Page 46 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
God, he’s gorgeous. What the hell is he doing with someone like me, with my stretch marks and soft belly I can’t get rid of due to my propensity to stress-eat Red Vines? There are surely worse and higher calorie stress snacks, but with the amount of stress I get from work and Kyle, my Red Vines habit is challenging to control.
Suddenly self-conscious, I lay my hand over his when Jack reaches for the tie on the side holding my dress closed. He gives me a confused look. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s just …” I wave at him. “You’re … you. And I’m …”
His confusion only seems to grow more pronounced, the furrow between his brows deepening as he waits for me to continue. “You’re … what?” he presses when I don’t fill in the blanks.
I can’t bear to answer, though, too embarrassed, too self-conscious to even point out my flaws. I don’twanthim to notice them. To see them. To be aware of them. I want him to keep looking at me like he did a minute ago.
Stretching himself next to me, he gathers me against his chest, my nipples brushing against the smattering of crisp hair across his pecs. “You’re what, Maggie?” he repeats in a whisper.“Gorgeous? Stunning? Smart? Fun? Sexy?” He punctuates each question with a kiss. “God, you’re sexy, Maggie. Do you not realize that? You’re so fucking hot. Why do you think I went over to you that night at the Salmon? Spent the evening with you doing whatever you wanted? Did whatever I could to get you to agree to spend time with me? I’ve wanted you the whole time, though I liked you as a person and was happy keeping things friendly if that’s all you wanted.” Pulling back a little, he blinks down at me. “Is that what’s wrong? Did … Did I misunderstand? I thought …” He presses his lips together, clearly reviewing everything that’s happened between us in his mind. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“No.” The word is immediate. “No. God. You’re … you’re like a dream come true. And I just …” I lift a hand and let it fall again, landing on his arm. “I’m just … me. I’m a thirty-seven-year-old mother with an out of control Red Vines habit. I work out when I can, but I’m not fit or slim or perfectly toned.”
A range of expressions crosses his face, and then he rolls me onto my back, his hand caressing my belly. “Maggie. Seriously. I love your body. I like that you’re soft. You’re perfect. I want to see you—all of you—and I want to make you feel amazing. If you don’t want to, if you want to stay just like this, we can do that, and I won’t complain. But please don’t be afraid of my reaction to your body. I only have positive feelings about you.” He presses his hips against my side, letting me feel how hard he is, how hardImake him.
“Okay,” I whisper.
His eyebrows lift. “Okay?”
I nod. “Okay.” This time my voice is firmer, and I reach for the tie myself, giving it a tug and undoing the bow holding my dressclosed. Jack slides the fabric to the side, revealing the panel beneath. When he starts tugging that, I hold my breath and arch my back a little so the tie under my back can slide free.
Then I’m laid bare before him, my bra cups still tugged down and propping up my breasts, my lacy but non-matching cheeky panties now visible below.
Jack lets out a shuddering breath as he looks at me. “God, you’re gorgeous, Maggie. I feel like I’m getting to unwrap the best Christmas present ever.”
That makes me giggle, and I cover my face with my hands because the laughter feels like it could turn hysterical at any moment, tears far too close to the surface for my liking. This is all so much for me emotionally. And I don’t want to ruin the moment by crying or freaking out completely. The fact that he didn’t even flinch at my burst of self-conscious embarrassment and instead reassured me should help—and it does—but I’m trying really hard to rein in my mental freak out. Or at least stuff it into a mental storage box so I can freak out later when I’m alone.
Nudging my hand to the side, Jack looks down at me, that same expression from earlier on his face, the one that says he thinks I’m perfect and precious and wonderful, and the rising tide of panic inside me settles, calming, turning into a gentle wave lapping at the shore instead of the overwhelming tsunami that was ready to destroy everything. He kisses me, soft and gentle, his lips warm and tender against mine.
And I sigh. And relax. And lose myself in this moment, here, now, with this man who seems to think I’m fascinating enough to go to all these lengths to spend time with me regularly.
Rolling on top of me again, he sits on his knees, reaching for my hands, and pulling me up to sitting. Then he pushes my dress off my shoulders, leaning in for another kiss as he reaches behind me and undoes my bra. I slip my arms free of the straps, and then it disappears, and it’s just Jack and me here on his bed. He bears me down onto the bed again, and when he settles between my thighs once more, I become aware that he’s wearing far more clothes than I am.
“Not fair,” I protest, though it comes out as little more than a gasp as he goes back to his earlier task of mapping my upper body with kisses.
He lifts his head. “What’s not fair?”
I glance down at his thighs. “I’m barely clothed at all, and you’re still fit to be seen in public. Not fair.”
Chuckling, he backs off, standing next to the bed. After undoing his belt, he unhooks and unzips his pants, holding my eyes as he slides them off, taking his socks with them, leaving him in a pair of blue briefs straining to cover his hard dick. I’m not sure if my gulp is audible or not, but it feels like it should be.
This man is the living embodiment of a Greek god—all chiseled muscle and olive skin, lightly tanned from the summer sun. “You’re beautiful,” I murmur, and his lips quirk in a smile.
“So are you.” His thumbs hook in the waist of his underwear, and he drags one side down his hip a little. “Should I?”
My eyes widen a fraction, but I nod.
And he does. His underwear are off, revealing him in all his glory—and he is glorious. Thick and proud, and ready all for me.
He reaches into his bedside table, pulling out a strip of condoms, then climbs onto the bed with me again, lying next to me and gathering me against him, his hand sliding down my side to my leg which he hitches over his hip.
His kisses are long and languorous like we have all the time in the world to do this and nothing more. He caresses my leg, my hip, my back, my ass, then slides his hand inside my panties so he’s only touching bare skin, dragging my panties down as he goes. If I thought it might’ve been unintentional, that idea is quickly dispelled when he deliberately grasps the side and pulls it down my leg.
Giggling, I lift up, helping him get them off. He’s smiling at me as he rolls me onto my back, caressing my breasts, my ribs, my belly—where he spends a fair amount of time as though he wants to prove to me beyond a shadow of a doubt that he likes this part of me as much if not more than the rest—and then he moves to my hip, dipping between my thighs. I slide my legs apart, making room for his hand.
He strokes me gently at first until I’m spreading my legs wider, pressing into his fingers, seeking more stimulation. A smile plays over his mouth, and he gives me exactly what I need, sinking two fingers inside me and rubbing his thumb in tight circles on my clit. He starts off light and fast, but when I’m lifting my hips in search of more, he responds to my wordless request, increasing the pressure, the fingers inside me finding just the right spot that has me gasping out, “Yes! There!”
He stays with me, watching me intently, his face a mask of concentration. But that type of undivided attention is too much, and I close my eyes to focus on the sensations he’s creating for me. It doesn’t take long for the wave to build, and then I’m cresting the peak with a gasp and riding down the other side.
