard!”

  His answer was to turn away from her and reach for his nightstand. He knocked a lamp over sideways before finding the drawer and yanking it open. He pulled out a small, red package and apparently Beau had done this so many times he didn’t need to be able to see to put on a condom, because he was sheathed in one moment, and on top of her the next.

  Josie relaxed. The unexpected bout of foreplay had thrown her for a loop, but simple missionary she was familiar with.

  She waited for him to move on top of her a few times then roll over like Wayne used to, but he guided his manhood over her still quivering slit carefully, before sinking into her.

  “Josie,” he whispered before he began slowly, oh-so-slowly, moving inside of her.

  She moaned and started moving too, wanting more of him inside. And when he raised her leg, placing it over his shoulder, opening her up even wider so he could sink in all the way to the hilt, it felt like he was answering her unspoken wish.

  He was so good in bed, Josie could hardly believe it. If she hadn’t known better, she’d think he’d been waiting a long time to do this with her. He seemed to be savoring the moment, savoring her, savoring the fire they were once again building together.

  Or maybe it was just her. It had been so long since she’d felt like this: truly turned on and not just a halfway-willing participant.

  “Beau,” she moaned, when the fire reached a fever pitch. “Oh, my God, Beau!”

  She came undone again, clutching the sheets as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Then Beau fell on top of her, kissing her, and pumping into her afterglow until his entire body seized up, and he groaned out his release.

  A few minutes later he rolled off of her, sprawling on his side of the large bed with his arms and legs spread wide.

  They lay there quietly for a few seconds, then he said, “Big finger?”

  Josie giggled, feeling like a girl half her age, almost literally, like she was seventeen again and just as wide-eyed over Beau Prescott as she used to be. “I didn’t know what else to call it.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to come up with something better than that,” he said. “That’s even worse than
kit kat.”

  She rolled her eyes but couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “Whatever you say, Mr. Prescott.”

  They both laughed a little more, then fell silent again. Josie began to feel awkward. Should she leave? Wasn’t there an old saying about how men didn’t pay women to have sex with them, they paid them to leave afterwards?

  But then he reached for her. “Come here,” he said, pulling her into his arms and curling a hand around her head, so she had no choice but to lie on his chest.

  A few minutes later, she got up the nerve to ask. “Do you want me to go back to my bed? I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Beau.”

  Still no answer.

  She carefully slid off his sunglasses and sure enough his eyes were closed. So she guessed she was staying.

  She reached across him to place the sunglasses on his nightstand, then curled up close and settled in, all the while trying to ignore how good it felt to have just done something that went against every moral fiber in her body.

  11

  One moment the stadium was roaring and the next, everything went completely silent. It had always been like this for Beau after the ball was snapped, from the very first time he played quarterback. It was as if a mute button had been pushed, one that turned off all the distracting sounds and sent the world into slow motion.

  One of his best wide receivers was open in the end zone, but there was also a two-hundred-and-fifty pound linebacker blitzing toward him with the ferocity of a rabid dog.

  Beau feinted to the side, and cocked his arm to throw the ball, but then something hit him from behind—a three-hundred pound defensive end he was told later.

  That guy was just trying to do his job, which was to take out the quarterback before he could throw the ball. If Beau hadn’t been totally focused on his receivers, maybe he would have heard him coming. Maybe he would have thrown the ball away, or dumped it off to his hot receiver.

  But Beau didn’t see the big lineman coming, so it was a complete surprise when he got hit from behind. He didn’t go down, but the force of the blow sent his helmet flying.

  For a moment he just stood there stared at his helmet in a daze, trying to figure out why it was no longer on his head. Helmets weren’t supposed to come off. The NFL had all sorts of rules about chin straps being securely tightened because the last thing you wanted was to get hit when your helmet was off.

  “Don’t look at the coach.”

  “What?” He looked up and all the other football players were gone off the field, except for one. A tall, muscular guy dressed in the Suns uniform. He looked exactly like him, except he had on a pair of Ray-Bans.

  “Don’t look at the coach,” the quarterback who looked exactly like him said again. “If you dive for your helmet, then you’ll get away with just a concussion. If you look at the coach, then it becomes a freak accident.”

  “I don’t understand,” Beau said to his other self. “What’s the difference?”

  “If you look at the coach, that means you won’t have a helmet on, and your occipital lobe will be unprotected when the other guy hits you.”

  Beau scrunched up his forehead and looked at the coach to see if he could see what other-Beau was seeing. “What other guy—?”

  That’s when the blitzing linebacker hit him from what should have been his left side, but ended up being square in the back of his head, sending a white hot flash through the part of his brain that housed his primary visual cortex.

  Then the world went black.

  Beau woke with a start. His eyes opened to nothing, an unnerving absence of visual sensation that he would have been hard put to describe even if he wanted to. And just like every morning since taking that unexpected second hit, his heart seized with panic until he remembered what had happened, that he was blind now.

  But unlike those other mornings, the disappointment of waking up without his sight gave way to another realization: He wasn’t alone in bed. Josie Witherspoon lie next to him. He could feel her thin arm flung across his stomach and the warmth of her steady breath across his chest where her head rested.

  He pulled her up so he could feel her face next to his, then pressed his lips to her forehead, her closed eyes, her nose, and one of her cheeks, before he found her mouth. She responded with a low moan. Warm and willing, but still half asleep.

  “Open your eyes, Josie,” he said. “I don’t want to miss this.”

  He could feel her smiling against his lips when she answered, “Whatever you say, Mr. Prescott.”

  But then she went still.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Your eyes,” she answered. “This is the first time I’ve seen them since you came home.”

  Now it was his turn to go still. He hadn’t realized he wasn’t wearing his Ray-Bans. “Did you take my sunglasses off?”

  “I thought maybe you’d be more comfortable without them.”

  His heart once again seized with panic, but this time for different reasons. “Hand them to me.”

  “But your eyes look fine without them. Just like they used to, in fact.” Her voice sounded a little breathless.

  He knew that. That’s why he wore the sunglasses, so people wouldn’t see the man he used to be when they looked at him. “Hand them to me. Now.”

  The bed creaked and he felt Josie’s small breasts brush his chest. A moment later, the glasses were placed in his hand. He jammed them on his face, and immediately felt better, sheltered and protected from things he’d rather not think about. He pulled Josie back into his arms, continuing with the kiss he had initiated earlier as if they’d never had the sunglasses conversation at all.

  “What’s going on now?” he asked between kisses. “Talk to me.”

  “I’m, um… kissing you. Or you’re kissing me. I guess we’re kissing each other.” She cleared her throat. “Your… thing is pressed into my kit kat. You’re, um… really excited.”

  He stopped kissing her face and neck. “Just me?” He turned his whole body toward hers and pushed himself into her, pressing just hard enough to slip inside her warm folds, but not so hard that he got all the way in. “You’re not excited, too?”

  “I’m—” her breath caught when he rocked against her, which was enough to tell him his bulge had successfully made contact with her clit. “I’m excited.”

  He let his tongue lazily explore her neck before asking, “Excited enough, to let me all the way in?”

  “Yes,” she answered breathlessly. “I think so.”

  “You think so?” he repeated. “That’s not good enough, darlin. I’m going to need you to check.”

  “Ch- check?”

  He loved how nervous she sounded. “That’s right. I’ll be needing a confirmation of readiness before we go any further.”

  “I’m ready,” she said. And this time she pushed herself against his rigid member. “I’m definitely ready.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What reason do you think I’d possibly have to lie about that?”

  She probably thought frank question would be enough to get her off the hook, but Beau wasn’t having it. “What happened to ‘Whatever you say, Mr. Prescott’?”

  There was a pause… then… “Whatever you say, Mr. Prescott.”

  “I want confirmation,” he repeated.

  “What kind of confirmation?”

  “Why don’t you stick your hand down there and make sure you’re ready?”

  Silence was his only answer.

  He reluctantly let go of her and pushed back, putting some space between them. “I’m waiting,” he said.

  More silence, but then the bed creaked, which he assumed meant she was actually doing what he said. Just the thought of her touching herself was enough to turn his morning wood into top-of-the-day steel. “Don’t forget to narrate, darlin’,” he said.

  “I’ve got my fingers on my kit kat,” she said.

  “Just on?” He
let his hand descend to his own nether regions and found his dick nearly standing up straight it was so hard. “That’s not good enough. I want you to do a thorough exploration. From the inside. Put your index finger in.”

  The bed creaked again, and he imagined her opening herself up and putting one finger into her wet snatch.

  “It’s in,” she said, her voice tremulous.

  “All the way in.”

  More movement, and her voice rose in pitch when she answered, “Yes, all the way in.”

  “And what are you findings?” he asked, stroking himself.

  “I’m wet,” she answered.

  “How wet?”

  “Very wet.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m very sure,” she answered.

  “Just in case, put your middle finger in there, too.”

  This time she made a small smothered sound. “It’s in there too, now.”

  “And it fits?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’m still not convinced,” he said. “Go ahead and put those other two fingers in there, too.”

  Her knee fell against his side, and he nearly came in his hand knowing it was because she was opening her legs wider to do what he said.

  “I’m wet,” she said. “I’m so wet.”

  It was no longer safe to keep stroking himself, so he said, “I’m not so sure your fingers aren’t too small for the job. I’m going to need to perform the check myself.”

  Josie’s hips jerked when he removed her hand and replaced it with his own.

  “Oh, God,” she said.

  “I don’t hear you narrating.”

  “I… you have your first two fingers inside of me.”

  “Be more specific, Josie. The details are the best part.”

  “You’ve got them kind of hooked in there and you’re… you’re rubbing your hand over the rest of my kit kat.”

  “And what are you doing, Josie?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “I guess I’m trying to rub back.”

  “And why are you rubbing back?”

  “Because,” she had to stop for a moment, even as her hips ground up against his hand. “I’m trying to get more.”