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BabyBelle
Rust
Six days later.
Isabelle bent over my bed, in lacy lingerie and thigh-high stockings, coquettishly looking over her shoulder at the camera.
“Hell yeah,” I growled.
One hand held my phone, the other tugged my cock. A surge of pressure went shooting up my shaft, and I groaned the name of my best friend’s daughter.
“Isabelle!”
Hnnggh.
A giant load splattered all over my chest. Like I did all the other times we sexted before a game, I snapped a picture and sent it to Isabelle.
Damn.
I’d never been like this before. Isabelle brought things out of me that no woman had.
I couldn’t stop. I was addicted. I wanted her. Ihadto have her.
Which had me feeling all sorts of fucked up.
Because I knew I couldn’t have her. Iknewwe had to stop. And with our road trip ending today, our little dirty text sessionshadto come to an end before we flew back to Vegas—and before we committed a grievous sin. Sexting Isabelle was fun—more fun than I ever would’ve imagined—but this behavior couldn’t carry over into the real world.
The first time it happened, back in that hotel in San Jose, I swore it was a mistake and I wouldn’t do it again. But a funny thing happened hours later, during our game against San Jose: I scored the very first hat trick of my career. And the thing about hockey players is that we’re superstitious characters. If something works for us once, we won’t change a thing until it stops working.
So I didn’t. Isabelle and I kept texting. I told myself I’d stop as soon as we lost a game—but with the way we were playing, that didn’t look like it was happening anytime soon. Over the next few days, we steamrolled Seattle and Vancouver.
We started texting each other more and more. And it wasn’t just dirty shit all the time, either. We checked in with each other throughout the day, sharing the amusing little nothings that happened during the course of our days, pictures of meals we’d eaten, pictures from my travels, and so on. She kept me updated about Minka, too, who I could tell from the pictures was loving life with her new best friend.
I found myself constantly checking my phone, looking forward to each text. I couldn’t put the damned thing down. We were texting like boyfriend and girlfriend, and the boys were starting to notice. They called her “Tinderella,” since I knew better than to give them a real name. They’d met Johnny when he came to Vegas, after all—and we’d made plans to meet up with him after our game in Minnesota. I didn’t wantanyslip ups from loose-lipped teammates.
Deep down, I knew what we were doing was wrong, that we couldn’t continue. But every time I got the idea in my head that I should try to pull back from Isabelle, all she had to do was send me a single picture, and I was hooked all over again.
God,those pictures. She was amazing. She’d said something about the “art of the tease,” and she’d mastered it, alright. You’d think she was a professional model with the way she could elegantly pose her body to create sexual tension in every picture. And her underwear—lord,her underwear! The girl had to have an entire closet just for her panty and lingerie collection. Sometimes I’d tease her about it, and gently remind her to set some of that waitress money aside for a rainy day.
She always brushed it off with a text like,“LOL trust me, I’m fine. Thanks though,”wink face. Which didn’t surprise me. My younger teammates always responded the same way when I tried to talk to them about not burning through their paychecks.
My phone buzzed with a text; Isabelle had seen my dirty picture.“OMG Rust. So much cum! One more day until you can shoot it all over me for real. Or maybe you’d rather fill me up? I’m on the pill,”she wrote, adding a wink face.
I gnashed my teeth and grumbled. How did she know exactly what to say to me?
My ex-wife loathed cum. Just the thought of it made her gag. She didn’t want it anywhere on or inside her body, either; not on her stomach, not on her tits, and God help you if you accidentally shot it on her face, in her hair or eyes. You’d get the dagger eyes for the rest of the night.
The one place Laura wanted my semen was inside her, and only during a very small window of time once a month. Ironically enough, that was the one place I wasn’t willing to put my seed. I just wasn’t ready.
But Isabelle? I’d never met a girl like her. So confident and sexy andfree.
I wanted her more than I wanted anything.
Which was the dagger in my heart. Because I knew I couldn’t have her. I just couldn’t.
And it hadto end before we flew back to Vegas. Ithadto.
“Hey, is everything okay?”Isabelle asked when I didn’t respond.
