The third-floor apartment was an oven, but Greg Conroy didn’t care.
He had a freshman co-ed pinned to the mattress, her ankles hooked over his shoulders, her small fists twisting in the bedsheets. She was eighteen, pretty, and completely out of her depth. Greg didn’t let her catch her breath. He drove into her with hard, rhythmic thrusts, watching her breasts bounce and her mouth fall open/ The soft “oh oh oh” from her lips was nearly drowned out by the animal grunts of the quarterback..
Greg was twenty, broad-shouldered, and packed six-foot-two of golden-skinned muscle. He had the swagger to match, and he wasn’t afraid to use it when it came to cute sorority girls..
“Greg—oh God, Greg…” she sobbed. Her hips bucked up to meet his thrusts, her inner walls clamped tight around his shaft. She might be a freshman, but she had a graduate degree in fucking.
He didn’t slow down. He gripped her waist, digging his thumbs into her hips to hold her still while pounding her wet, swollen cunt. She cried out when a hard orgasm wracked her petite body. Greg followed her over edge.With a low growl, he buried his cock to the hilt and held her down as he pumped a boiling load deep inside her.
The girl gasped when Greg pulled out a wet snap. He’d have to send the sheets to the laundry. She was the third member of the Greg Conroy Fan Club to leave a wet mess on his bed this week.
He didn’t offer a kiss, but did toss her a towel he’d dropped on the floor after they’d showered.
“You’re unbelievable,” she whispered. She had big tits heaving with exertion on that small frame, and Greg was about to latch on to a nipple for round two when the phone rattled..
He snatched the receiver. “Conroy.”
“Greg?”
The voice was cool velvet, heavy with low, purring authority. “It’s Grace Chatham. Coach’s wife.”
Greg sat up, the arrogance sharpening instantly, with a hint of urgency. Why was the coach’s wife calling a player?
“Hello, Mrs. Chatham. Evening,” he said, low and deep.
Grace chuckled to herself at the effort to sound more manly..
“Bud’s hosting an informal get-together at the house tonight,” Grace said, her tone smooth and easy. “Just the new transfers. He said ‘a little extra dive into the playbook.’”
She whispered conspiratorily, as if Bud was in the room with her and not nose-deep in something or other at his office.
“It’s really just his silly way of welcoming you without saying so,” she confided. “Big ol’ teddy bear.”
Greg was caught off guard. Who the fuck would call Bud Chatman a teddy bear?
“Coach didn’t mention it at practice, but—”
“You know Bud,” she cut in, a soft, smoky chuckle vibrating through the receiver. “He gets so wrapped up in film he forgets his own address. Just come around to the back patio. The front door’s sticking.”
“I’ll be there, Mrs. Chatham.”
“Good boy,” she purred, then like it was an afterthought. “Oh, and bring a swimsuit if you have one. We want you new boys to feel like family.”
Greg hung up, a slow, cocky smirk spreading across his face. The freshman was pulling on her panties. He wouldn’t mind one more round, but he figured being late to a cookout with the coach wasn’t a smooth move.
There was no cookout – but something smoking hot was waiting for him anyway.
Chapter 3
The Grace Chatman Inner Sanctum would have made a Norwegian shiver, but the high priestess stood naked in front of the full-length mirror just the same.
She liked what she saw. No need to be coy.
She took her time, running a freshly manicured hand over the soft curve of her waist, down over the swell of her hips. She hadn’t let Bud into this room in five years. He had his own little cave across the hall, full of discarded Polaroids snapped from The Tower, notebook pages scattered all over. She put in an appearance twice a month for regular service to keep him at baby. Now that the season had started, she wouldn’t have to bother even that infrequently.
A cruel little smile touched her lips while she pictured him two miles away, eyes glued to a projector screen, taking notes on sweep plays.She’d run a few drills with the safety on the old sofa Bud slept on most nights during the season. She’d cleaned the kid off with one of Bud’s fresh t-shirts and dropped it on the desk.
She gazed in the master bath, the deep porcelain tub and the marble vanity top where she’d have Number 12 soon enough, broad hands gripping her hips, pounding her pussy while they stared at each other in the mirror. The thought brought a sudden, slick heat between her thighs.
Patience, she told herself. Let the brew steep a bit before the tea party.
She reached into her closet and pulled out the black one-piece that showed off as much as a bikini ever could. Straps in a deep V that barely covered those 44DDs, cut high up on the hip. Pulled up tight to expose those creamy buns.
She poured herself into it and grabbed her signature cat-eye shades.Picked up a her ice-cold G&T and walked out to the back patio to await her prey.
Five minutes later, the gravel crunching on the side path told her he’d taken the bait.
The snare was set.
Chapter 4
The wooden latch clicked, and the back gate swung open.
Grace gasped, clutching a hand to her throat, her head snapping toward the sound. “Who’s there?” she asked, her voice carrying just the right edge of worried surprise.
Greg Conroy froze mid-stride. His mouth fell open as his eyes locked on to the woman in the chaise lounge. The coach’s wife sat there in something that was fighting a losing battle trying to contain a mouthwatering set of tits. Long, smooth legs glistening with suntan oil. Lips so red she might have just ripped out a man’s jugular with her bare teeth.
Greg wouldn’t mind being that man.
When he tore his eyes away from the sexpot, he noticed she was all alone. No grill. No teammates. No Coach Chatham, unless he was about to burst through the sliding glass door to throttle the kid ogling his wife.
Inside, Grace purred with satisfaction. The cocky kid who ran the field like he owned it and just leased it back to the college looked like a deer in the path of a Mack truck..
“Mrs. Chatham?” he stammered, shifting his weight. “It’s… I’m Greg.”
Grace tilted her cat-eye shades down the bridge of her nose, her dark eyes appraising him from head to toe.
“Greg?” she asked, smooth and slow, as if she’d never heard the name and couldn’t possibly place the face. She gave it a beat and then, “Oh, the new boy from Collier. The quarterback. ‘Gunslinger Greg’. You’re that boy?”
“Um, yeah. Am I early?” Greg asked, confidence shot.
“Early for what, sweetie?”
“The team get-together,” Greg said, confused. He took a small step toward the pool deck. “You said tonight.”
“Oh, sweetie… did I tell you tonight?” Grace let out a soft, dismayed gasp, bringing two manicured fingers to her mouth. She sounded as innocent as a woman draped in four inches of black string could possibly sound. “Oh, darn it all. I don’t know where my head is these days.”
She took her time sliding her sunglasses off completely. Then, with deliberate, glacial slowness, Grace dropped her gaze straight down to his waistline, lingering on the heavy bulge straining against the denim of his jeans. She had to stop herself from licking her lips before tracing her way back up to his eyes.
“I am so terribly sorry, darling,” she purred.
She laid the endearments on thick, heavy as maple syrup. She knew the way a stray “sweetie” or a “darling” there could brew that toxic, irresistible potion of motherly love and raw, predatory lust that turned these cocky little studs into helpless little boys.
“Well, look at you,” Grace continued, her voice dropping into a low, smoky vibration as she gestured toward his rolled-up towel. “You came all this way in this awful heat because I’m a ditze, and you even brought your little suit. I couldn’t possibly send you back to an awful dorm without offering you a swim and a drink, could I?”
Greg swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I don’t want to intrude—”
“Nonsense,” she cut in, taking a slow sip of her gin and tonic, ice clinking against the glass. “You go get changed and jump right in to cool off, darling. I hardly ever get to meet any of the players, and Bud won’t be home until after midnight if at all. Let’s get to know each other, hmm?”
Greg didn’t need to be told twice. He nearly tripped bolting for the pool house to change.Grace giggled.
“Slow down, sweetie, we have all the time in the world,” she cooed. “It’s just us.”
If Lycra had been blitzkrieged trying to hold Grace’s tits, polyester was being routed by Greg’s raging hard-on. That voice. The sexy way she sipped whatever was in that glass. The way he swore she’d eyed him and down like she wanted to eat him alive. Blood had invaded all points south on the QB, and he couldn’t stuff the sausage back into the casing.
Panicked, he emerged from the pool house, took three long strides and dove headfirst into the cool, blue water, hoping the chill would work its magic on his straining cock.
He broke the surface with a splash, slicked his blond hair back, and immediately retreated to the far wall of the pool, resting his forearms on the concrete edge.
Grace didn’t miss a beat. A soft, knowing laugh bubbled out of her throat.
“My, my,” she cooed, swinging her legs over the deep end. “Look at you, diving right in like a big, brave fish. Silly boy, you didn’t even test the water.”
She sat back on her hands, dangling her red-toed feet into the pool, sending small ripples toward him. The August sun hit her skin, turning the sheen of sweat on her chest and shoulders into a glistening coat of oil. Greg’s eyes were pinned to her. He watched as she lifted her drink, taking a long, slow sip through the straw.
A single, stray drop of condensation slid off the rim of the glass, caught the sunlight, and trickled down her neck. It tracked slow as molasses over her collarbone, dipping directly into the deep, exposed valley between those heavy 44DDs.
Greg swallowed so hard his throat clicked.
Grace lowered the glass, resting her left hand lightly on her own oil-slicked thigh. The gold of her wedding band caught the glare, sparkling brilliantly as her red-tipped fingers made lazy, feather-light circles over her skin.
“You’re so far away over there, sweetie,” she purred, her voice dripping with soft, maternal affection that still felt dirty as hell in the quiet heat. “Come on over here. Don’t be shy.”
“I’m fine right here, Mrs. Chatham,” Greg croaked, his grip tightening on the concrete wall. “Water feels great.”
“Oh, nonsense, honey,” Grace said, rolling her shoulders back, pushing her chest out just a fraction more as she gestured toward the ledge beneath her feet. “Swim on over so I can get a good look at that golden arm Bud’s been raving about.”
The sound of his coach’s name hit Greg like a bucket of ice water. Bud. His head coach. The man holding his scholarship, his starting spot, his entire future.
The kid flinched, his jaw tightening as the guilt and the sheer, agonizing arousal warred behind his eyes. He hesitated, but Grace just smiled, warm but dangerous, and patted the concrete next to her dangling feet. Greg shuddered, imagining running his tongue up her legs.
Reluctantly, he kicked off the wall, gliding through the water until he was floating directly beneath her, staring up at the glistening, sun-baked siren.
“Now, is that cooling you down, sugar?” Grace asked, with every intention of turning up the heat.
Greg opened his mouth to answer, but Grace didn’t give him the floor. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, bringing those massive breasts right down toward his level.
“Tell me all about yourself, Greggy,” she cooed, her words coming in a fast, melodic stream. “Not the football stuff, honey. I hear enough about tight ends and hitting the hole and getting the QB in the sack to last three lifetimes.”
She watched his eyes bug at her “mistake” and nearly burst out laughing.
“Tell me about your family. You’re from back east, right? Oh, I bet your mother just cried her eyes out when her handsome little boy packed up his bags to come out here. You have a girlfriend back home? Some sweet little high school cutie waiting by the mailbox?”
Greg blinked, his mind churning, trying to grab hold of a single train of thought. “Well, my mom—”
“Because you have to watch out around here, darling,” Grace cut in smoothly, a smoky little chuckle breaking her cadence. “Those little hussies on campus? You’re so scrumptious, they will just eat you alive. A handsome boy like you? Big, strong, quarterback? They’ll tear you to pieces before homecoming, sweetie.”
She didn’t wait for him to catch up. She took a pull from her straw, only to hit air. A sharp, disappointed pfft echoed through the glass.
Grace tilted the glass, looking at the melted ice with a dramatic, delicate pucker of her bright red lips.
“Oh, darn,” she sighed, gazing down at Greg floating between her feet. “Look at that. Empty.”
She set the glass down on the concrete and looked back at him, her dark eyes gleaming through her shades. She flicked a manicured hand toward the small, stainless-steel cabana fridge resting beneath the shaded patio bar.
“Be a doll and fetch Mrs. Chatham a fresh one, would you, Greggy?” she purred. “There’s a whole pitcher of gin and tonic right inside the door.Get one for yourself, too, darling.”
She brought a long, slender finger to her pouty lips, pressing it light against her red gloss, her eyes widening in a conspiratorial, dirty little secret.
“We won’t tell Coach, will we?”
Greg stared up at her, the sweat on his forehead mixing with the pool water. His brain was practically short-circuiting between the dizzying volley of her questions, the sight of her heaving chest, and the way she just causally mentioned keeping secrets from her husband in the man’s own backyard.
“I… I guess not,” Greg mumbled, pushing off the wall.
He climbed up the metal pool ladder, water streaming down his broad, golden shoulders and glistening chest. As he turned toward the patio fridge, he was painfully aware of her eyes tracking the slick line of his back—and the bulge in his trunks that still hadn’t fully gone away.
It was Grace’s turn to feast.
Greg couldn’t see the feral, hungry look behind those dark cat-eye shades, but the hot wife drank in every single inch of his broad-shouldered, wet body. His abs were hard, his waist tapered, and the heavy imprint straining against his dark trunks told her everything she needed to know.
If she didn’t watch herself, she’d bed the boy tonight, right here on the concrete, and that just wouldn’t do.
Every season was a delicate science. She had to teach these thick-headed players the true thrill of the hunt, the delicious agony of anticipation, the absolute truth that something as explosive as her was worth waiting for. If she gave it up on day one, he’d be just another dumb jock checking off a box.
Greg, though… mmmm, this one had her engine running white-hot already.
She stared openly as he walked back across the flagstone patio, a highball glass held in each large, calloused hand. Water droplets glistened on his thighs, catching the twilight sun.
“Good boy,” she purred as he stopped beside her chair. “I can see your mommy taught you it’s not polite to let a lady drink alone.”
She reached up for the glass, making sure the tips of her long, red-lacquered fingers grazed his knuckles, slow and deliberate. She almost giggled when she caught the sudden, violent jerk beneath the damp fabric of his trunks at the tiny touch. The boy was on a hair-trigger.
“And what Coach doesn’t know won’t hurt him, will it?” Grace lowered her voice to a low, intimate murmur, tilting her head up at him. “I could tell you the most delicious secrets, Greggy.”
She paused, wrapping her lips around the straw to pull a long, slow sip of the cold gin.
“But I better not…yet,” she said and lowered her glasses enough to wink at him.
Greg stood over her, completely out of his depth. His throat was parched. His brain was fried. His dick was so hard it hurt.
He had no idea what she expected him to say, so he just raised his own glass and gulped.
The gin was cold going down and warm in his belly. He barely even drank beer once two-a-days started, and he knew his coach would kill him for touching liquor. Much less his own liquor beside his own pool with his own wife who looked like she wanted to mount him like a prized stud.
Grace set her glass down on the concrete edge. “My goodness,” she sighed, fanning her collarbone with a manicured hand. “It is just positively sticky out here.”
Before Greg could process what was happening, Grace stood up. The black one-piece stretched taut over her high-set hips, the deep V plunging past her sternum. She didn’t use the ladder. She just slid gracefully off the edge, entering the water with barely a ripple.
She surfaced inches away from him.
The chill of the pool hit her skin, making her nipples harden into sharp peaks. Greg’s breath caught in his throat. He backed up until his shoulder blades hit the concrete wall, but Grace floated right into his space, her slick, oil-glistening shoulders almost touching his chest. Up close, she smelled like coconut and honey..
She tilted her head, her wet hair slicked back, her cat-eye shades still firmly in place.
“Greg,” she purred, her voice dropping into a low, intimate whisper that felt like a hand sliding down his spine. “You won’t tell Coach I messed up the date, will you? He thinks I’m such a ditz sometimes.”
She leaned in just a fraction closer, the water between them rippling against his stomach.
“This will just be our little secret?”
Greg couldn’t speak. His throat was bone-dry despite the cold gin and the pool water. His brain was overloaded by her closeness, the heat coming off her wet skin despite the pool water, and the thrill of keeping secrets with this goddess.
He just nodded, rigid as a board.
Grace let out a soft, satisfied little laugh. She reached out, her hand dripping, and slowly, deliberately ran a single, red-tipped finger down the heavy swell of his right bicep, tracing the hard muscle all the way down to his forearm.
“Good boy,” she whispered, her finger lingering on his skin just long enough to leave him burning. “I can’t wait to see Gunslinger Greg in action.”
She turned with an effortless glide, swimming toward the shallow steps. She pulled herself out of the water, the black suit clinging shamelessly to every curve, and picked up her towel.
“I’m sorry I have to run now, baby,” she purred, wiping a drop of pool water from her collarbone. “Let yourself out, and don’t be a stranger. Oh, wait…”
She paused, tapping a manicured finger against her chin as if the thought had just struck her out of thin air.
Grace sauntered into the house, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the tile. She retrieved a small, perfumed card from a gold case on the side table. It bore a single word—Grace—and a handwritten phone number.
She took her time strolling back out onto the patio, letting Greg, still plastered against the wall, have one long, last look at the feast she would be laying out for him soon enough.
“You’re so far from home, darling, I worry about you. So you call me if you need anything at all, sugar,” she implored softly, placing the card face-up on the patio table next to his empty glass.
She turned back toward the sliding glass door, then paused, looking over her bare shoulder one last time.
“That’s my secret number,” she whispered with a slow, wicked smile. “The only line is in my bedroom.”
Through the dark reflection of the glass patio door, Grace could see Greg’s shocked, utterly confused face staring back at her. He didn’t move an inch.
Grace closed the door behind her, locking out the August heat, and headed straight upstairs to let her red-tipped fingers do the walking.
