Chapter 77 Chapter 77 The Dad
Her eyes meet mine, but she says nothing. Yesenia is wearing next to nothing—no bra, a thin white tank, and tight leggings. Matthews hands her letterman’s jacket to her, the same one I have but refuse to wear outside of school. I don’t want anyone knowing I’m still in high school. He turns to me, casual as ever, asking if I want something to drink.
Yesenia heads for the door, but not before leaning in close.
“You lucky bitch. I want details,” she whispers with a grin, then slips out.
The door clicks shut behind her.
I kick off my shoes, shrug out of my sweatshirt, and hang it neatly. Dimitri follows silently, like a shadow glued to my back. No comments, no smirk about Yesenia—nothing. He knows her. He’s watched every practice, every game. In a week, we’re heading to the state final. We’ve been unstoppable this season, and I’ve been pouring everything into it—running harder, pushing further, showing off for myself.
I walk deeper into the house, Dimitri still right behind me. That’s when I notice it—kid stuff everywhere. Bright plastic bowls drying by the sink, a highchair tucked near the table, toys scattered across the floor. Matthews leans against the fridge, sipping water, watching me take it all in.
“Go ahead,” he says. “Ask.”
“How old is your son?”
“Four.”
I pause. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Like I have any right to ask. There’s so much he doesn’t know about me either. I keep secrets too.
“It’s hard dating as a single dad,” he says simply. “My ex doesn’t make it easy.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push.
I can imagine he’s not looking for someone to fawn over him just because he’s a dad—even if the thought of him with a kid could make anyone weak. It’s part of who he is, but it’s not all he is. He’s still just a man.
“It’s fine if you want to leave,” he adds.
“Where’s your bedroom?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer, just turns and walks through an archway, then up the stairs. I follow without another word. Dimitri trails us.
The bedroom is neat—TV mounted above a dresser, two chairs near a small table by a sliding glass door with sheer curtains. The bed is big, navy sheets, plaid comforter.
Dimitri steps inside with us. Matthews frowns.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Dimitri says flatly. “She’s not leaving my sight. I don’t trust you.”
Matthews glances at me. “You okay with this?”
I nod, but Dimitri cuts in again, a dark edge in his voice. “What, you can’t perform with someone watching?”
Matthews just laughs. Dimitri drags one of the armchairs into a shadowy corner, the only light coming from a lamp by the bed.
Grant takes my hand, pulling me toward him as he sits on the edge of the bed. I cup his face and kiss him. His tongue is cool, minty, addictive. His hands grab my ass, and he groans into my mouth.
Everything opens at once—heat, want, need. I help him out of his shirt; mine follows. He unzips my jeans, and I shimmy out of them. He leans back slightly, eyes dragging slowly over my body—just lace bra and panties, the ones I bought in Spain. Worth every penny.
His pants drop next. He’s all muscle, every line defined. My breath catches as I take him in—broad chest, a trail of hair running down the center, disappearing below.
He buries his face between my breasts, reaching around to unhook my bra. The straps slide off my shoulders. His mouth moves over me, kissing, sucking, teasing until my body hums.
My panties follow, and I’m bare in front of him. His hand cups me, then his fingers slide inside, curling just right. I gasp, bucking toward him. I need him.
“You’re so damn wet,” he mutters.
He digs into his pocket—boxers with pockets—and pulls out a condom, freeing himself. My breath stutters.
Fuck me his dick is beautiful. He rips the wrapper with his teeth. “Damn… that’s beautiful,” I whisper.
He laughs softly. “My dick is beautiful?”
I nod, licking my lips before I can stop myself. He’s thick, long, swollen veins running under the surface. His head and balls are slightly darker pink than his shaft. I reach out, wrapping my hand around him, tracing those lines. His skin is so soft.
“Fuck…” he groans.
One hand braces on his shoulder while the other works him, slow at first, then faster. Pre-cum gathers at the tip. I want to taste him, but I hold back.
I take the condom from him, rolling it on slowly, watching his face tighten with every touch.
He lifts me into his lap, shifting us to the center of the bed. One grind, and he’s inside me. Stretching me. Filling me. Our legs overlapped.
“God—yes,” I breathe. “You feel so fucking good.”
His hands roam everywhere—hips, waist, breasts—gripping, squeezing. We find a rhythm, his thrusts meeting my grinding, building something intense, electric. He leans me back slightly, his mouth on my chest again, licking, sucking. My fingers tangle in his black hair, pulling him closer as he picks up speed. The first orgasm hits hard, ripping through me. Then another. Tears sting my eyes, spilling over as wave after wave crashes through me. Everything blurs, everything but him. He slows just enough to kiss my neck, soft and barely there, but it sends me over again. I’ve never felt anything like this—rolling, endless, overwhelming. He groans, body tightening, thrusts growing erratic before he finishes, buried deep. I feel the tension release, even if the condom keeps that final connection away.
Part of me wishes I could feel it fully. Skin to skin.
He wipes my tears gently, brushing them away with his thumb.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
“I know,” he smirks. “My love making has that effect on everyone.”
I slap his chest lightly. “You cocky shit.”
He laughs—and then thrusts again, hard enough to pull another orgasm from me.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, breath rough. “Give me one more.”