The Match - A Baby Daddy Donor Romance

With his fingers tangled in my hair, he guides himself deeper into me, until the taste of pre-cum hits the back of my throat. Swallowing his length again and again, I pump the base of his cock, stopping every so often to drag my tongue along the underside.

Fabian groans as he fucks my mouth, the pace quickening as his breathing comes in short breaths. Tugging fistfuls of my hair, he releases a muffled groan before his veined cock spurts hot streams of cum down the back of my throat.

I swallow, wiping my lips and rising to meet him.

Everything happened so fast, so unexpectedly.

And my body is still reeling … weak knees, tingles everywhere, confusion. The aftereffects of a mind-blowing sexual exchange with Fabian Catalano are suspiciously similar to those of a mild concussion.

“So—” I attempt to fill the silent space between us with a witty quip, something to make light of the insanity that just took place.

Only Fabian silences me with a tender kiss.

And maybe I should, but I don’t protest.

Scooping me up, he carries me to my bed, climbs in beside me, and pulls me into his arms.

A million words come to mind, but before I have a chance to utter a single one, his eyelids drift shut, his breathing slows, and his hold around me relaxes.

While the double orgasms are definitely ones for the history books and the man’s hot, sweet kisses alone are enough to silence even the loudest of thoughts, this was a one-time occurrence.

Doing this again would be reckless and irresponsible.

And I’ll tell him that first thing tomorrow. Maybe I’ll casually work it in after breakfast, dropping it like a “no biggie” kind of thing before nonchalantly moving on to the day’s itinerary.

If we don’t make a big deal about it, it won’t become a big deal.

Naked, our legs intertwined, I stare at the ceiling and listen to him breathe. A minute later, I roll to my side, perched up on my elbow, and watch him sleep. I study his features, matching them up with Lucia’s, marveling at their perfection. The symmetry alone is remarkable.

Yawning, I stop gawking and settle in for the night.

If I fall asleep now, I’ll get a solid six hours before Lucia’s up.

But before I close my eyes one last time on this insane day, I steal a final glimpse at the painfully gorgeous man in my bed, the one who threw my “casual and cordial” rules out the window without so much as a second thought—but now that I think about it, what good are rules to a man who’s never had to follow them off the courts?

Chapter 16

Fabian

* * *

My head pulsates as I shuffle down the hallway Sunday morning. The house is quiet—save for Lucia’s faint cries. Rossi looked so peaceful this morning sleeping next to me, her dark hair splayed out on her pillow and her lips slightly swollen from last night …

I didn’t want to wake her, so I crept out the instant I heard the baby.

Only now that I’m standing outside Lucia’s door, I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do.

“Lucia,” I whisper when I step in. “Shhhhh.”

Her eyes widen—fear? Shock? Impossible to know. I’m sure she was expecting her mother, but I’ll have to suffice.

“It’s okay,” I say, scooping her up and carrying her to the kitchen.

Placing her in her high chair the way I watched Rossi do several times yesterday, I buckle her in and head to the fridge. I distinctly remember Lucia eating yogurt at one point yesterday—a yellow container, laughably small and covered in cartoon bananas. I manage to find one, as well as a baby spoon from a drawer, and take a seat across from her.

She pounds on the high chair tray, eyeing her breakfast and licking her lips.

“I feel like we’re missing something …” I scan the surroundings. “But I have no idea what that would be.”

My daughter giggles, reaching as I peel off the yogurt top and load her first bite.

Only the instant the yellow goop slides down her face and lands on her pink pajamas, I realize exactly what I’d forgotten: a bib.

Hopping up, I make my way around the kitchen in search of the bib stash—locating a slew of them in the drawer beside the sink.

A minute later, we’re back in business.

I load up another bite, this one smaller, and I move her hands aside as I spoon it into her mouth.

“I know,” I say, “food is exciting. But when you reach for it, it tends to go flying and I’m going to be the one stuck picking up the mess, so …”

She bounces in her seat as I load up the next one.

It’s weird, talking to a baby.

And I’d never be caught dead using one of those vocally fried baby voices.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thoroughly enjoying this one-on-one time. Not that Rossi makes me feel judged, but there’s more pressure when she’s around. This is one of the rare scenarios in my life where I’m the amateur being watched by the professional.