These sorts of moments were a lot more frequent when I first started playing for the NFL. Back when I’d fuck anything with a willing pussy. Sounds trashy as hell, but all the single players do it, and even some of the committed ones do too. We’re young and rich and hoping to be richer and seeking celebrity status. Women come running, spreading their legs easily. Part their lips easily too.
It was a whirlwind of sex with strangers, and I was over it a while ago.
So what’s with me and Susanna tonight? She’s pretty much a stranger, and we’re about to have sex. It shouldn’t feel any different from my previous experiences with football groupies and the hot, readily available women looking for a good time.
I can’t group Susanna with any of those women, though. She’s…different. Which sounds corny as hell, I know this, but I can’t help but think that it’s true.
Susanna is definitely different.
“Oh my goodness.”
Her startled voice knocks me from my thoughts and I realize quick she’s sitting in the middle of the mattress, staring at my naked body. I’m still standing next to the bed, condom in hand, cock jutting out toward her like it’s waving hello. I’ll be inside you soon, can’t wait.
“You all right?” I ask as I frown at her.
Her eyes never stray from my dick. “You’re…massive.”
I chuckle. “I’m pretty big everywhere.”
“What size shoe do you wear?”
Say what? “Sixteen.”
She blinks up at me. “What…oh, that’s right. You Americans have different shoe sizes.”
I had no idea that was a thing. “Trust me. A sixteen is big, Susanna.”
“I assumed.”
“I’ve measured my dick before too.” I grab hold of my erection and give it a firm stroke, her gaze never straying from my hand. “Want to know the length?”
She hurriedly shakes her head. “I’m afraid you might scare me more if you give me facts and figures.”
“Jesus, woman, don’t be scared.” I rejoin her on the bed, crawling over her and grabbing her arms. I lift them up, gently pinning them to the mattress, my gaze on hers. “I’ll fit.”
Her eyebrows wrinkle in seeming concern. “Don’t be too sure about that.”
If this mean she’s extra tight, I will probably bust my nut before I barely get inside her. “I’ll make sure you’re nice and wet.”
Her mouth falls open. “You…will?”
“Oh yeah.” She seems surprised that I said that. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”
“Well, yes. Of course. I just…” Her voice drifts and I dip my head, brushing my mouth against hers.
“You just what?”
“I’ve never had a man tell me that he’ll—take care of me. In bed,” she admits.
“You’re not used to talkers then.” I have a reputation as a guy who doesn’t say much. I don’t talk to the media very often, if it all. I don’t say a lot of bullshit when I’m being interviewed by anyone—and I rarely get interviewed by anyone because of that.
But when I’m intimate with a woman? For some reason, I’m a talker, and it always surprises them.
Always.
“Not particularly, no,” she admits.
“Does it embarrass you? My talking?” I ask before I lean in and rest my mouth against her throat. I nip her. Give her a little lick. “Fuck, you taste good,” I mutter.