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With one hand on the small of my back, he guides himself into my entrance and my muscles welcome him home. His dick swells inside me and my ache is so strong, I blurt out, “Then drive.”
“Where do you want to go?” he asks with a low chuckle. His hips begin to piston while the delicious sound of our skin meeting unravels my need for more.
“I don’t care, just drive fast.”
Wils lives his life with intention and always has. Every moment builds on something else. He nurtures his friendships to become family. He eats well to fuel his body during a four-hour daily workout so his body can withstand the rigorous grind of being a professional baseball player.
Wils doesn’t do things halfway. I’m going to be sexed up when our hour is up.
We’re bent against the dark gray slate countertop when he throws a change up; instead of pumping me faster, he swirls, shifting his hips and pressing down on my back. He hits a spot so deep that I fall into the recesses of my desires. No matter what he wants to do at this minute, I wouldn’t be able to stop him.
A beautiful vision plays in my head of me in my wedding dress. It’s hiked up around my waist, and Wils is behind me in only his tuxedo shirt, giving me everything he has. That’s when it happens—my muscles stiffen. I reach behind me for his arm, removing it from my skin and pulling him in close. I need him close. With his chest on my back and his chin tucked in my neck pocket, he whispers, “I love you,” over the shell of my ear.
I can’t breathe. Every muscle pulls taut, even my eyelashes, from squeezing. A million syllables sputter from my mouth as the oxytocin releases and my bare skin adheres to the cold stone beneath me.
He’s always in control, so when his movements become erratic and he plunges into me harder and faster, I know he’s ready to explode. His hot cum warms me from the inside out. He slips his arm around my waist, thrusting deep, stuffing me with his body and filling me with love. I go overboard once again, but this time it’s with him.
My chest heaves as I struggle to breathe. He peels his body from mine, turning me to face him.
My heart’s racing and my lungs burn. In broken syllables, I say, “Breathing shouldn’t require so much air.” I lift my arm to check my watch. “It’s 12:23. We went over.”
“Breaking the rules never felt so satisfying,” he says as laughter erupts from his chest. “But we’re not done.”
His phone buzzes and our wedding coordinator’s name appears on the screen, but Wils turns the phone face down on the table.
He always answers his phone.
2
Wils
“Are you being serious? When will you have a definite answer?” I ask, pressing the wedding planner for more information.
All I want is to marry the woman I’ve loved since I was a teenager. The tips of my fingers scrape over my forehead before I shove the phone back into the zippered pocket of my athletic pants. A single surprise can have a ripple effect, and I'm not fond of that.
The back door of my home gym glides open as my three best friends—Patrick, Archer and Tackett—waltz in, chatting about the Bears football game later today. They’re making meaningless bets like, I’ll wash your car if they win by three points or more.
When I don’t chime in, Patrick slaps me on the back. “Didn’t you sleep well? The kids woke me up three times last night. I had to read If You Give a Mouse a Cookie three times to Ella. Upon hearing giggling, Avery and I thought Jackson had a girl in his room. Turns out they were on a video call.” He shakes his head before sitting down on the weight bench. “He’s eleven and I’m dreading his teenage years.”
Of course, Jackson has this little girl laughing in stitches. He captured all our hearts the moment we met him as he joked and played pranks.
Archer, the owner and General Manager of the Chicago Kodiaks, the baseball team the rest of us play for, says, “I don’t want to hear it. Megan and I are adjusting to having six-month-old twins.”
A half-smile lifts my cheeks. When Patrick and I bought land outside of Chicago and built houses for us and our families, I never expected for all of my best friends to be living here. Patrick, Archer, and Tackett have homes in the private subdivision we aptly named Kodiak Kove, since we play for the Chicago Kodiaks.
“Good problems to have. Kenni and I’ve been engaged the longest, and we’re the last ones to be married. In fact, it’s looking less likely that she’ll have her dream wedding.” I grab the cloth and the cleaner, wiping down the machine I was using before Zena, the wedding coordinator, called and put me in a bad mood.
Tackett, the youngest player on our professional baseball team, asks, “Why?” He married his wife, Talynn, when baseball season ended.
“The castle in England was in foreclosure, and the new owner takes possession tomorrow. They may not honor the contract. Hopefully, I’ll know later today.” It’s a good thing I handle pressure well. You can’t be the major league MVP and have two World Series rings without learning to compartmentalize. “Alright, let’s start our workout.”
The ball feels heavy, but I think it’s the wedding weighing on my mind as Patrick and I partner up, throwing the medicine ball back and forth and doing sit-ups. Grunts escape from my chest until I sit up, resting my elbows on my knees.
Patrick’s stare lingers on me. “Let’s go to the batting cage. Ripping some balls will help.” An intuitive person, Patrick can clearly sense that I’m nervous about wrecking my fiancée’s dream wedding.
We make our way to Kodiak Stadium and request the equipment manager to set up the batting cage and ball machine. A hush falls over everyone as we slip into our cleats and choose our favorite bats. Strolling through the tunnel toward the field, the resounding clicks of our cleats against the concrete floor echo in my mind alongside the daunting task of reorganizing an entire wedding.
Archer suggests some minor changes in Tackett’s swing. He’s not just a figurehead, he knows baseball inside and out.
