“Jesus, Milly,” he groans into my ear and kisses my shoulder.
I work my hips, grinding into him and loving the way his chest rolls against my back, how his hands seem to not function smoothly as I take over the moment. He’s slightly clumsy, lost in his lust for me, and it’s empowering. He’s a confident man, and unsurprisingly exudes prowess when it comes to the bedroom, but in the moment, when he’s turned on to this point, he loses finesse. Some might find it an unattractive quality, but I love it. It’s raw. Real. All for me.
Wanting to try something different, I reach behind me and pull his length out of his boxer briefs so his cock is pointing straight up against his flat stomach, and then I bend slightly so my ass cheeks hug his cock. Oh God, he’s so warm. Hot against me
He hisses as his hands leave my breasts and go straight to my hips where he moves me up and down, his groans filling the early morning quiet.
With each pass, his grip grows tighter and tighter until he calls out my name and pumps even harder. He stills and shouts, “Fuck,” as he comes.
Smiling to myself, I slow down. I did that. His front slumps against my back and his lips find my skin again, his breathing hard and sporadic.
“Christ . . . Mills.” He shifts me backward on his lap so I’m completely reliant on him holding me up. He smooths his hand down my body, his lips continuing to sweep across my skin as his hand disappears under my underwear, finding my arousal. “You are so fucking perfect. You’re wet from making me come. Do you know how fucking hot that is?”
His fingers slide past my clit and I prepare myself for a very short bout of foreplay. He’s not going to have to do much because he’s right, I did get turned on from making him come. It’s not just because he has the most gorgeously sculpted body I’ve ever seen, but because I can hear his passion for me in his groans, the way he says my name, his cursing when I touch him a certain way. It’s like he needs me to know every pressure point on his body.
“Right there,” I moan, spreading my legs wider.
His fingers slide easily over my clit, as I hook my feet around his calves and move my pelvis lightly up and down with his fingers, my orgasm building in my center, every last ounce of pleasure pooling in the middle. Building and building and building until I can’t hold back anymore, and my body is thrown into white-hot pleasure.
I call out his name as my clit throbs against his fingers, soaking up every last swipe until I can’t take it anymore, and I shut my legs tightly, my body humming and quaking from how hard I just came.
“Oh God,” I say, my voice shaking as I turn my body and curl into him.
He kisses the top of my head and holds me close to him. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly.
“Perfect,” I answer, in disbelief at how good he can make me feel in the matter of seconds.
This isn’t just a passionate romp with a guy I like, this is something deeper. Our connection dives way past the surface and is going past layers to the very core of our souls.
It’s early in our relationship, but it feels like I’ve known him forever.
It feels like Carson could possibly be my forever.
I don’t think I’ve ever been more nervous, which is so weird because my entire life has been surrounded by guys. Brothers, friends, my dad . . . so hanging out with a bunch of baseball players should be a breeze, but for some reason, as I walk toward the baseball loft door, I feel like throwing up.
I worked with Carson in the cages early this morning, and he asked if I wanted to come over to his place after practice for dinner. The guys were grilling burgers and apparently Jason Orson made his famous potato salad, and it’s something I can’t possibly miss out on.
It was cute, he was nervous asking me, as if I was going to turn him down.
I could never turn down that smile.
I finished my last final today. Yeah, school is over. School has been my life for so many years, that it feels surreal, weird, to know that I’m done. Now it’s time to move forward with my life, my time to find my niche in the world. I’m lucky, because I don’t feel pressure from my parents, but I’m excited to start work. When I get a job . . . I have another week in the dorms though thankfully, so it doesn’t feel completely real yet. And now I’m heading to my boyfriend’s place. Another thing that is surreal. I spent a good amount of time trying to figure out what to wear. I even FaceTimed with Cory and asked him for advice. He made me take him through my closet and show him what I have, which then made him text Cheryl to get me more date clothes. I begged him not to spend more money on me but as he put it, what’s done is done.
We wound up picking out a pair of denim shorts he got me a while ago that I’ve never worn because they seemed a little short, but he told me they were fine. I paired the shorts with a Bobbies tank top because Brentwood is the Bobcats as well, so it works out, and I wanted to still feel comfortable. I French-braided my hair, put on some mascara, topped the outfit off with my glasses and a pair of sandals, and called it a day. It’s nothing special, and I’m sure any other girl would be decked out when going to hang out at the baseball loft, but that’s not me and it’s not the girl Carson fell for, so I kept it simple.
Taking a deep breath, I walk up to the big medal sliding door of the loft and knock. From the other side, I can hear a bunch of male voices shout, “She’s here, she’s here. Carson, your girl is here.”
Oh Jesus, they sound way too excited, which makes me even more nervous.
I twist my hands together, trying not to puke, but the minute the door opens and Carson’s there on the other side in a Brentwood baseball shirt and a pair of athletic shorts, my nerves fall to the wayside and my heart pounds rapidly from the sight of him.
Wet hair and a lazy smile; it’s everything I could ask for.
“Hey Coach,” he says, his voice deep and sexy. Taking me by the hand, he pulls me into the loft, shuts the door, and lifts my chin where he plants a wet and long kiss on my lips. My hand instinctively goes to the back of his neck for support just as the guys behind him hoot and holler.
Carson peels his lips away and presses his forehead against mine. “I’m sorry in advance for any stupid things my teammates say.”
“I won’t hold it against you.”
With my hand in his, he turns around and reveals the Brentwood baseball team with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders, and mushy looks on their faces. They make a collective aw, and there’s no question that my cheeks are bright red.
Sounding embarrassed as well, Carson ruffles his hair and says, “Guys, this is Milly. My girlfriend. Milly, the team.”
“Hi, Milly,” they say in unison, as if they’ve been practicing all day.
I give them a curt wave and try not to freak out. These guys might be Carson’s boys, but they’re also Brentwood’s finest, a whole lot of talent in one room and even though I’m trying to act cool, my little baseball heart is wild with excitement.
Jason Orson, Brock Romero, Gunner Klein—all three top prospects for the draft this year along with Carson, who’s been rumored to sign with Chicago. There’s a whole new class of major league ballplayers right in front of me. It’s unreal.
“Look at her, she’s in shock. Too many muscles in one room, huh?” Brock “Romeo” says.