My grand home was eerily still and echoing, my least favorite way for it to be. Wandering around the vacuous hallway and the elegant rooms made me feel like I was in a movie, watching someone else’s life. The laughter, the love went with Ted when he left for work leaving just empty space and extravagant possessions.
When he was gone I sometimes had a sensation of spinning, of reaching out for something to hang on to and finding nothing. I hated it, this flailing, soul-aching need to be with him that had been with me since I’d met him. I’d fallen for his cheeky charm which layered over a sure sense of self with all the grace of a rock hitting the base of a puddle. His combination of humor and confidence had been irresistible—add in a body honed to athletic perfection and eyes so dark I could lose myself in their depths, and I was smitten.
But traveling with his job was unavoidable. Ted ‘The Hands’ Hatton was England’s star goalkeeper and tonight the football team were playing a friendly against Spain. They needed him in Wembley more than I needed him at home. His big, strong, safe hands were being counted on by the nation. He had to save those goals, live up to his nickname and be, quite literally, on the ball.
After brushing my teeth I turned back the sheets on our four-poster bed and slipped between the cool cotton, naked. The plasma TV hanging on the wall was on low volume. I’d watched the match earlier and enjoyed seeing my hot hubby stop three goals much to the delight of the crowd. He’d taken a skid across the mud and missed cracking his head on the post by a mere hair’s-breadth, which had me wincing. But the camera zoomed in on his face moments later and had shown him upright and smiling, the ball cradled into his chest just the way I liked to be.
The commentators on TV were now chatting about England’s next match and I flicked the light off, wondering if Ted would get another mention.
I must have dozed because when my mobile phone trilled to life I started, disorientated for a moment, then fumbled and reached it from the bedside cabinet.
“Ted.” My heart rate picked up. Just hearing his voice had physical effects on me.
“You watch the game?” he asked.
I dropped back onto the pillows, lodged the phone at my ear. “Yeah, great result, well done.”
“They put us through our paces.” He hesitated. “Did I wake you?”
I glanced at the clock. “Yes, but it is one in the morning.” I sighed. “I must have nodded off watching TV. It’s just some dull black and white movie on now.”
He gave a small chuckle. “You sound all lazy and floppy, like when I’ve made love to you for an entire afternoon and you can’t keep your eyes open.”
Running my hand over my breast, I remembered Ted reducing me to that floppy state the week previously. I’d been shopping, had bought new vampish lingerie, and when I’d come home he’d insisted I model it. That had been the end of achieving anything else that day, though I wasn’t complaining. “Mmm,” I said, scooping the lower portion of my breast into my palm. “I like feeling like that.”
“I like feeling you like that.”
His voice was an octave lower and I wondered if he was picturing the same scenario as me. It had been so hot, bent over the back of the sofa, him ramming into me from behind, the doors to the pool and patio flung open, sunlight pouring in. Somehow the fact we were doing every-room-in-the-house sex in the middle of the day made each touch and cry of delight more erotic, more sensual, more carnal.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Er, just, you know, in my hotel room.”
I paused. “Is that the air conditioning I can hear?” There was a low rumble in the background.
“What, oh, yeah, probably. Tell me what you’re wearing, baby?”
“You know I sleep naked.” I tweaked my nipple, wishing it was his firm fingers creating the delicious spikes of pleasure.
“Like I said, perfect.” There was a smile in his voice. “Were you dreaming of me?”
“I only dream of you.”
“Was it hot?”
“I’m sure it was.” I was getting hot now, my body tingling and moisture building between my legs. “I wish you were here.”
“What would you do?” I swallowed and skimmed my hand over my flat belly, ruffled through my strip of pubic hair.
“I’d make you fly high. Have you crying out my name until your throat was hoarse.”
“Ted,” I whispered, parting my legs. “Tell me exactly what you would do.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Are you touching yourself?”
“Yes.” I slipped my fingers through the first folds of my slit, let damp heat wrap around my digits.
“Ah, fuck,” he said, his voice a little tighter.
“So tell me, describe what you would do?”
I heard him swallow, a small gulping sound. “I’d start with your mouth, kiss you, stroke my tongue against yours.”
Squirming, I closed my eyes and pictured his handsome face over mine. Ted was an Olympic-standard kisser. He could almost bring me to orgasm by just kissing my mouth, my neck, my breasts. There was something so sensual, so strong yet teasing about the way he adored me with his lips and tongue.
“Mmm, then what?” I asked, parting my thighs and spreading moisture from my entrance up and over my clit.
“Then I’d head lower, kiss your neck until you wriggled and whimpered. Worship your perfect tits until they were swollen with need and your nipples so hard they ached.”
They were aching now, just from me hearing him talk that way. I sucked in a breath, arched my back and enjoyed the thud of my heart beating loud and hard with arousal. “And once you had me writhing with lust beneath you, then what?”
“I’d push your legs apart, settle between them so the soft skin of your inner thighs pressed against my shoulders, and I’d lick you.”
Another flood of warmth filled my pussy. Damn, just the memory of his tongue on my clit could have me climbing toward an orgasm.
“Are you touching your pussy?” he asked.
“Yes, yes…what was that?” I’d heard a strange wailing noise on his end of the line.
“A siren, a police car or something.”
“Oh.” I pictured him on his hotel room bed, his cock hard as he spoke dirty words to me, the London traffic ceaseless on the streets below.
“Are you?” he asked again. “Touching yourself?”
“Yes, but I’m pretending it’s you. Fingering me, fretting my clit.” I gasped. My clit was distended and needy, a pressure building within. “Oh, Ted, I wish you were here.”
“Get yourself ready to come, baby, so I can listen to you build up. It’s turning me on so much, making my cock throb with the need to feel you squeezing it.”
I sped up the rotations on my clit, the pressure just right. I let my breaths come wild and ragged against the phone, knowing Ted would love hearing them. “Oh, oh, yes,” I gasped. “Oh, Ted, I’m thinking of you, here. Your big cock shoving into me, the weight of your body blasting over me, fucking me, filling me, oh…”
“God, you look so sexy,” he said.
“I’m going to, oh…” I paused. Somewhere in the threads of sense in my mind I realized there’d been something different about Ted’s last words. They’d echoed into my right ear from the phone, but my left ear had also registered his voice.
Flicking open my eyes to the dim light of the room, I saw a shadow standing by my bed.
I stopped masturbating and scooted upright, a squeal catching in my chest.
“Shh, baby, its me.”
I must be dreaming.
“Yeah.” He took my mobile from the pillow. Clicked it off and set it on the bedside table. “Now let’s both come together.”
The sheets flicked back, the mattress dipped, then Ted dropped over me. His body heat seared against my skin, and the smell of the outdoors mixed with his fresh lemony cologne filled my nostrils.
“You’re here,” I gasped, slotting my fingers into his hair.
“Yeah, sod staying in a hotel when you’re only two hours away. I just packed up and left the guys to celebrate alone.”
“I can’t believe it,” I said, wrapping my legs around the backs of his thighs and tilting my pelvis so the tip of his cock nudged my entrance. “You did that for me?”
“Baby.” He brushed my hair from my sweat-damp forehead. “I would do anything for you. Making you happy has become my ultimate goal in life.”
About the Author: Lily Harlem is an award winning, multi-published author of erotic romance. She lives in the UK and since giving up a career in nursing has been widely published on both sides of the Atlantic. She particularly enjoys writing sports themed romance and has four books currently published in her HOT ICE series, all about those bad boys of the ice, and her latest novel, Scored, follows the England football captain on his road to victory in and out of the bedroom.