I breathed out a laugh against his beard and relished the way the coarse hair felt against my lips.
“I love the way you fill me, too,” I admitted. “There’s never a single miniscule inch of space left, and when you’re done, I feel you for hours. Sometimes even days.”
He latched onto my hips and roughly fucked up into me, causing me to gasp.
“At least this way I know you’ll not be able to ignore me,” he growled.
Then he went back to fucking me.
Our skin slapped together lewdly in the quiet, dark hallway. The only thing that I could hear was the dull clapping and yelling of the crowd, paired with the heavy breathing we were doing, and the sound of our flesh smacking together.
I was so focused on us, on the way that he was making me feel, that I nearly missed the back and forth of voices until they were almost upon us.
“Did you say something?” someone asked.
“No,” the other man returned. “Did you see what we were supposed to do after this?”
“I think the game was it,” man one said. “But George’s wife would have to answer that. I think once the game is over, she’ll let us know.”
I would.
Maybe.
If I was alive by then.
Because I was seriously about to die, right then and there.
Especially with the way George was slowly fucking himself into me, confident that the deepness of the shadows, partially covered by the wall around the corner, hid us from view.
Which must’ve been what was setting me off, because the next thing I knew, I was seconds away from coming.
But I tried extremely hard to hold it off.
I couldn’t come right then, because if I did, there would be no way in hell I’d be able to keep quiet.
No, sir.
Not with how big it felt.
I sucked in a breath and bit down lightly on George’s neck to try to keep the cry from pouring out of my throat.
There was no way in hell that George didn’t know what was about to happen, either. I knew that he felt the way I was convulsively clenching around him. Then there was the way I latched onto his bicep with one hand, and his trapezius muscle with the other, and dug my fingernails in deep.
My battle was lost on his final thrust.
When he started to spurt his release inside of me, I could no longer hold it in. I died, right then and there, with men walking down the hall away from us.
I squeaked, biting down a little harder, and clenched down so hard on him that he cursed.
“What?” man one asked.
“Nothing, man,” man two said. “You need to get your hearing checked or something.”
As they moved farther and farther down the hall, the more my heart rate calmed, until all of a sudden, I was aware of just how fucking stupid George Hoffman made me.
I looked at him in the darkness, reading the same anger and reluctance on his face that I had on mine.
Moments later I let my feet fall to the ground, and immediately George withdrew.
I felt his heated release fall from my body and drip down my leg, and had never felt so barren and cold.
George bent over and captured my panties, handing them to me.
I finished tying my halter top behind my neck before taking them.
Instead of putting them on, I lifted my dress back up my thighs from where it had fallen and wiped what I could of his release from me.
I still felt wet and sticky, but at least it wasn’t going to roll down my leg anymore.
He waited until I was fully clothed, and then pushed out the door I never remembered entering.
I squinted and cringed from the bright sun, and it took me a few moments to adjust.
But when I did, I saw that George was no longer waiting for me.
Nope.
He was back in the dugout standing next to Hancock, no longer looking at me at all.
I walked up to Hancock’s side and stared at the last three college players taking their turns, and then reached for the beer that Hancock had in his hand.
“Can I have a drink of this?” I asked him. “I have a bad taste in my mouth.”
He handed it over.
It looked untouched.
“Have at it,” he said. “It’s hot anyway.”
I drank it all.
“You want another beer?” he asked, sounding amused.
I wanted valium, but a beer would do for now.
I took the beer that had magically appeared in his hand, because it was easier to do that than to think about what I’d just done.
I was such a whore.
I’d fucked my ex-husband, when I was mad at him, all because he’d crooked his stupid big finger at me.Chapter 24I love your stupid face.
-Text from Wrigley to George
Wrigley
I was downright miserable, and I was trying to decide why I always had to be such a slut when it came to my ex. And I was crying for no freakin’ reason.