Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Peyton has done the ovulation charts, and at first, I was game. Hell yeah, call me out of a workout to have sex with my wife in her office. It was sneaky, daring, and the thrill of it was exhilarating. Until it wasn’t. I never thought I’d groan when a text would come in that she was ovulating. Talk about performance anxiety. I never told her, and I never will. She doesn’t need my bullshit on top of the pile she already deals with.
I take her hand and lead her out of the store and to the Escalade. Before I let her get in, I pull her into my arms and hold her. Sometimes, I need this.
“I love you.”
“I love you more,” she says into my neck.
When we part, I cup her face with my hands and kiss her lightly. “When we get home, I’m going to make love to you.”
Peyton laughs lightly. “And this differs from other days?”
“Lately, it’s been sex. Which I love. But we’ve been so focused on getting you pregnant that I feel like some of the passion was pushed to the side. I want that back.” I close the gap between us. Not that there was much.
“I want to kiss you.” I follow my words with actions and leave a trail of kisses from her ear to her lips. When there, they part, allowing my tongue to enter her mouth. Pulling away and resting my forehead against hers, I inhale deeply. I’m already hard, ready, and wishing we were at home.
“Then what?” My minx asks.
I chuckle. “Then I’m going to touch you, tease you, make you come with my fingers, my mouth and then finally on my cock.”
“Noah?” she says my name headily.
“Yeah, baby?”
“We’re in the parking lot, out in public,” she says, stating the obvious. “Unless you calm down, the car next to you that just pulled in, is going to see your erection and the two boxes of condoms we just bought.”
“Fuck me,” I say as I look down at my pants. Slacks do nothing to hide what you’re packing.
“Oh, I plan to, if you ever get us home.” Peyton winks.
I shake my head slightly. “Get in the car, Peyton.” She does, and I shut the door. With courage and muster, I walk around the back, hoping the people in the other car go toward the front. Only, they stop when they see me and my tented pants coming toward them.
“Hey, you’re Noah Westbury,” the young kid says as loudly as possible. “Can I get your autograph?”
Fuck my life.
As much as I want to say no, I don’t. I clear my throat, set the boxes of condoms on the roof of my Escalade that I should’ve given to Peyton, and think about the last time I got hit in a game where I thought I’d lose my manhood. It’s not quite the deflation I need, but it helps. I sign a piece of paper, a T-shirt, and pose for an ungodly number of photos before heading to my car.
“Don’t forget your prophylactics,” the father says as they walk toward the store.
“Dad, what’s a propowatic?”
I stand there, shaking my head. Could this day get any worse?
Actually, it could.
I grab the boxes and slip in behind the steering wheel and start the car. Peyton’s laughing and has clearly been living it up while I’ve been in misery for the last handful of minutes. She reaches across the console and palms my flaccid dick, which jumps to attention. I swear it’s saying, “Hey, yeah, I know this hand.”
“Rude,” I mutter as I shift into reverse, pull out and then into drive. “You left me hanging.”
“There was no way I was getting out of the car. Besides, they want to see you, not me.”
While she’s not wrong, I enjoy having her with me for these random fan encounters. Everyone who meets her loves her.
“I don’t care,” I tell her. “I want you next to me, always.”
Her fingers brush through my hair on the drive home. It’s strange how her touch can calm me most days. A mile out, I turn on the radio. It’s a sports talk channel, which I usually avoid when she’s in the car. I’m man enough to admit my wife knows more about sports than I do, and during the off season I take full advantage of her knowledge during trivia night.
“The free agency market is bananas right now,” the commentator says. Peyton reaches to turn the radio off, but I tell her to leave it.
“I want to hear what they have to say.”
“Teams are going to spend some money tying down those who haven’t signed.”
“You know who’s out there that hasn’t signed?”
“Noah Westbury.”
My hands grip the steering wheel, a bit too tightly causing pain to radiate up my arm. My foot slips from the gas with a noticeable thud. I don’t want to be a topic of conversation. No athlete ever does.