Carla glanced down at her ticket. Her stomach fluttered as she looked at the black and gold graphics, the fleur-de-lis: her first Saints game. How fortunate to be in New Orleans and to be able to splurge on Ticket Exchange! With a content sigh, she climbed the last few stairs to her row.
“Excuse me,” Carla said as she scooted past the people already sitting. Everyone seemed nice, standing for her to pass and offering her wide smiles. She arrived at her seat and glanced at the occupant next to her. As she did, their gazes locked.
“So you’re my angel,” the man said. He stood and offered his hand to her; she took it tentatively. His easy grin and blue eyes drew her in; he reminded her Paul Newman. A very yummy, very ripped Paul Newman. Carla noticed the ropy muscles in his forearms as he shook her hand.
"I’m Carla,” she said.
“Lance,” he said. “Sit down.” He waved at the seat, and Carla sat. “I usually end up with some out-of-towner sitting next to me. Are you cheering for the other team?”
Carla shook her head and explained. She’d come down from Jackson, Mississippi, but she’d just become a Saints fan after years of not caring about football.
“A New Dat,” Lance told her. Carla laughed. Fans of the Saints called themselves “The Who Dat Nation” and new members became “New Dats.”
Carla learned that Lance had held season tickets for ten years. For the first four, his wife had come with him. She got sick, and he tried to sell them and save money by not renewing, but she’d made him promise, from her deathbed, that he would always get these same two seats; they made him happy.
For two seasons, he’d left that seat empty. When the pain subsided, he started selling the ticket, getting used to someone sitting there. He figured once he’d done that, maybe he could move on and find someone to be next to in life too.
The game began, and the roar of the crowd was like a jet engine, if not worse. They couldn’t talk, and at halftime, Lance went for food and drinks.
At the end of the game -- a solid trouncing by the Saints -- Carla turned to Lance, surprising even herself. “Would you like to get dinner with me? My hotel’s only a few blocks away.”
He agreed. While they ate, they talked, and Carla felt that rising in her stomach that that happened when she clicked on multiple levels with someone. It happened rarely.
After, he followed her to her room. She stripped of his Jeremy Shockey jersey and dropped it on the floor, then undid the fly of his jeans and pushed them down his lean hips. He’d told her he worked as a brick layer, and the taut muscles on his body certainly supported this.
She stepped back and stripped off her own Saints T-shirt and pants, hoping Lance liked what he saw as much as she had. She took care of herself, and she watched in delight as his gaze slid down her body and a look of appreciation crossed his face.
Together, they tumbled into the bed, pushing the bedspread to the floor, tossing about pillows. Carla found herself pinned beneath Lance’s naked form. She felt his rigid cock pressed against her thigh. His lips descended to meet hers. Her entire body flushed with heat as they kissed, his tongue slipping past her lips to tag against her own. She opened for him and felt herself flood with moisture for him. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this way about a man. She pushed him away only a moment, to search his face and reassure herself. She felt no doubt or apprehension.
Lance said, “I haven’t been with a woman since my wife died.”
Carla didn’t want to stop to ponder the why or how of this meeting. Some were already calling this Saints’ season destiny; maybe this was destiny too. She pulled him back down and kissed him hard, pressing her tender breasts up toward him, wanting to feel every part of him against her.
His lips traveled down her neck to her breasts. He sucked and lapped at one peak, then the other. “I want inside you,” he told her, and Carla wanted nothing more, the consequences be damned.
He spread her legs with his knees, pulled her hips up with strong fingers on her ass, and drove into her. Carla gasped at the feeling. He filled her completely. She wanted it again and again. His cock fit her so perfectly that she couldn’t believe it had taken this long to find it.
She watched his face as he slid in and out of her. The pace had her on edge in no time. Ragged pants came through his gritted teeth. Carla could tell he was close. She lifted her fingers to her breasts and pinched her nipples. Ecstasy shot through her, and she came, her head arching back on the pillow.
Lance cried out his own release, tensing against her, gripping her ass tightly as he held her there.
Afterward, they ordered crawfish etouffee and hot fudge sundaes from room service and lay tangled together on the huge bed, watching ESPN.
The next morning, at the hotel room door, they kissed. “Are you sure you can’t stay longer?” Lance asked. “I’d love to spend the day with you.”
Carla shook her head. “I have an afternoon meeting in Jackson, but will you do me a favor?”
Lance flashed her a huge smile, and Carla felt her heart melt. “Anything.”
“Save that next home-game ticket for me?”
“Baby -- from what I’m feeling right now -- every ticket is yours for as long as you want it.”
Carla leaned forward and kissed him again. “I’ll see you in two weeks then.”
Lance headed down the hall to the elevator, and Carla closed the door. As she entered the shower, she realized she’d be putting a lot of miles on her car this football season. Geaux Saints!
About the Author: G.G. Royale has written erotica for over ten years. Recently, she earned her MFA in creative writing. Her work appears on Web pages and in anthologies, and her first novella, The Lovely Kittengirls of Mew Orleans, released with Loose Id February 16, 2010. Two more books have been contracted.