Unforgettable: A Small Town Second Chance Sports Romance

by Melanie Harlow

  “I’m always the last one out on a night like this. It could be a long wait.”

  He finished buckling his belt and put his arms around me. “You are worth a long wait, and don’t fucking forget it. And besides, I’ve got less than twenty-four hours before I have to get on a plane, and I want to spend as many of them as possible making sure you don’t forget me.”

  I smiled, even though the thought of him leaving made me sad. “No argument here.”

  It was after one a.m. by the time we walked out to the parking lot hand in hand.

  “Want to come over?” I asked him.

  “Of course I do. I’ve got promises to keep—some of them you don’t even know about.”

  I laughed as my stomach swooshed. “Follow me to my place.”

  With Tyler’s SUV in my rearview mirror, I drove to my house as quickly as I dared, and we parked next to each other in front of my building.

  On my front porch, his mouth was on my neck, his hands already pulling up my dress as I tried and failed like five times to get the key in the lock. Finally, I managed to get the damn door open, and we stumbled into the front hallway, slamming it shut behind us.

  I dropped everything I was holding and heard my keys hit the tile floor. Tyler spun me by the shoulder and backed me into the wall, caging me in with his arms and devouring my mouth with a searing-hot kiss that set fire to every nerve ending in my body. I reached down between us and slid my hand over his bulging cock, desperate to feel him inside me again. “God, I want you,” I whispered. “I’ve never wanted anyone so badly.”

  When he stepped back to wrestle off his suit coat, I dashed for the stairs, ditching one shoe and then the other so I could move faster. But he caught me around the waist when I was halfway up, taking me down to my hands and knees. From there he hiked up my dress and yanked off my panties. “I can’t wait. I need you now. Right here.” Bracing himself with one arm on a step above my head, he reached around and slipped his hand between my legs, groaning when he felt how wet I was already.

  Trapped by his size and strength, I panted beneath him, torn between wanting to get him out of that suit and feel his naked skin against mine and wanting to let him have his way with me on the stairs. God, he was so good with his hands. His fingers had me on the verge of an orgasm in no time at all.

  Then he snared my waist again and flipped me onto my back. Moving down a couple steps, he pushed my thighs apart and buried his face between them, using his tongue the way he had last night, greedily, mercilessly, relentlessly, until my body convulsed with pleasure beneath him.

  Somehow we made it from the stairs into my bedroom—a haze of clothing being torn off and flung wherever, of tripping up the steps and scrambling down the hallway, of hands that wouldn’t stop clutching, mouths that wouldn’t stop claiming, and hearts that wouldn’t stop pounding.

  Then finally—finally—his huge, hard cock was easing inside me, his broad chest was hovering over mine, and his scent filled my head. I raked my nails across his skin, gasping as he plunged in so deep it hurt, yet desperately wishing I could take him even deeper. Wishing he didn’t have to leave tomorrow. Wishing I could stop time and stay wrapped up in him this way, even as we raced toward the inevitable finish, our bodies unwilling to slow down, to savor the moment or make it last.

  My need for him shocked me. I cried out with abandon, I bit his shoulder, I pulled his hair. I arched my back and rocked my hips and begged him not to stop. I let go completely, unashamed of the way I wanted him. And he wanted me just as badly—I felt it in the violent way he moved, heard it in his ragged breathing, knew it from the way he cursed and growled my name. We gave in to the rush together, spiraling higher and higher until we careened off the edge together, the world reduced to one blissful, rippling pulse shared between us.

  Afterward, we lay on our sides, limbs tangled atop twisted sheets, hot and sweaty and panting.

  That’s when I thought I heard him say something crazy.

  “What?” I whispered, struggling to hear him over my thundering heart.

  “I don’t want to leave here tomorrow.” He pushed my hair back from my face. “I want to stay.”

  Thirteen

  Tyler

  She paused, like maybe she hadn’t heard me right. “You want to stay?”

  “Yeah. What do you think about that?” It was so dark I couldn’t see her expression, even though our faces were only inches apart.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tyler, I’d love that.” She sounded surprised. “Did you think I might say something else?”

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  She laughed. “What would give you any doubt? I spent last night in your hotel room. I gave you a blowjob in my office. I was ripping your clothes off the second we walked in the door tonight. I am currently naked in your arms—all these things are indications that I like being with you. A lot.”

  “Good. That’s how I feel too, although right up until a few minutes ago, I was planning on getting on a flight tomorrow afternoon. Or is it today already?” I tugged a strand of her hair. “I lose track of time when I’m with you.”

  “I think it’s today already. But I have the same problem.” Another pause. “So . . . how long would you stay?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe the rest of the week.” I hadn’t thought it through at all—I just knew that I wasn’t ready to leave yet. This place or her.

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “Well, I’d be lying if I said the sex wasn’t part of it. Does that make me an asshole?”

  “Hmmm. Let me think about that.” She tapped her chin. “No, I don’t think it does. Because it’s sex with me. Unless, of course, you’re having sex with other people in this town I don’t know about.”

  I laughed. “Uh, no. I’m not having any other sex, in this town or any other town, frankly. And I haven’t in a long time.”

  “Really?” She tucked both hands under her cheek. “Why?”

  I wound the strand of her hair around my finger. “Just haven’t felt like it.”

  “I thought pro athletes were supposed to be players. Women throwing themselves at you everywhere you go.”

  “Some guys are players,” I told her. “And I’ll admit, there were plenty of willing women everywhere we went, and I used to like the attention. But I wasn’t really a player. The game was always my top priority. I never had sex in the three days leading up to a game I was starting, so that put a lot of days off limits.”

  “Why no sex for those days before a game?” She giggled. “Did it zap your manly strength? Or were you just superstitious?”

  “A little of both, actually. Some guys believe abstaining from sex keeps the testosterone pumping harder because you don’t get that release. But I was also superstitious.”

  “I remember you telling me you always put your left sock and shoe on first.”

  “Always. I still do. It’s a whole process.”

  She laughed. “What else?”

  “Well, my number was eight, so on game days I used to do everything eight times. I’d swipe my deodorant on eight times, flip every light switch eight times, blink eight times at every stoplight on my way to the clubhouse.”

  “Wow. And you believed all those things helped?”

  “I must have. I couldn’t not do them.” I thought back to the painful weeks after the first wild pitches. “When everything fell apart and I couldn’t throw anymore, I was even worse for a while. I was doing it all the time, game day or not. I was completely compulsive, convinced that if I was better about it, my arm would come back.”

  “How’d you finally stop?” she asked, a little quieter.

  “It wasn’t working, for one. Therapy helped too. And then I finally just quit playing. It was sucking the life out of me, trying to be something I wasn’t. I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

  She snuggled closer to me, looping one arm around my back and resting her forehead against my chin
. “Does it make you sad to talk about it?”

  I wrapped one arm around her shoulders and put one hand beneath my head. “Usually. Sad or angry.” I paused and realized something. “But I don’t feel that way right now.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. And you know what? I didn’t feel like telling a single person to fuck off today. I actually had a really good day. Best one I’ve had in a long time.” For a moment, I wondered about that. What had made today so much better? Was it because of the sex last night? Seeing my sister so happy? Being around baseball again? I wasn’t sure.

  When I’d arrived here, all I’d wanted was to get through Sadie’s wedding and get the hell out of town again. Go back to my cabin in the mountains where no one could find me and I was free to brood in peace. Now I felt differently—at least for the moment.

  April wriggled like a fish in my arms. “That makes me happy. And I think it’s a perfect reason to stay a little longer.”

  Eventually we crawled beneath the covers, and this time, I held her close as we drifted off to sleep.

  The next morning, I woke up to rain pounding against the windowpanes and thrumming on the roof. April was still sound asleep, and I decided to attempt something I’d never done before—make breakfast for someone.

  I hadn’t been lying when I told her I had zero skills in the kitchen (I was probably a better dancer than I was a cook), but I wanted to do something nice for her. She’d made last night perfect for Sadie—and it hadn’t been too shabby for me, either. I had the feeling that she was always the one taking care of other people, and wanted to treat her for once.

  I managed to get out of bed without waking her, found my boxer briefs on the floor, and tugged them on. Scratching my head, I looked around for my pants, but didn’t see them. Where the hell had they landed? Quietly closing her bedroom door behind me, I headed for the stairs and spotted them on the second-floor landing. I grinned as I pulled them on, remembering last night’s stairway striptease, and the grin widened as I made my way down the steps and saw the rest of our clothing tossed haphazardly to the floor—except for April’s bra, which I’d somehow managed to throw high enough to snag the light fixture, from which it now hung.

  Guess my arm was good for something.

  I used the downstairs bathroom, checking out my reflection in the mirror. I wasn’t sure what was more impressive, my messed-up hair or the scratches on my shoulders. Damn—the girl had gotten crazy with her hands. Actually, she was pretty unabashed in bed all the way around. Vocal and playful and not shy about letting me know when she liked something or wanted more, when she needed me to slow down or speed up, when she wanted it harder or a little less aggressive. It was the kind of thing you wouldn’t guess just by looking at her, with her buttoned-up blouses and knee-length skirts—I liked that.

  I liked knowing her secrets.

  I wandered into her kitchen and looked around for things I recognized. Okay, single-serve coffeemaker over there, I could handle that. I found a Cloverleigh Farms mug in the cupboard and brewed a cup for myself, and while the machine heated up, I poked around in her fridge and freezer. She had eggs, and I was fairly certain I could manage to fry or maybe scramble some, but I wanted something sweeter for her. Cinnamon rolls were out of the question, but I could attempt something like waffles or pancakes, right?

  I was hoping to see Eggos in her freezer, but since I didn’t, I decided to try to make them myself. Pulling out my phone, I searched “easy pancake recipe” and clicked on the link for “Karina’s Best Fluffy Pancakes” because it sounded like something April would like and it also included a video. I’d need all the help I could get. After checking to make sure she had all the ingredients I’d need—what the hell was the difference between baking powder and baking soda anyway?—I got to work.

  It took me a while, since I didn’t know where anything was and I was also trying to stay really quiet, but eventually I had a mixing bowl full of batter. I can’t say it looked exactly like the batter in the photos—mine had a few more lumps than Karina’s—but it was close. I found a pan that looked like the one in the video, took a guess that “low-medium heat” was maybe the number four on April’s stove, and said a quick prayer I wouldn’t ruin breakfast or set her condo on fire.

  I tried to turn the first couple pancakes too soon, but after that I had a pretty good feel for it, and I was awesome at the wrist-flip maneuver it took to cleanly flip them. Eventually, I had a stack of (mostly) fluffy pancakes on a plate, and I’d managed to spill only minimum amounts of batter on the counter. And the stove. And maybe the floor.

  I was rinsing off some strawberries I’d found in the fridge when April appeared in the kitchen doorway in tiny little gray shorts and what looked like my white undershirt from last night. Her hair was a mess just like mine, and I immediately wanted to bury my face in it.

  “Good morning,” she said, her expression adorably surprised. “What are you up to in here?”

  “Making you breakfast.” I opened the cupboard where I’d found the mug and took down one for her. “Want coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” She grinned as she looked me over. “Wow, a hot shirtless guy is in my kitchen cooking pancakes. Pinch me.”

  I went over and pinched her side, making her giggle. “Is this my shirt?”

  “Yes. I hope you don’t mind.” She lifted the collar over her nose and inhaled. “It smells like you.”

  “I don’t mind,” I told her. “Where did you even find it?”

  She grinned. “It was on the floor in my bedroom.” Moving closer, she slipped her arms around my waist and kissed my chest. “Have I told you how much I adore your body?”

  “I think so, but you know me—I’ll never get tired of hearing it.”

  “How long have you been up?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe an hour?” I kissed the top of her head. “I was hoping you’d stay asleep until I had this all done, but I’m not very fast in the kitchen.”

  She leaned back and looked up at me. “Why didn’t you wake me, silly? I could have helped you.”

  “I was trying to do something nice to surprise you.” I glanced toward my workspace. “But I made a mess. Sorry.”

  “I don’t mind. I thought you didn’t cook.”

  “I don’t. But I can read, so I just followed the recipe. And there may have been a video involved. Is that cheating?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Nope.”

  “These pancakes could still taste like leather. Be prepared.”

  “They smell amazing. And I don’t care what they taste like—no one has ever made breakfast for me before. I’m grateful.”

  I kissed the tip of her nose. “Good. Do you have any maple syrup?”

  “I think so. I don’t use it much, but I’m pretty sure there’s an unopened one up here.” She went over to the cupboard above the fridge and reached for the handle, but couldn’t quite grasp it, even up on her tiptoes. “Um. I can’t reach in bare feet.”

  “Well, give it a few minutes. Maybe you’ll grow.”

  “Very funny. Can you help me?”

  Grinning, I took her by the hips and gently moved her aside. “I got it, babe.” I opened the cupboard and grabbed the bottle of syrup.

  She took it from me, fluttering her lashes. “My hero.”

  We sat at her dining table, ate deliciously fluffy pancakes (Karina would have been proud) and strawberries, drank coffee, and talked about the wedding.

  “I can’t believe this rain today!” she exclaimed, sitting on her heels just like she always did. “We got so lucky to have that sunny day in between two rainy ones.”

  “Did you arrange that?” I asked her, taking one more pancake from the stack.

  She laughed. “God, I wish I could arrange the weather. As an event planner, it’s the one superpower I could use most.”

  “I have a feeling the wedding would have been just as perfect even if it rained,” I told her, pouring syrup over my plate. “You don’t ne
ed any superpowers.”

  Her cheeks went pink. “Well, thank you. I do think rain can be romantic on a wedding day, but I’m glad Sadie got sunshine. She deserved it.”

  After breakfast, we cleaned up the kitchen together—she loaded the dishwasher while I wiped up all the batter I’d spilled. When we were done, she turned and gave me a big hug. “Thank you for breakfast,” she said, pressing close. “I loved it.”

  “You’re welcome.” I ran my hands down her back. My dick was already responding to her chest against mine.

  “So do you have to be anywhere this afternoon?” she asked, kissing my neck.

  “Nope.” I moved my hands down over her butt.

  “I don’t either. Want to stay a while?”

  “Aren’t you tired of me yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “In that case . . .” I lifted her up, setting her up on the counter. “I have an idea how we can spend this rainy day.”

  She wrapped her legs around me. “I hope it’s the same as mine.”

  “Does it involve me fucking you on the kitchen counter?”

  A smile crept onto her lips. “It does now.”

  We spent the entire day together, most of it naked.

  We took breaks from sex to eat, drink, and nap, and somehow I even let her talk me into a bubble bath.

  “Can’t we just shower?” I asked, watching her fill the tub and light candles along its perimeter.

  “We could, but this will be so much more romantic and relaxing. Remember what we talked about at dinner the other night? We’re looking for ways to help you be less grumpy.” She poured in some stuff from a bottle labeled Vanilla Bergamot Dream.

  I sniffed. “You’re going to make me smell like a cupcake.”

  “Perfect. No one can be grumpy when they smell like a cupcake.” She turned off the water, lowered herself into the tub, and crooked her finger at me. “Come hither, boy.”

  “I’m not even going to fit. I think you’re forgetting I’m six foot five.”