Or celebrity chefs.
Or retired military men who work for Haworth Enterprises, the company that supplies us with our personal bodyguards.
His perfect match is always taken and mine never seems to be real.
Even now.
Justus “J.T” Reese feels like a dream come true.
Too bad fake relationships usually turn into a nightmare.
“Didn’t think I’d get to see those cheerleader skills in action,” my coach warmly teases during his casual retrieving of my ball, “but I gotta admit. I’m impressed.” Once he’s headed back towards me with the object in his grasp, he adds, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one get that much air.”
“We typically don’t.” Disdain darts across tongue over the amendment I have to make. “Didn’t.” I give my hair a ruffle to help distract myself from the lingering resentment regarding being retired. “Half-time or sideline performances rarely ever offer the dancers – some of who are highly trainedin acrobatics and gymnastics – the opportunity to demonstrate their extensive skills.” His arrival in front of me barely precedes my admission. “It’s more about properly timed ass pops and hair flips.”
“You wish it weren’t.”
My lips press firmly together instead of leaking out the answer.
“You wanna make it so it’s not.”
“I wanna make it so that it’sboth.”
The confession causes him to lift his brows in curiousity.
“You can have beautiful women shaking their ass and playing with their hairanddoing kick double full twists.”
“I like how that sounds.”
“I like how it looks.”
“I would like to see how it looks,” J.T. gives my loose tank top an encouraging tug, “withyouchoreographing it.”
Disbelief and adoration wrestle for the right to respond ultimately agreeing to a somewhat lecherous, twisted middle ground. “And I would like to see how you look with your cock in my mouth.”
Being completely caught off guard renders him speechless.
“I’ve never given a guy a blowie during a round of mini golf,” is quietly announced in our agreed upon “getting to know” fashion.
One long, slow slick is delivered to his lips, likely to buy him time to collect his composure. “What about a round of regular golf?”
I lean in closer at the same time I salaciously state, “Not that either.”
Gravelly groans are poorly stifled.
Angling my face towards the other members of our group, I slyly suggest, “Why don’t you two play on?” He anxiously grips the fabric in his grasp tighter. “We’ll catch up.”
Jer makes no effort to argue, inspiring Bryn to wordlessly follow his lead.
The two of them thoughtlessly continue onward with our security guards in close range, yet the two of us consciously trek backward to search for the privacy needed.
We maneuver around a couple of other small groups on the course.
Two security guards.
A cocktail waitress.
Eventually, we cross paths with a janitor who – for two Frankies – grants us access to the keycard needed, employees only stockroom where our mouths frantically mesh together in a mess of tongues and teeth and moans before the door even shuts.
