“Now, where were we before I had to interrupt with words?” Jarrod rolls to position himself between my legs. His hair falls slightly in front of his eyes, his expression serious and dark.
Jarrod places a small kiss on my lips before trailing down my neck and palming my breasts with his large hands. His stubbled jaw slides over my breast sending goose bumps over my skin before taking my nipple into his mouth, sucking and nipping at me.
“I didn’t like them touching your tits. I want to be the only one touching them,” Jarrod murmurs against my skin. He sucks my nipple deep into his mouth, causing my back to arch and me to moan.
“I don’t think they got off on it, Jarrod. It was fairly harmless,” I groan, wrapping my legs around his muscular thighs.
“Don’t give a fuck, Amalie. I want you to be mine. You’re mine, aren’t you?”
My head pops up, and I realize he has mentioned this mine business several times. I need to know what this means.
“When you say that I’m yours, what exactly does that mean, Jarrod?”
“That you’re mine,” he states matter-of-factly, like it should explain every question I have along with the possible cure for cancer and world hunger.
“Yes, all right. But what are the details? Does this mean, we are in a relationship?”
Jarrod shoots me an are-you-ridiculous look, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Yes, it means we’re exclusive and very much in a relationship. It means that you’re mine. Your lips are mine, your tits are definitely mine, your ass is mine, and your pussy is all mine. It means, we’re together, and if you want to label it boyfriend-and-girlfriend, then fucking label it that. Just know that the second my cock was inside you, something changed between us. I can’t fucking explain it, but what I know is that I will go fucking crazy if anyone tries anything with you, and it would break me if another man was ever inside you again.”
I am stunned, completely stunned, utterly stunned.
I think he might actually be crazy—hot but crazy.
Before I can question him or contemplate his level of insanity, Jarrod gently and slowly slides himself inside me. I let out a groan and spread my legs farther apart for him. He is so big and commanding, and when he is hovering over me, I feel almost delicate. He lazily slides in and out of my body with long fluid strokes. It’s almost too much for me. I can feel myself climbing toward my climax, and I start to shudder under him.
“You gonna come for me, baby?” Jarrod asks against my ear.
His breath is hot, and his body is warm, surrounding me. I can’t even verbally comment. It’s all I can do to let out a moan from deep inside of me.
“Yeah, you’re gonna come,” he says cockily.
He slips a hand down to rub light circles against my clit, never breaking the lazy strokes of his body going in and out of mine, slow and so very sweet. I wrap my legs around his waist as tightly as I can, and within seconds, I come beneath him, calling out his name in a low husky growl.
Jarrod doesn’t let me relish in my orgasm long before he speeds up his rhythm, and then his release quickly follows as he calls out several curse words. His sweat-lined forehead falls into the crook of my neck.
“Christ, that was beautiful,” Jarrod says, still inside me, as his thumbs rub small circles against my hips.
“Yeah,” I say in a sigh.
It was beautiful, so beautiful, that I feel a twinge of guilt wash over me, but as quickly as it comes, it leaves. I have nothing to really feel guilty for. The past is the past, and there isn’t anything anyone can do about it.
“Oh, shit. You didn’t use a condom,” I cry out in panic. My whole body is rigid and stiff.
“Shit, I forgot. I’m so sorry, baby. I swear, I get checked all the time. It’s part of my contract. I’m clean,” he says, sliding out of me.
I instantly feel the loss of him.
“I’m not worried about that. Well, I am, but shit, I’m not on birth control.” I sit up, and my eyes start darting around like maybe there will be some magic answer around me in the thin air.
“What? You’re in your mid-twenties. Why aren’t you?” His question seems a bit accusatory.
I don’t like it one bit. “I haven’t been with anyone in over a year, Jarrod, and when I was before that, I always, always used condoms. Birth control isn’t a priority for me, Jarrod. Honestly, what the fuck?” I wrap the top sheet around me, seething fucking angry.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, Amalie.” Jarrod grabs my waist and pulls me onto his leg, gently kissing my jaw.
“Seriously. Shit, I guess I could go get the morning-after pill,” I suggest but not really wanting to.
“No, no way. Odds are, the one-time isn’t going to do anything, but if it does, imagine what a beautiful tall blonde baby we would have.”
I allow myself a selfish moment to think about what our baby would look like. If we had a boy, he would be tall and broad just like his dad. I would love it if he had white-blonde hair just like mine. It’s just a unique color, and hopefully, he would have cobalt eyes just like Jarrod’s. He would be big and strong and athletic, and I would shower him with the love and affection that I never received from my own mother.
“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Jarrod’s voice interrupts with a smile on his lips.
I just smile down on him. He’s correct though. The odds of us making a baby this one time are low but not unheard of. I have met enough pregnant ladies at work to know for certain that it only takes one time.
I shake the thoughts of babies away because Jarrod and I are new, and the odds that our relationship last relationship if we brought a baby into it right away are so very slim that it’s ridiculous. This man is seriously crazy.
Jarrod sent a private car to take me to the stadium, and to say I am nervous about this whole thing is an understatement. After our pregnancy talk, Jarrod took me into the shower and took me against the shower wall—with a condom. I made a note on my cell phone to call my gyno as soon as I get home to get on some kind of birth control since it seems like Jarrod and I will be having a ton more sex in the future. The man’s cock is like crack, cock crack. What a delicious thing to become addicted to though.
My daydream of the wonderful shower is cut short as the car comes to a halt, and the driver, Ben, opens the door, holding a hand out to help me out of the vehicle. I thank him and take the tickets Jarrod gave me out of my purse as I walk up to stand in line.
The girl takes my ticket and practically sneers at me as I walk toward the direction of my seat. It’s just as long of a walk as when Jarrod took me to the game in Boston. I prepared by wearing a pair of cuffed light-gray shorts and a black blouse that has a large band around the hips. It is loose and hangs off of one shoulder. My white hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and my makeup is light as usual. On my ears are medium-sized hoop earrings, and on my wrist are a cluster of my favorite silver bangles. On my feet are slingback metallic-silver flat sandals.
When I packed, I wasn’t sure what I would be doing today, so I packed something dressy casual just in case I would be going into a place of business somewhere. I feel completely overdressed as I walk toward my seat. All the people around me are in shorts, some cutoff jeans, and jersey shirts sporting their favorite players with ball caps on their heads and beers in their hands.
I reach a roped-off doorway and show the attendant my ticket. It is another young girl, and again, she sneers at me before pointing me in the direction of my seat.
Are all New Yorkers this pissed off all the time, or is it just me?
What the hell?
I follow the alphabet on the stairs, waiting for my letter to pop up, when I hear a familiar voice calling my name. It causes me to look up, and I see Libby waving violently at me. I smile and head in her direction. Before I arrive, I notice that there are at least ten women openly staring at me, and the only ones smiling are Victoria and Libby.
Great.
“Sit here with us,” Libby sa
ys, practically bouncing in her seat.
“Hey, girls.” I smile.
“How was last night? Tell us all about it,” Victoria responds eagerly.
“First, let’s introduce her to all the girls,” Libby says, waving her hand at the group of women staring at me.
“Everyone, this is Amalie. She is dating Jarrod—exclusively,” Libby says with a sugar-sweet smile.
I can’t help but notice that some of the women’s smiles fall and mouths gape. I even hear a gasp or two.
What does all this mean?
“That’ll last, like, a fucking minute,” one plastic blonde with fake hair, fake lips, and fake tits says before turning around to ignore me.
“Alana is a total fucking bitch. She’s wanted a ride on Jarrod’s cock since he took the pitcher’s mound, and she’s just pissed because he never gave her one.”
I choke on my own saliva. I can’t believe Libby just practically shouted this for everyone to hear.
“Do you want something to eat? The waitress should be over here soon,” Victoria asks, waving down a waitress.
“Yeah, that would be great.” I smile and nod. I really hope the other women aren’t all like this Alana person. She’s fake and horrible.
“Oh, honey, you don’t want to eat any of this food. It seems like you’d want a nice healthy salad or something along those lines. I’m sure you’re dieting,” a woman with short brown hair says as she rakes her eyes up and down my body. Then, her eyes bugs out, and she purses her lips together.
“No, I’m not on a diet. I would freaking love some chili-cheese fries,” I tell her with a smile.
“Do you know how many calories are in those? You aren’t going to keep a man like Jarrod long by eating shit like that.”
“Jesus, Carrie, just because you don’t eat doesn’t mean other people can’t enjoy some fucking chili-cheese fries,” Libby scowls.
“It’s all right. See, Carrie, I’m six feet tall, and I can afford to eat more calories than an average height woman. Plus, I have to make sure my curves are all in place because if I don’t have them, then I won’t be able to model, and I love modeling. Oh, and without them, I would never have attracted Jarrod since he adores them.”
These women are fucking panthers. I feel like I’m on display for their attacking pleasure.
“What do you model—plus-sized clothing?” Alana pipes up from her pity party in the front.
I almost growl at her because she really is that much of a bitch, but instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and pray for patience.
“She’s a pinup model, and Carlos has been obsessed with her, talking nonstop. Apparently, she is the most sought-after pinup model since Bettie Page,” Victoria says, glaring at the women and silently daring them to say anything else to her.
I’m not sure how truthful Victoria’s statement is, but I’m sure as hell not going to question it with these piranhas around.
The waitress appears, and everybody turns and gets quiet. I order chili-cheese fries, a bottle of water, and a churro. I would order more just to prove a point, but I am on edge with these women, the game, and then drinks with my brother. This might just be the weirdest day I have ever had. Oh, and to top that off, I haven’t heard from Jo since I arrived, and she’s been acting completely off. That has my mind wandering toward Eric and worrying that between her and Niklas, something might be up. I’m not too thrilled about the idea that Eric could somehow involved in any of this.
“Don’t pay any attention to these cunts. They are just pissed off and hungry,” Libby whispers as she steals a cheese fry from my carton. “Oh, Maggie is here,” Libby squeals, bouncing in her seat.
The girl is too happy for words. I find myself smiling like a fool at her.
“Maggie, this is Amalie, Jarrod’s girl,” she introduces me to a tiny little blonde.
The woman is slim but curvy with piercing blue eyes. She is beautiful.
“Hey,” she says softly with a shy wave.
I say, “Hello,” back.
We all stand for the national anthem. I scan the players and try to find Jarrod. It should be easy because he’s so freakishly tall, but from where I’m sitting, I can’t tell which out of the four tall blond men he is.
“What number is Jarrod?” I whisper to Victoria.
“He didn’t tell you?” she says with a smile.
“No.” I shake my head.
Jarrod didn’t tell me much at all. I’m beginning to wonder if his intent was to shock me about the whole situation.
“Twenty-seven.”
She points toward number twenty-seven, and I see him. He is facing us, and I wave in his direction. I am awarded with a bright dazzling straight-toothed smile. I can almost see his cobalt eyes sparkling from where he is. Inwardly, I sigh. I cannot believe this man wants me.
“Damn, when the man smiles, even my panties melt,” Libby comments.
I can’t help but laugh. It’s true though. Jarrod’s smile could collectively make panties melt across the globe. I know it does the same to mine.
The game is nerve-racking to say the least. Every second Jarrod is on the pitcher’s mound, my anxiety sets in, and my heart races rapidly. I’m so nervous for him. I find myself chewing on my bottom lip toward the end of the game. The score is tied, and all I want to do is close my eyes until it’s over. My stress-induced panic is interrupted by a short dark man in a suit.
“Excuse me, miss?” he asks, tapping me on the shoulder.
“Yes?” I peel my eyes away from the pitcher’s mound to turn around and face the man tapping me.
“Can I get your name, please? We are going to be spanning the camera over to this section with the girlfriends and spouses, and we need your name and which player you’re with today.”
My mouth falls open, and I just stare at the man as I cock my head to the side.
“This is Amalie Aagaard. She is dating Jarrod Harrison,” Libby pipes up for me.
“Jarrod? Really? Wow.” The man’s reaction spurs something inside of me.
If I didn’t realize by the other women’s reactions that Jarrod bringing a woman here wasn’t per the norm, I know for sure now. I’m not sure if I like it or not. Immediately, I decide I like it. Maybe Jarrod has had one-night stands, but he doesn’t bring tons of women into his world, and I feel special that he has brought me.
“How do you spell your name?” he asks with a paper and pen.
“A-M-A-L-I-E, and my last name A-A-G-A-A-R-D,” I answer without realizing.
“What nationality? Just out of curiosity,” he asks.
I see Alana pinch her face together as she turns to watch this exchange.
“I’m Danish,” I respond.
“No shit,” he states.
“Are you fucking him for your green card?” Alana asks, her face still pinched together—well, as best as she can.
With as much BOTOX as she has in her body, I’m not sure what emotion she’s trying to convey.
“I’m an American citizen. My parents moved from Denmark when I was a small child. I have lived in the States since I was seven years old,” I deadpan, glaring at the bitch.
“Oh, and she’s a pinup model,” Victoria tells the man.
My face goes pale. I can’t believe she’s telling this man what I do.
“Well, hell. This will be great,” he says.
He strolls away before I can stop him.
“Victoria, I would rather have had him know that I am an ultrasound tech,” I groan.
She just shrugs and turns back to the game. I can’t believe someone in television now knows I am a pinup model. I have no clue what can become of this, but I’m questioning my hobby now. Even more, I’m questioning the lingerie shoot I have tomorrow morning.
“Honey, you have to sell yourself. If you don’t think you’re the alpha bitch in this world, ain’t nobody else gonna think it. Trust me. Crazy bitches will try to beat you out for your man. You have to have presence,” Libby informs me.
Luckily, our team wins, and the crowd goes wild at the end. It’s exciting that I know some of the players on the team, and now, there is a victory. Not being a sports person before, I can now understand and appreciate the adrenaline rush when the crowd roars at the end of a particularly good game.
Libby, Maggie, and Victoria take me to where the players exit the field, so we can meet up with the guys. We are planning on going out for a celebratory late lunch, and then later, I have to meet up with my brother. I’m dreading this. I wish that I could just lie in Jarrod’s bed all evening, in his arms, and just savor the moments we have together. Soon, I will be back in Boston, and he will be…who knows where?
When we arrive to the area where the players exit, I look around and notice that most of the people standing around are women in barely there clothing—short shorts and tops that cover a little more than a bra. They are all pretty in a trashy way and young—really young.
“Don’t worry about them. They are at every single game in every single city, and they are desperate to land a pro-ball player,” Libby says, pointing at the group of skanky-looking women huddled together and talking.
They’re probably strategizing a game plan.
“So, they are like rock-star groupies for baseball players?” I ask, not being able to take my eyes off of them.
It’s sad really. It reeks of desperation, and no man wants that for the long term. One night maybe. But long term? No way.
My thoughts of the sad trashy women are interrupted by loud cheering from the crowd and a shriek from Libby that I think make my ears actually bleed a little. I look up and see that panty-melting dazzling smile flash in my direction.
“Jarrod! Jarrod! Jarrod!” the trashy women chant and start shuffling their high heels in his direction.
I look into Jarrod’s eyes, and if he hears them, he pays them no attention because he is staring right at me. I watch as his long legs stride effortlessly in my direction, and before I can react, he is upon me. He picks me up in one swoop, attacking my mouth with his teeth and tongue.
Pitching for Amalie Page 8
