“I need to feel you inside of me, Brady,” she gasps. “Fuck me now, baby.”
Grabbing hold of my stiff prick, she guides me to her hot, wet little opening. With one solid thrust, I drive myself deep into her, making her cry out as I fill her up completely.
“Yes, baby,” she says. “God, yes.”
She is dripping wet and I thrust my hips in a hard rhythm, moving inside of her with ease. I grab hold of her ass and pull her closer to me as I start to bang her harder and faster. Kissing her neck, nipping at it, I run my tongue down to her sweet, perky little tits.
She's moaning loudly, calling my name as I bury my cock into her again and again. I look out through the windows and see the teams are starting to come back out onto the field. She squeals and giggles as I pull her down off the bar, turn her around, and bend her over it, and then give that sweet little ass a firm smack.
She looks back at me over her shoulder, a salacious expression on her face as I push her skirt up around her waist. I take a moment to admire the view of her firm, tight little ass, and toned legs encased in her black stockings and heels.
“You are damn fine, darlin'” I say.
“Thanks,” she purrs. “Now stick it in and fuck me.”
“Yes, ma'am,” I reply – she doesn't need to ask me twice.
Stepping up behind her, I grab my cock and slip the head of it into her opening. I grab her shoulders and pull her back at the same moment I thrust myself forward, driving my cock deep inside of her. She gasps and moans, pushing back against me as I pound her from behind. Grabbing a handful of her hair, I gave it a hard yank, pulling her head backward, making her call my name.
I drive my cock into her harder and faster, relishing the feeling of how tight and wet she is. With one hand on her shoulder and the other on her hip, I slam my cock into her again and again. Her breathing is growing ragged, shallower, and a moment later, I feel her entire body stiffen. A moment after that, she cries out so loud as her orgasm tears through her, I'm half afraid the people in the seats below my skybox heard her.
Her eyes fill with lust and her breathing growing ever more ragged, she looks over her shoulder at me again and smiles.
“Jesus Christ,” she moans. “That was intense. It's your turn now, baby. Come for me.”
As if I need her permission. I thrust my hips harder and deeper into her, feeling the pressure building up low within me. I feel my balls tighten as she pushes herself back, grinding herself against me, taking me even deeper inside of her.
The moment I feel her squeeze me hard with her vaginal muscles – making her feel even tighter – I lose all control. My body shudders and I moan – it comes out more like a growl, really – as I blow my load deep within her.
I ride out the waves of sensation that course through me as my cock pulses and throbs, spilling my seed into the condom. A few moments later, I step back, out of breath and feeling almost lightheaded. I strip the condom off and toss it into a nearby trashcan before turning back to her.
Pulling her close in a tight embrace, I take my Stetson off her head and put it back on mine before giving her a chaste little kiss. Her face flushed with color, she smiles up at me, her eyes wide and dreamy.
“That was amazing,” she says, her breath a little husky. “Really amazing.”
I nod and look out at the field, noticing that they're lining up for the kickoff to get the second half of the game underway.
“Uh huh,” I reply, suddenly distracted by the action on the field now that the action in my box was over. “It was great.”
“I'd like to see you again,” she says.
I nod without looking at her. “Get dressed,” I reply. “You have to get back to work and I have to meet with Rick.”
She looks at me like I'd just slapped her across the face. But without another word, she slowly starts to dress herself, never taking her eyes off of me. I give her a little smile, but my attention is pretty much fixed on the game going on below.
Like I said, football is my passion in life. Always has been, always will be.
Chapter Two
“We really need to talk about you screwing half the hospitality staff,” Rick says when he steps into my box, closing the door behind him.
I look over and give him an amused grin. “Why? Is the other half jealous?”
Rick Dempsey, the current President and General Manager of the Copperheads, sits down in the plush, padded seat next to me. The large windows are open so I can hear the roar of the crowd, the popping of the pads as the players collide with one another, and soak in the ambiance of a Copperheads home game. There's really nothing else like it.
I've visited with other owners in the league in their stadiums. Some of them like to spend their Sundays down in the hospitality suites, drinking and stuffing their faces, not even paying attention to the game. Others like to sit in their luxury box, drinking, stuffing their faces, and watching the games on the televisions that fill the suite – if they pay attention to it at all.
Many of them just like to be surrounded by a loud crowd of hangers-on who are there to be seen rather than to enjoy a game. And that's just not my way.
I don't understand it. You own a team and you don't even watch them play? I'm convinced that half the owners in the league – maybe more – don't really care about football one way or the other. They own a team for the status and stature of being an NFL owner.
But not me. Football is in my blood. I played in high school and college – and if not for a blown-out knee in my sophomore season, who knows what might have happened? Maybe I'd be down there strapping them up with my hometown Copperheads too. It had been my dream at one point in time – a dream my body was unable to help me fulfill.
Yeah, there's still a little bitterness about that in my system.
Instead of being on the field blowing up receivers on Sundays, I'm sitting in the skybox, watching them play – the owner-in-waiting, as my lawyer, Kendrick Booth likes to say.
The blonde I'd banged at halftime comes in with a tray bearing wings and beer. She sets it down on the table between Rick and me before giving me a flirty little wink and a smile.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I say.
Rick shakes his head and sighs as she turns and leaves the box. I grab my beer and take a long swallow of it. Rick grabs his bottle and holds it, watching the play on the field unfold. Our second-rate quarterback, Jake Penn, throws another incomplete pass, bringing up yet another fourth down. It hasn't been a great game for the Copperheads. Hell, it hasn't been a great start to the season.
“The hospitality girls,” Rick says. “I need you to lay off of 'em, Brady. Not only is it unprofessional, you're opening yourself – and this organization – up to a potential lawsuit.”
I shrug. “They're all of age,” I reply, watching with a simmering anger as the punting team comes out onto the field. Again. “What happens between two consenting adults is nobody's business. Least of all yours, Rick.”
Rick and I have a – contentious – relationship. To put it mildly. Mostly because I forget more about football in a day than Rick is ever going to know – and he knows it. He's only in the position because after my parents died, somebody had to step into the role – and he was available. For whatever reason, he and my father were friends and he has a lot of years in the league – many of them in a GM capacity. So, to some, that gives him some credibility around the league.
Not that his years as a GM were good years. For any of the teams he's been with.