Romance: Young Adult Romance: The Perfect Game (A Highschool Football Romance) (Bad Boy Nerd New Adult Romance) (20 page)

4

I had told Chloe that I would be a couple of days, but
I
returned to her almost
twenty-four
hours after I had left. She was in the living room, wearing one of my tee shirts and boy shorts which hugged her ass. I came in, my shirt splattered with blood, most of it not my own. I had a busted lip, and a bullet had grazed my arm, but I had given way worse than I had gotten.

The young woman came to me as soon as I unlocked and opened the door, and she wrapped her arms around me. I thought she would speak, or I thought I would, but she pressed her lips to
mine,
and I kissed her instead, wincing as pain shot through my busted lip, but not willing to stop our kiss.

My arms went around her, and when she was sure I was in a position to support her weight she lifted her feet from the floor and wrapped her legs around my waist. Her panty clad crotch
was pressed
against my own, and immediately my dick began to pulse and grow rigid.

I thought about carrying her up the wooden stairs to the bedroom, but we never got that far. The Cabin was cozy, two small floors, but it was private enough, and I just took two steps to the couch before turning and sitting,
so
she was on my lap. She giggled as we kissed, and wriggled a bit, grinding against my manhood.

My fingers pulled her shirt up and over her head, and I buried my face in her breasts as she was wearing no bra. My lips found a nipple, my tongue flicked it back and forth, my teeth nibbled softly. She groaned and moaned, her head tilted back.

She climbed off me and lowered herself to her knees before me. Her fingers were slow, her move delicate as she unbuttoned my pants and pulled them off along with my shoes and socks. She left me in my boxer briefs for a moment, my cock hard and evident. She planted kisses on my inner thigh, then switched to the other.

Finally,
she gave my boy some attention, reaching a slender hand up the leg of my underwear and gripping my dick. She amused herself by sliding my cock out through the same leg of my boxer briefs, and then took me into her mouth.

Chloe gave the best head in the world. I had already gotten to know that. She was perfect. She built to the right speed, applied the
right
pressure with her hand. She gripped me at the base of my cock and held me where she wanted me, her lips and tongue and mouth handling the rest. When I could almost take no
more,
I forced her to
stop
and moved her to the couch.

I reached up and pulled her panties off. She was nude now, and she smiled as she watched me look up and down her body. I loved every inch of it. I sent my fingertips up and down, from her toes to her forehead. Then I used my hands to part her
legs
and buried my face in her pussy. She smelled
great
and tasted better. I lapped at her pink slit, and she gave me plenty to lap up, her pussy wet and warm.

My cock was aching to be inside her, so I didn’t make him wait any longer. I got up off of my
knees
and then positioned
her,
so she was facing away from me, knees on the cushion of the couch, arms on the back. I slid into her tight pussy, pushing until I had nothing left to give, and then pulling back.

“No one has had my ass,” she whispered, and looked
to
me over her shoulder. I didn’t need to
be told
twice. I pulled my slick cock from her, and then spread her ass cheeks with both hands. Her butthole was tight, and I rubbed the head of my cock against it until she opened up and I could slide in. If her pussy was tight, her asshole was like nothing I had ever felt. She groaned and bent her head forward, burying her face in the back of the couch. I knew she was in pain, but she reached between her legs and began rubbing her
own
clit, and I knew she was enjoying it as well.

She came right before I did. Biting into the couch cushion and screaming. I had my hands on her ass cheeks, spreading them, groping them, leaving red lines in her tanned flesh. She must have known I was about to come, because she called to me once more, turning her head over her shoulder.

“Come in my pussy,” she moaned. “Please.”

Looking back, I wondered if she knew. Up to that point, I hadn’t come in her before. I had always pulled out, plastered her face, or sent stringy white strands of cum over her big tits. But now, I pulled my cock out of her ass and shoved forward into her pussy, just as my cock
jumped,
and I came. I threw my head back and arched my hips, and sent all I had
into
her. When I pulled
out,
she stayed like that for a minute, back to me, on the couch, and I saw a bit of my come leak from her gushing pussy.

We went to sleep after that. We woke up in the morning, and we knew things had changed. We kissed, but we didn’t fuck, and we didn’t make love.

“I’m safe?” She asked me over breakfast, simple bowls of cereal.

I nodded.

“Are you?”

“I think so,” I said with a grin.

“So I can go back?”

I sighed and nodded.

“I love you,” she said. “I do.”

“I know,” I said. “I love you too. But… you don’t belong here. You aren’t mine.”

Chloe smiled to me, it was sad and
sweet
and filled with longing. “I am yours. You bought me.”

“Two days later I saw her off at an airport in Boston. She
was headed
home. I stood for a long time after she had gone, watching the planes land and take off through a large window which overlooked the tarmac. I knew I would never forget my bought bride.

*****

THE END

''Screw this lock,'' Peter said, taking the key out to make sure it wasn't bent. ''Screw this apartment, screw this area, screw the whole world.'' He put down the bottle of wine he'd bought a few minutes earlier and inserted the key again.

''Maybe if you put your weight
against
it,'' Marion said. He turned the key and at the same time rammed the door with his shoulder. The door flew
open,
and he fell into the apartment, landing in a drunken heap on the doormat.

Marion picked up the bottle and stepped over him, anxious to open it and have another drink.

''Nice place,'' she said, already in the kitchen rummaging through the drawers to find a corkscrew.

''It's far from nice,'' Peter said. ''
In fact,
it's the worst place I have ever lived in.''

Peter looked at the phone and saw a light flashing. He pressed the red button and listened.

''Peter, where the hell are you? Probably out with one of your little tramps, getting drunk. Do you know what today is? It's Max's birthday. Remember Max, he's your son. We didn't expect you to send a present, but you
could
have
at least
called him. You were a lousy
husband,
so I guess I shouldn't be surprised you turned out to be a lousy father.''

Peter slumped against the wall next to the phone table and closed his eyes. How the hell did it come to this, he thought?

''Haven't you got a corkscrew?'' Marion shouted. Peter went into the kitchen and threw open a drawer. He pointed. Marion was relieved.

Marion was one of the regulars at the Dragoon Inn, a pub on Grafton Way, in central London. She was a legal secretary by day and a drinker and flirt by night.
She
'd had her eye on Peter Flowers for some time. She was bored screwing lawyers and
businessmen
. She wanted to bed a different kind of man, and Peter answered that description. He was very different from her usual type. He never wore a suit, always black jeans, black shirt and gray jacket. She'd never seen him without his
trilby,
and she liked the fact his wrists
were covered
in tribal armbands.

Peter had a variety of places to stop off at on his way
home;
the Dragoon was one of them. He went there a couple of times a week.  Marion had first noticed him
two weeks
earlier. She'd made the first move. Sitting at the bar alone, mulling over why his marriage had failed so badly, he'd been grateful for her company.
What's more,
he was charmed by her wide eyes, blonde hair and the way she rubbed her breasts against his shoulder when she sat down.

He didn't speak of interest rates, court rulings or the state of the national debt like most men in the Dragoon. He
spoke
to her about the new play at the Alhambra and about the latest book he was reading. A book about a divorced man and how his wife bled him for every cent she could. He told her he loved Rembrandt but not Picasso, and how long the queue usually was to get into the museum in Florence where Michelangelo's sculpture of David
was housed
.

By the time they'd finished their first glass of wine, Marion was already desperate to be naked with him. It wasn't just his artistic nature that attracted her to
him,
though. He was also very handsome. Tall with dark brown hair and blue eyes, his facial features reminded her of a smoldering film star. His chin was robust and his jawline angular.

After a few more glasses, she invited herself back to his apartment. It was just around the corner.

''Why do you think this apartment is
nice
?'' he asked.

''Okay, it's not nice,'' she tossed her bleached hair back. ''It's in a seedy part of town, and the door doesn't open very
easily
. It's the kind of apartment you would expect a divorced man to
live in
. But what I meant by
nice
is how you have decorated it.'' She turned the corkscrew one more time and pulled.
Nothing happened
, she gave the bottle to Peter.

He grunted as he pulled and almost
fell backwards
when the cork gave in to his onslaught. ''Decorated? I haven't done a thing to this place,''

''The paintings, the sculptures, the books. I love it. It's
messy,
but I love it.'' She walked to the door which led
to
the small lounge. There was a set of bookshelves on the far
wall;
the shelves bent by the weight of the
heavy
volumes they were carrying. There was a sculpture of some Greek Goddess, Marion didn't know. She sat down on the red sofa. ''No TV?'' she asked.

''I hate TV.'' He sat next to her. ''What the hell is ever on TV that is of any interest? When TV
was invented,
the world was full of hope for
its
role in society. It was supposed to inform and educate. It has failed miserably on both fronts.''

''Kiss
me,
Peter, I want you,'' she said. ''I've wanted you since I first saw
you.
You're different.''

''How so different?'' he asked rolling the stem of the wine glass between thumb and forefinger.

''You're artistic,
sensitive,
and you know how to talk to women.''

He laughed. ''Tell that to the bitch I was married to for eight years. She hates me.''

Marion took the glass from his hand and put it down on the floor. She put her hand on the back of his head and pulled him to her.

*****

A lot of boats cruise the Thames, most of them observe the speed limit. Just occasionally one goes far too fast, causing a huge wash. Such incidents were an occupational hazard for Marcella. She lived and worked on a houseboat just down from Battersea, a suburb of London.

''For heaven's sake,'' she spluttered as the boat shook. At the beginning of the
week,
she'd decided to start a sculpture of a javelin thrower.  At the moment the boat
started
to bob up and down, she was making delicate lines in the athletes forehead. Second time today, probably the same
boat
on it's way back, she thought. She put a strand of loose hair behind her ear and prepared to start again. At that
moment,
she cursed as the phone rang.

''Miss Horner?'' the voice said.

''Yes,'' Marcella said, trying not to get Plasticine on her mobile.

''It's Jamie Smith. From the bank.''

''Oh, yes. Hi.''

''Have you got a moment?'' he asked.

She looked at the
half-finished
sculpture before her. ''Yes.''

''It's about your account. I'm afraid you've gone over your overdraft
limit,
and we need to ask you to add some funds.''

Money, always money, she thought. ''Er....yes....I'll see what I can do.''

''I'm afraid until then you won't be able to draw any cash our use your credit cards.''

''I understand,'' Marcella looked out of the window at the sunlight shimmering on the water. ''Well thanks for letting me know.''

When she hung up, she sat down on the stool and wondered how she was going to be able to comply with his demands.

''Hello, hello. It's only me.'' It was Joyce, Marcella's middle-aged hippy neighbor. She was standing on the quay next to Marcella's Dutch barge. Marcella walked out of her studio and onto the deck at the stern of the boat. When she looked up at
Joyce,
she had to shield her eyes from the sun.

''What's the
matter,
dear? You look terribly pale,'' Joyce said.

''Come on board. Coffee?''

Joyce walked across the gangplank and waited
for Marcella
to walk back through the boat and open the side door.

''Marvelous boat, this,'' Joyce said. That's what she said every time she visited.  Joyce was a forty-six-year-old divorcee who had decided to sell her house and live on a boat. She was tall with prematurely gray hair a
very large
bust. She was terribly
forthright,
but Marcella liked that. ''Now tell me what's the matter.''

''Money, as usual.'' Marcella took two mugs
from hooks
above the sink in the galley, and put them down on the table Joyce was
sitting at
.

''Money. It's ironic isn't it?''

''What?''

''You the daughter of an Earl, one of the land's richest men, yet you have to struggle like this.''

''But you know the story, I've told you a hundred times. He won't give me a penny because I chose to study art. He wanted me to study law or
business,
but I'd rather be poor.''

Joyce looked at her. Marcella was still very young, just twenty. She looked like one of the young debutantes Joyce saw in magazines sometimes. She was aristocratic in appearance, her shiny black hair flowing down over her shoulders, ending halfway down her back. Her eyes were crystal clear pools of blue and her skin bronzed. Joyce had long since given up on her
figure,
but when she was
younger,
she remembered having
a figure
similar to Marcella's. Slender around the waist with curvaceous hips supporting
a tiny
behind, and a bust that pushed forth to meet the admiring gaze of any young man.

''If I'd had children, I'd like to
think
I would have treated them better,'' Joyce said.

''
At least,
I've got this boat. I love it.''

''Yes, it's the finest
houseboat
around. Your grandmother loved it too.''

''I'm so lucky she left it to me when she passed away. I will treasure it forever.''

''That was another anomaly. Your
grandmother
living on a boat. Wasn't she  Lady Simmons from Harwood?''

''Yes. She was very
posh
but alternative.'' Marcella poured hot water onto the instant coffee she'd put in the mugs and added milk. ''Did you want something or is it just a social call?''

Joyce was bored. Her usual tactic was to pretend she wanted to borrow something, so she could hang around and chat. Marcella didn't mind. She liked
Joyce;
she was her type. Arty. ''No just a social call. How are you getting along at college?''

''It's hard. Its' the London Academy of Arts, they expect a lot from their students.'' She took a sip of coffee and scowled. ''More sugar?''

''Sugar? If I have
sugar,
it'll have deposited itself on my hips by five o'clock this afternoon.''

''Do you want to have a man again?'' Marcella asked. She never heard Joyce talk about men.

''I'm off men for life. Divorce kills you. I don't want to go through that again.''

''But you could have a casual lover.''

Joyce burst out into a loud bout of laughter. Marcella grinned at her, wondering what was so funny. ''My dear, wait until you've had more experience with men. Men want it all. You may think you've got a casual lover, as you call it, but very soon they come
round
with their dirty clothes and ask you to do the washing.''

Joyce looked out of a porthole and saw two legs standing next to the boat up on the quay. ''You see. Here's your casual lover.''

''Hello,'' Mike shouted. ''Permission to come on board.'' Marcella looked at Joyce and smiled at the face Joyce pulled. A grimace.

''Yes,'' Marcella shouted.

Mike was very tall and had to stoop to get through the door and down into the galley. ''Mike, nice to see you,'' Joyce said.

Mike ignored her. ''I don't know why you live on this boat. It's far too small.'' In fact, the barge wasn't small at all. The only
narrow
bit was the entrance
into
the
galley
. Through the
galley,
there was a large sitting room and further down a corridor, two bedrooms. Each bedroom had
its
own
bathroom.

''Come out for lunch,'' he said to Marcella.

''Sorry Mike, but
I'm snowed
under with work.''

''But it
isn't really work
is it? I mean you make models.''

Why the hell does she bother with this man, Joyce asked herself? Okay, he was handsome, but he was a prize buffoon who had no understanding of his
girlfriend’s
passion for the arts. ''Of course it's work,' Joyce said. ''You work in a bank.
That's not work,
that's robbery.'' Joyce laughed heartily
again,
and Marcella wanted
to,
but didn't.