Wild Card: Dallas Longhorns

by Tara Wyatt

  “Fuck,” he ground out, rubbing himself through her folds again. A hot tingle ran down his spine and straight to his balls. He wanted to bury himself in her, right to the hilt, but this wasn’t about him right now. She pressed a hand to his shoulder, urging him onto his back. He grinned, watching her. If she wanted to take, to use his body to make her feel good, he was game. Hell, he’d let her tie him up and tar and feather him if that was what she needed right now.

  She climbed on top of him, straddling his hips and rubbing herself against his aching cock. She was so hot, so wet, that he had to grit his teeth and think about baseball for a second. And then, shocking the absolute hell out of him, she lifted her hips up and sunk down onto him in one smooth movement, taking him deep.

  Taking him bare.

  He gripped her hips tightly, stopping her from moving. “No condom,” he panted out, sweat beading along his hairline at the colossal effort it was taking not to plunge headfirst into heaven and fuck her.

  She leaned forward and kissed him. “I’m covered. I just want to feel you. All of you. Only you. Is that okay?”

  He groaned and pumped his hips up into her, his heart swelling and taking up so much room in his chest it was hard to breathe. “It’s so much more than okay, shit.” He guided her hips as she started to ride him and then slipped one hand between her legs, easily finding her swollen clit and working it in firm circles, just the way she liked. Her head fell back, her hands resting on his shoulders, the sound of their bodies coming together filling the room.

  “You are so fucking beautiful, you know that?”

  She clenched around him, her pussy gripping at him and pulling him even deeper with flutters that almost sent him over the edge. She cried out, her eyes closed, her features gorgeously twisted and then fell forward as she came, her face pressed to his neck as she panted his name over and over again, pulsing on his cock.

  “God, Marlowe,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her, pumping his hips up into her once, twice more before his orgasm ripped through him, shooting down his spine and bursting out of him as he filled her. He’d never come inside her before, and the caveman in him liked it. A lot. There was something primal and possessive about it that made him want to do it again, over and over.

  She lay on his chest, her breathing heavy, her skin slick with sweat. “Thank you,” she whispered before climbing off of him and letting him pull her into his arms. He settled her against his chest and stroked her hair.

  “Pretty sure that’s my line.”

  She laughed softly. “I was talking about more than the sex. I mean, yes, thank you for the out of this world orgasm. But also thank you for…just, thank you. Okay?”

  “Okay. You’re welcome.”

  There was so much he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to say, but he let it all go—for now—and let sleep pull him under, falling asleep with his wife tucked against him.

  Marlowe slowly opened her eyes, blinking once, twice as she took in her surroundings, trying to remember where she was. Soft morning light filtered in through Hunter’s bedroom windows, his body warm and solid behind hers, his hand splayed across her hip and his breathing deep and even. She blinked rapidly, remembering the night before and why she was in Hunter’s bed. Naked. With his hand—his strong, warm hand—on her bare skin.

  Panic surged through her, chasing away the last of her sleepiness. She was afraid she liked all of this too much, but knew it couldn’t possibly be real—not with someone like Hunter. But there was something else there too, along with the panic. Something small and uncertain but hopeful that she wanted to hang onto. For a moment, she let herself pretend that she was going to stay in bed here with him, the sheets twisted around them. She let herself fantasize that this was what every morning could be like, waking up with Hunter’s body next to hers. She let herself imagine that she’d stay in bed here with him, that they’d wake up together with slow kisses and touches and head upstairs for breakfast after an orgasm or two.

  Pretty fantasies. So tempting and alluring, but make believe all the same. He’d been so incredibly sweet with her last night, and she was grateful, but one night didn’t change who he was. It didn’t change that he was a drinker and a gambler. He had a wild streak a mile wide.

  As carefully as possible, not wanting to wake him and face the inevitable conversation he’d want to have, she removed his hand from her hip and slipped out of bed, quickly shimmying back into her panties and T-shirt and then scurrying up the stairs to the safety of the kitchen, doing her best to leave everything that had happened last night behind.

  As she fumbled with the coffee maker, it occurred to her that she was always running from Hunter and yet here she was, married to him, waking up in his bed. It didn’t seem to matter how much distance she tried to shove between them, he always managed to close that gap, seemingly without even trying. He kept reeling her back in, no matter how hard she struggled.

  Maybe that meant something. After all, she knew that despite his flaws, Hunter wasn’t Dirk.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering as she remembered the nightmare. It had been so real, so vivid—basically a memory re-lived. As the Keurig sputtered and a stream of coffee began pouring into her mug, she wondered if running to Hunter, seeking comfort in him because of Dirk was healthy. Trading one man for another when she should’ve been staying away from men altogether. A tiny voice somewhere deep inside her questioned if Dirk had been right—that she was an idiot who never learned.

  “No,” she said out loud. “Dirk was wrong. Everything Dirk said and did was wrong.” She repeated it like a mantra, feeling desperately for the truth of the words, trying to dig it out and cling to it.

  She dropped her head into her hands, trying to make sense of the confusing jumble of thoughts and emotions mashing together until she couldn’t think, until the stress of trying to contain it and organize it was almost too much.

  Footsteps on the stairs pulled her out of her thoughts and brought her back to the present, and Hunter emerged into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of navy blue boxer shorts and his glasses, his hair mussed and a pillow crease lining one cheek.

  “Morning sunshine,” he said, grinning at her. She froze, staring at him and trying to process her reaction to him. He was gorgeous—especially with all that skin and muscle and ink on display—and her attraction to him was only natural. A part of her wanted to go to him, to wrap her arms around him and kiss him good morning. Another part wanted to bolt upstairs because of that urge. He made her feel a kind of vulnerability that had only led to pain in the past, and she didn’t know what to do with that. They probably shouldn’t have had sex last night. She bit her lip, wondering what to say to him when he laughed and shook his head.

  He pointed at her as he moved toward the fridge. “I know that look.” He pulled out the milk and poured a little into her coffee, just the amount she liked, and then put it back and took out the carton of orange juice, pouring himself a glass.

  “What look? I don’t have a look.”

  “Yep. You’re trying to figure out how to tell me that last night shouldn’t have happened.” He swallowed down half his juice and shot her an expectant smile. Cocky bastard.

  “So what if I am?” She crossed her arms over her chest, lifting her chin to meet his eyes. They sparkled with warmth and humor. He took a step toward her and then leaned in, his palms splayed on either side of her on the counter. She closed her eyes against the sensual onslaught of having him so close. Why did he have to smell so good? And look so good? And feel so good? And make her feel things she didn’t want to feel? Why?

  “Then you’d be lying to both of us. It happened because we both wanted it. Because we both needed it. Like it or not, you’ve got a thing for me, Marlowe. And if you’d stop running scared for five minutes, maybe you’d see what’s right in front of you.” He raised a hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheekbone. He met her eyes, searing her
with his gaze. “I’m in love with you, Marlowe. And I know that for whatever reason, that scares the everloving shit out of you, but it’s a fact.”

  She sucked in a breath, her heart beating frantically in her chest at Hunter’s words. She’d known how he felt about her, but to have it said so openly, so plainly, so easily—it felt new. That battle inside her intensified, her warring emotions threatening to tear her apart.

  “I have to go get ready for some, um, some studio time that I booked.” She ducked under his arm and practically ran up the stairs, closing the door to the bathroom behind her and cranking on the shower. She tugged her clothes off and then stepped under the hot spray, knowing that Hunter respected her boundaries enough to leave her alone—even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to be left alone.

  She wasn’t sure about much anymore.

  She tilted her face up to the hot spray, letting the water soothe her, wishing it could wash away the past and that she could just be with Hunter without any of the baggage weighing her down. But it wasn’t that simple. No, Marlowe was in love with her husband, and it was the most complicated thing.

  Ten

  “Hello, and welcome back to this evening’s broadcast of your Dallas Longhorns in the Big Apple as they face off against the New York Yankees in the first of a three game series. I’m Wayne Hopkins, and with me, as always, is Ron Whittaker. Ron, it’s been an eventful night so far as we head into the seventh with the streaking Longhorns up five-to-two.”

  “It sure has, Wayne. The bats are hot tonight, with McCormick, Cruz, and Draper all coming up with big hits. One bat that’s remained cold, though, is that of Hunter Blake, whose one thousandth career hit continues to elude him,” says Ron.

  “He’s picked a pretty inopportune time to hit a dry spell, that’s for sure. But even without his bat swinging right now, he’s still positioning himself for a run at the MVP title, what with his stellar defensive record and leadership in the dugout. What do you think he needs to improve at the plate to see results?”

  “Patience. He’s chasing pitches he has no business chasing—something I think we’d all do with that big number hanging over us. He needs to do whatever it takes to put that number out of his head and just focus on the game one pitch at a time so he can do what he does best, and that’s send a moonshot into the stands.”

  Hunter had always loved New York City. There was no place like it, nowhere that rivaled its energy, its edgy coolness, its cosmopolitan appeal. Dallas was great and he loved living there, but man, if the Yankees or the Mets ever came knocking at his door, he’d be hard pressed to turn them down. He looked out the window of his room in the Grand Hyatt on 42nd Street, taking in the streams of yellow cabs, the honking horns, the sirens, the seemingly endless rows of buildings poking up into the light blue morning sky. He was appreciating the view because the team always stayed at Hilton Midtown, but because Marlowe was with him, he’d booked them into a suite here so they could have their own space.

  Including separate beds. She’d been keeping her distance since they’d woken up together a few mornings ago. She’d been busy in the studio and while she hadn’t exactly been hiding away in her room, she’d managed to put all her emotional walls back into place, keeping him at bay with polite smiles and succinct answers.

  It was driving him fucking nuts. He could see beneath the surface, could see behind those walls. He caught glimpses of how she felt about him in the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, or the way she’d turned to him for comfort after that nightmare. The way chemistry and attraction sparked between them with the simplest of touches. If she’d just let him in, she’d see.

  So badly, he wanted to know what she was afraid of. What had happened to make her see love as something vile and terrifying? Had someone hurt her? Who was that guy she’d dated before…the country singer, Dirk Marshall. Was it him who’d hurt her, or someone else she’d dated? Either way, Hunter was pretty sure there was someone out there he needed to track down and beat the shit out of for what he’d done to her. The thought made his stomach fill with rocks as bile pushed its way up his throat. Just the idea of someone hurting Marlowe was enough to make him see red.

  “I think the car’s downstairs,” she said softly from behind him, emerging from her part of the suite while her hair and makeup team discreetly packed up their things. He turned and sucked in a sharp breath. She looked stunning, wearing a strapless white dress with pink and purple flowers splashed on it, her chestnut hair falling around her bare shoulders in silky waves. He took a step toward her, smoothing invisible wrinkles out of his navy blue suit.

  “Damn, sweetheart. You look amazing.” He wanted to touch her, to finger one of those silky locks, but instead he slipped his hands into his pockets. The physical wasn’t the issue with them. No, he had another plan this morning to start dismantling those walls. It was a much different kind of fighting than he was used to, but he was up for the challenge. She was more than worth it.

  A pink flush rose up on her cheeks and she smiled, ducking her head away. “Guess they did a good job,” she said, gesturing toward the door and the team that had just left.

  He moved toward her, shaking his head. “They had nothing to do with it. It’s you, Mar. You’re beautiful.”

  Her blush deepened and she glanced at the door. “We should go.” The car was downstairs, waiting to drive them over to the set of Manhattan Morning, a popular talk show that aired live on weekday mornings. It was their first official interview as husband and wife, a moving cog in the PR wheel.

  Hunter was really fucking sick of thinking about how to make their marriage convincing, when what he really wanted to think about was how to make it real.

  He took her hand in his, waiting for her to pull away. He smiled when she didn’t. Together, they took the elevator down to the lobby and emerged onto the sidewalk—already steamy with humidity—and into the waiting Town Car. Silence enveloped them as the car began slowly weaving its way through Manhattan rush hour traffic, starting and stopping in a staccato rhythm, horns honking around them.

  Hunter eased back in his seat, studying her. She stared out the tinted window, watching the buildings slowly inch by, seemingly lost in thought.

  “On the plane, you asked me a question,” he said, propping one ankle on the opposite knee. She whirled to look at him, her hair flowing around her bare shoulders. “You remember what you asked me?”

  She bit her lip and nodded, a small, jerky movement, her eyes locking onto his. “I asked you why I was your girl.”

  He moved a bit closer, reaching out and taking her hand in his. “I don’t know what’s happened in the past because you won’t let me in. But I can tell someone hurt you. Someone scared you and made you feel like you weren’t good enough. Like you weren’t worthy. Whatever he did to you, whatever he said to you—they’re all lies, Marlowe.” He kissed the back of her hand, his lips lingering on her skin. “You’re my girl because you’re smart, and strong, and talented. Because you work hard and follow your passion. Because you’re funny and warm and fuck, I feel so good around you that I don’t even recognize myself sometimes. You’re my girl because the second I laid eyes on you at that party, a part of me fell for you, and I’ve been falling for you ever since. You’re gorgeous and sexy and you make me want to take on the world just to see you smile. You’re my girl because you just are. Because for whatever reason, we click, and it’s so damn good that I’m not willing to let it go because you’re scared.”

  Her lips parted, her eyes wide pools of shock and hope mingling together. “You don’t know what’s happened. What I’ve been through.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. But I want to.”

  She shook her head, pulling away slightly. “I can’t. I can’t watch the way you look at me change. I can’t watch it wither up and die.”

  He slipped a hand under her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “There’s absolutely nothing you could tell me that would make that happen. I promise.
”

  “You shouldn’t make promises you don’t know you can keep.”

  “I don’t. For better or for worse, Mar. I’m not going anywhere.” He leaned forward and kissed her, so, so gently. “I love you.” She pressed her forehead to his, taking a deep breath. He felt a tremor course through her.

  “I…” She blew out another breath. “This is a lot for me, Hunter.”

  “I know. But I wanted you to know how I feel. I wanted to be honest with you.”

  She flinched slightly at the word honest. “What if…okay, my history aside, which is a whole other can of ugly worms I don’t want to get into right now, but what if…”

  “What if what?” he asked, curling a silky lock of her hair around his finger, hope tightening his chest.

  “What if I let you in and give you a chance and you can’t…I mean, you’re not exactly…” Her words came out in a rush, and Hunter grinned.

  “The marrying kind?” he finished for her with an arched eyebrow.

  She let out a soft laugh. “Well, yeah. You’re…wild.”

  “You wanna know a secret?” She nodded, inching closer to him, visibly hanging on to his words. He saw it then—she wanted to let him in. Wanted to say yes, to give what they had a shot. She just needed something more from him. A safety net of some kind. “Part of the reason I’ve been such a mess the past year is because of you. Because I’ve been torn up over wanting more than you were willing or able to give and I couldn’t cope. You make me crazy.”

  She inhaled sharply and pulled away from him, and then closed her eyes, collecting herself. Shit, what wrong thing had he said now?

  “You can’t blame your behavior on me. That’s not fair.” Her voice was so quiet that he could barely hear her.

  Well, fuck. That did make him an asshole, didn’t it? He leaned back in his seat, shoving a hand through his hair as a new kind of guilt wormed its way through him. She’d obviously been through something in the past—something he was starting to suspect had been nasty and maybe even abusive—and here he was telling her he acted like an overgrown man child who couldn’t control his impulses because of her.