Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(44)

Then he’s backing up toward the door.

“Don’t stay up too late editing. You’re percolating our kid—that requires energy. You need your sleep.”

I smile. “Okay. Bye, Dean.”

“Goodnight, Lainey.”

And then my wild drummer boy, sexy professor, baby daddy slips out the door.





Chapter Ten


Dean





Lainey’s killing me.

As sure as a gorgeous, incurable, stage-four disease.

After I left her house last night, her scent followed me, haunted me. I had to jerk off three times before I could finally lay on my stomach and fall asleep without my hard-on poking me in the gut. It’s a new record—and not one I’m particularly proud of.

It was bad enough when she was just a memory, but now, with her real and close and in-person, I’m going to be a walking, talking pair of blue balls and a serious case of raw dick by the time our kid makes an appearance on the world stage.

Each time I came, it was more intense than the last, and every time was with Lainey’s name poised on my lips—and the picture of her full, perfect tits, that pouty mouth and pretty pussy in my head. Sometimes all three at once. Then there were the images of her eyes, her smile—making her smile yesterday, that was a rush—the scent of her hair and the sound of her voice. It’s all so damn good.

Too good.

Motherfucking addictive.

Being this close to her and not being able to have her—possibly ever—I’m toast. No way I’m making it out alive. And it’s all because Baby Mama is into relationships. Can’t say I’m surprised—though she gives outstanding dirty-girl in bed, out of it, she definitely gives off the good-girl vibe.

It’s not like I haven’t had girlfriends before. I’ve had plenty. I’ve done relationships.

I just suck at them. Screw them up. Every time.

It became a pattern, in high school and into my twenties. The first few days, I was golden—life was good—the bloom was on the rose. But then I’d start to get that itch, start to get bored.

The pussy would start to look pinker on the other side of the street.

And then I’d fuck around. I didn’t set out be a jerkoff, hurting a woman’s feelings was never the goal. The drama, tears, and headaches that always followed weren’t fun either. Which is why when I was older, wiser and more mature, I swore off relationships all together. I went legit—became a straight shooter. I discovered being direct with a woman, putting my not-interested-in-a-relationship cards on the table was even easier than screwing around and inevitably getting caught.

And now here we are boys and girls.

A hellish situation of my own making where a sex-only, no strings attached arrangement isn’t going to cut it.

Even if Lainey would consider giving a relationship with me a shot, I’m not sure that’s a route we should take. I don’t trust myself not to fall back into old habits—and that’s not an option with Lainey. I won’t risk starting something with her that I’m not certain I can finish. It’s like she said, we’re going to be involved in each other’s lives forever—if I’m going to do the dad-thing right, hers is a heart I can’t afford to break.

And I don’t want to. The thought alone makes my stomach twist painfully in my gut. I’ll punch myself in the nuts before I hurt Lainey.

The rub is—I want her. Badly. More than I’ve ever wanted any woman. I’ve waited for her—gone cold turkey for months, and that’s unheard of for me.

But it’s still too risky. Building a solid foundation with Lainey, for our kid, is bigger than my boner and more important than my sex drive. So, until I get my head on straight or my dick decides he’s willing to play nice with others—it’s going to be me and my hand for the foreseeable future.

Goddamn it.



~



The next day, after school, I give Garrett the heads-up that I’ll be late to football practice. Then I swing by the grocery store to pick up a few things and head to Lainey’s house. Jason lets me in and I find her in the living room—with those long, toned legs peeking out from itty bitty cotton black shorts and a power drill in her hand, standing on a ladder, and Bruce Springsteen singing “I’m Goin’ Down” from a speaker in the corner.

And, dear God—the things I could do to her on that ladder. Wonderful, filthy things that instantly make my heart pound and my cock throb. She’s the perfect height for me to just walk over there and put my mouth between her legs. I picture it, see it in my mind—the way she’d grip my hair and pant my name, arch her back and writhe against my face . . .

But then I catch sight of the small bump of her stomach, and reality smacks me in the head. I think about the baby—and how making Lainey lose her mind three feet off the ground wouldn’t be the safest option. My protective instinct overrides the desire to get freaky on the ladder.

“Hey, Dean.” She sets the drill on the ledge and picks up a beeping light green rectangle, running it along the wall.

“What are you doing up there?” I ask.

“I’m getting ready to record—to show The Lifers the finishing touches in the living room.”

I don’t have a decorative bone in my body, but the room looks good—with light gray walls and navy corduroy covered couches, reclaimed wood tables and a dozen different-sized candles filling the white-washed brick fireplace. It’s clean and simple but warm, the kind of place you’d look forward to coming back to every day.