Page 29 of Falling for My Son's Best Friend

“So what?” she whined plaintively, reaching to grab me with those long fingernails again, her hands like claws. “I’ve done plenty of married men before, it’s never made a difference. My cunt likes married cock,” she added slyly, “The sex feels even better when he’s married,” she winked coyly.

And I was beyond disgusted now. I’m not passing judgment on anyone, other peoples’ relationships aren’t my business. But this tramp took the cake. Shit, throwing it out there that was she was a ho, that she craved married men, that she specialized in married cock? Shit, that was fucking disgusting. Even if you like it, even if that’s your thing, don’t put it out there. It’s not like Michael Jackson’s nose, you don’t have to wear it on your face for the whole world to see.

But I’d already spent enough time with this woman, her presence was totally toxic, making me nauseous with its lust for married ballplayers. What the hell, this fucking sucked, and I’d already gotten enough alcohol in me, and what the fuck, Marie’s panties were still waiting. In fact, I had them in my pocket, the wisp of nothing my memento of her, my link to the gorgeous girl, everything that this tramp wasn’t.

So I shot the no-name hooker an disgusted look and took off, striding to the elevator, my long legs eating up the distance before the doors slid shut. And once I was alone, my hand reached for the slip of silk, lightly caressing the fabric as if it really were her cunt, that wet, engorged sweetness ready for me all the time, whenever I wanted it, her heaving form at my knees, on the bed, on her back, available throughout the night, so intense, so willing.

But as I let myself into the room, a thought caught in my mind. I’ve been approached a million times on the road, at bars, right outside the stadium, shit anywhere women were. And I’ve turned a lot of them down, hey, even I’ve got to sleep sometimes, you can’t be fucking every single minute of the night, every night, a ballplayer’s got to be rested for games. But this time, I’d done something different. I’d played the married card, like I really was a married man, like I had a honey at home, a sweet, willing woman waiting for me, arms warm, breasts soft, cunt wet.

And it shook me, for sure. Because that sweet willing woman had Marie’s face, it was her breasts I stroked, her soft, wet pussy I touched, her tiny asshole that I kissed. I’d pretended that Marie was my wife to the other woman, and the crazy part? It didn’t feel wrong. It felt amazingly right, like I wanted the brunette to wait for me, I wanted her to keep her pussy safe, I wanted to be the only man plumbing those sweet depths, the only man allowed to shoot my sperm inside.

But that was the irony of all this. At this very moment, the woman of my dreams was probably at a sperm bank, picking out some anonymous donor and getting ready to take his semen into herself in the hopes of having a child. The thought made my body go cold, literally chills running down my spine, my chest beating with pain. Because fuck, I didn’t want some other guy’s sperm in her … I only wanted mine. Marie was mine, and even though I had no right to tell her, of speaking my hopes, dreams, my desire to her, the brunette was mine, absolutely, completely mine.

But what did I have to offer a woman? I was a journeyman athlete at the beginning of my career, making practically nothing with no stable home, no home base even, just a man with a suitcase pursuing my dream of playing pro sports. And Marie was a woman worth far more than that. She deserved more, she was catnip to billionaires, I’d witnessed Vincent hitting on her with my own eyes. I had nothing to offer in comparison except a hard body, a devoted heart, my absolute passion for her sweetness, her willingness, that curvy form. And unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. Marie deserved more, she deserved better … and I’d come up short.