Soon Becca was moaning in rhythm with our thrusting, her motions growing erratic and frantic, and then she collapsed onto me with all of her weight and gasped a breathless shriek into my shoulder as she shuddered and came apart. She thrust madly against me then, pushing up to sit straight, lifting up with her thigh muscles, and sinking down with violent desperation. She held her hair back with her hands, head tilted to the ceiling, balancing effortlessly, riding me hard, her full br**sts jiggling with every motion. I cupped them in my hands, leaned forward to suckle a nipple into my mouth, eliciting a whimper from her, and then I fell back as my own climax washed over me. I gripped the curve of her hips in my hands and crushed her down onto me, watching her face contort with her second orgasm, watching her br**sts bounce so perfectly, and then I came and came into her, calling her name in a low growl. I sat up as my climax rocked through me, pulling Becca’s legs around my waist, cradling the back of her head in a tender kiss, her hand on my neck near my shoulder, the sheet draped around us, our hips moving in perfect synchronicity, our hearts beating together.
We sat like that, breathless as our climax receded, bodies entwined and meshed and merged, eyes locked and searching, exuding love in silent exchange.
“Marry me,” I whispered.
Becca froze, staring into my eyes, and then a delirious smile spread across her face. “Yes. Yes! Oh, Jason, yes.”
“I know I’m supposed to have a ring and ask you on my knees, but—”
“No, this is perfect. That wouldn’t have been you.” She pulled my mouth against hers in a fierce kiss, then drew away just enough to speak, her lips whispering against mine. “I love this proposal. It’s perfect. It’s us.”
She tightened the grip of her legs around me, moving slightly as if to test my readiness for round two. I was still buried inside her, and the slick warmth of her body around mine was an intoxicating drug in my system, her scent in my nose an aphrodisiac, her lips on mine and her hands skating over my arms and back and chest sending blood thrumming through me, and then I was ready once more, hardening and lengthening inside her, needing her all over again.
I lifted up onto my knees, Becca’s weight held in my arms, then crashed forward on top of her, fitting my hips into the “V” of her thighs. She never unlocked her legs from around me and refused to loosen her hold on my neck, gripping me close and rocking against me, our thrusting bodies grinding together in a wild and reckless pace, each taking what we wanted and giving everything we had, crying out and grunting and sighing and moaning and whispering each other’s names. She came first, as she always did. I followed soon after, and then we wrapped each other up in a serpentine tangle of limbs and fell into sleep together.
* * *
Jason
September, one year later
I danced along the sideline at a full sprint, the toes of my cleats digging into the turf at the very edge of the white line, arms outstretched, eyes locked behind and above me on the brown and white bullet rifling toward me in a perfect spiral. I felt the defenders in front of and behind me, jostling me, shoving and pulling at me, but I ignored them, bulled my way through them. The ball was a laser, shot from Drew’s hand straight where I’d be in about….three seconds. Ten more steps. I strained, feeling my balance wobble as I struggled to stay inside the line, between the defenders, and on pace with the incoming ball. My breathing was ragged inside my helmet, and I barely heard the shouts of fans screaming my name. I liked that part, I had to admit.
Then I heard her, above them all. “Go, go, go! Get it!”
Such a sweet voice, shouting loud just for me, a momentary distraction as the ball spun into the waiting cage of my high-stretched fingers. I was airborne, although I didn’t remember actually making the leap. The ball slipped through my fingers, and I felt desperation flare inside me. A single-second distraction caused by just the sound of her voice, but it was enough to possibly cost us the game if I didn’t make the catch. We were down by a single TD, and this could tie the game, giving us a chance to win my first game as an NFL wide receiver. I was still airborne, coming down on one foot, the ball balanced on one palm. My other foot hit, my breath left me in a whoof as gravity took over and tried to crash me through the turf.
I had the ball in both hands now, captured in my gloves.
Wham.
A defender slammed into me from behind, his burly arms around my waist, shoulder in my ribs. I went flying with him, knocked airborne by his brutal tackle. I focused every ounce of strength I possessed into clutching the ball in my hands. Time slowed as I sailed forward, green turf and white lines blurring. I saw an orange cone at the L-intersection of two white lines, and realized I was near the end zone. I extended my body toward the thick boundary line of the end zone, stretching my arms as far as they’d go, willing my momentum to carry me far enough. Time unfroze, and the earth crashed up into me, knocking the breath from me as the defending player landed on top of me. I heard a distant roar, but it could have been the blood in my ears, or the crowd going wild. I struggled for breath, sharp pain shooting though my chest, signaling a bruised or broken rib. The other player, a huge beast of a guy named Nate Johnston, was also a rookie, and I’d played against him in college a few times. Nate rolled off me and scrambled to his feet, then extended his hand toward me, his black skin shining with sweat, teeth showing brilliant white as he grinned at me from inside his helmet.
“That was a f**kin’ spectacular catch, Jay,” he rumbled, jerking me to my feet.
“Thanks,” I gasped.
I leaned forward, still unable to catch my breath. I was bowled forward by my teammates crowding around me, jostling me and slapping me on the back. I realized I’d made the touchdown at that point, and glanced at the sidelines where Becca stood with our son Ben on her hip. I kissed the tips of my index and middle fingers and pointed at them. Becca grinned at me, then lifted Ben higher, taking his little arm in her hand and waving at me.
Benjamin Kyle Dorsey was born on April 19th, and he had his mother’s curly ink-black hair, but my green eyes. He was the center of my world, and the highlight of my every day. Becca and I were married on March 20th, on a sunny but chilly Sunday, and everyone we loved was there, except Kyle and Ben. We’d set a place at the head table for them, left empty with cards bearing their names on the stacks of china plates.
I gave Becca one last glance, then turned to celebrate my first career touchdown with the rest of my team, still struggling to fully catch my breath. I followed the offense players off the field for the extra point, slumping onto a bench, pressing a hand to my side, where each breath seemed to stab through me.