“Sorry to disappoint you.”
I give him a tight smile, and he puts his hands over his ears.
“You can’t make me hear dirty things.” He shakes his head back and forth like an uncontrolled toddler.
He’s laughing, and I remove his hands from blocking his hearing capabilities.
“It’s not dirty. I just want to let you know, I was hurt before, and it was someone—”
“Nope. No names.”
“No names?” I question, flabbergasted by his actions.
Brax sure wasn’t celibate.
“Do you want to know who I messed around with?”
And a boulder finds its designated place in my stomach. I’d rather eat lead than know who is on his list.
“Well, no.”
He smiles that told-you-so grin. “Continue on.” His hand snakes up my thigh, skating up the hem of my pajama shorts. “Let me remind you why I’m so much better than your ex.”
His fingers graze along my center, and all my nerves zing with exhilaration. Like they’re all screaming in a chorus of, Brax is touching us! Brax is touching us!
“I’m trying to be serious.”
“Me, too, babe.” He lifts my leg, resting it over his shoulder, and slides between them. “You know how well I use my mouth and tongue, but I think, if you’re thinking about your ex, you need a refresher course.”
His thumbs take the waistband of my pajama shorts, and he tugs them down. My ass stays planted on the mattress, not allowing him to have his way.
“Would you rather I rip them?” He cocks his eyebrow, and I laugh, placing my book on the bed.
“So, you don’t care that he hurt me?” I ask, scooting down to assist him in the removal of my shorts.
“I’m sorry you met a dick, but I’m not him, and I’m not going to hurt you.” He tosses my shorts behind his head, and they land on my desk chair.
“Thank you. And I’m sorry for taking his faults out on you.”
He shakes his head. “Thanks for the apology, but we’re good.” His tongue is sticking out of his mouth, and he’s an inch from my pussy. “Are you ready to remember what a blessing it is that the dickhead broke your heart?” He inches closer, the tip of his tongue moving up and down.
“Dickhead who?” I say, widening my hips.
“It was fate. He broke it, so I could piece it back together. And the bonus is that you actually know what an orgasm feels like now.” He chuckles into my center right before he sucks my clit into his mouth.
“Brax,” I sigh, my hands reaching for his hair.
He cut it short for the season last week, so it’s buzzed, leaving me with nothing to hold on to.
He peeks his head out. “I’ll take God. Perfect boyfriend. Orgasm-granter.”
I laugh and push his head back down to me, but he pops back up.
“Dominating. I like it.” He winks, and then his head is back between my legs.
His hand glides up my stomach until he has my tit in his hand, and his thumb brushes over my nipple.
I grind into his face, and he responds by tweaking my nipple. My back arches, my toes curl, and I fist the sheets as he takes me from remembering the horrible experiences of my past to hoping for a future of many more times like this.
As always, he brings me to the brink in seconds, and I find myself clenching my orgasm back to prolong the euphoria that is Brax and me.
My thighs try to press together, but Brax’s palms lock them to my mattress. My fingers struggle to grip anything, but with no hair on his head, they fall to my sides, and I tighten the comforter until my knuckles are sore from every tense muscle in my body.
Brax doesn’t hold up or give me any reprieve. Instead, the pace of his tongue increases. When he flattens it, my breathing hitches, and my heartbeat skyrockets. He takes me from nine point zero to a full ten. I grind into his face, lifting my ass from the bed. Instead of holding me in place, he allows me to move, locking his mouth to my clit.
My head falls back and hits my headboard as I jump over that cliff, and then my muscles relax one at a time until I’m lying on the mattress, struggling for air, as though I just ran with the bulls in Pamplona.
Brax’s head lifts, and he inches his body up to mine. “I’m fairly sure I almost overheated you there.”
He laughs, relating everything back to his damn barometer theory. But it’s cute. And who doesn’t love a guy who wants his girlfriend to come?
“I’d compliment you, but I don’t want your head to get bigger.”
He lies down on his side, his finger lazily making figure eights around my belly button. “You compliment me enough when you come. Right when you reach your orgasm, I feel like I could climb Mount Everest without oxygen.” He peeks up to me and plants a kiss on my shoulder. “I fucking love the noises you make.”
“I’d love a time when we didn’t have to be so quiet.” My hand rubs along his buzz cut, and he slides closer to me.
Propping his head on his hand, he stares up at me. “In two weeks, you can be as loud as you want.” He waggles his eyebrows.
He’s looking forward to Chicago, and I am, too. I can’t wait to see the city and the medical campus, but there’s still an underlying fear that I just can’t shake.
21
Brax
I’m fucking Leonardo DiCaprio on Titanic as I walk down the streets of Chicago with Ainsley’s hand in mine.
We flew in this morning, and since our hotel wouldn’t be ready until this afternoon, we dropped our bags off and set out on foot to see the city. I’ve been downtown numerous times, especially when my brother was stationed here. Usually, you knew when recruits had a day off because you’d see sailors in their uniforms with their families or other recruits. But, for Ainsley, this is her first time here.
“Where to?” Ainsley asks, her eyes still wide taking in our surroundings.
A sense of fulfillment rests inside me because I gave her this opportunity. The best thing is being able to witness her excitement in the city she’s desperate to move to.
“You want touristy things, or you want to explore?” I ask.
Her eyes move along the street, high and low, a smile crossing her lips. “Let’s explore.”
I nod ahead of us. “Then, let’s just start walking.”
The warmer weather has hit Chicago already. Other than sweatshirts, we don’t need much else.
We walk across a bridge, and Ainsley stops and stares. Leaving a rush of people to knock into us and mumble their displeasure about fucking tourists.
I urge her to the edge, and I see what stopped her. The river is a vibrant green.
She looks up to me. “St. Patrick’s Day? But it isn’t until next week.” She smiles. “Are you Irish?”
“Isn’t everyone on St. Patrick’s Day?”
She giggles, her head falling to my shoulder. “Then, I guess we’re both Irish.”
“Because we’re not Irish?”
She shakes her head. “Brax, everyone celebrates St. Patrick’s Day.” She turns to me, and there’s a devilish spark in her eyes.
“Are you telling me, you want to get drunk and party in the streets?” I widen my eyes, and she giggles again, smacking my chest.
She rises on her tiptoes, her lips millimeters in front of me. “I’m saying, we’re in a city that dyes their river green for a holiday. I’m saying, we need to enjoy it.”
Her lips press to mine, and before she can escape, my hand moves to her neck, so I can deepen the kiss. She yelps at first but relaxes into my hold. I close the kiss, and her cheeks are flushed pink.
“Why don’t we celebrate by watching the parade from our hotel room?”
She shakes her head. “You never do get enough.”
Oh, shit. Please don’t tell me this is when I have to worry about the drought. There’s no competition for her time this weekend. No classes, no schoolwork, no baseball. Just me and her and a king-size bed.
“Not with you, baby. Not with you.”
Fuck Ollie and his drought shit. My girl is as insatiable as I am.
We walk down the streets, and since it’s Friday, mostly business people are milling around. Once we’re on a side street that most of the walking traffic is not on, she pulls out her phone, and her thumb is scrolling.
“You want to go see Feinberg?” I ask her.
“No, I want to see what festivities there are here.”
I laugh that she’s still set on celebrating St. Patrick’s Day. “When your mind goes somewhere—”
“Yep. And you reap the rewards with that one, so don’t complain.”
She eyes me long and hard, and I yank her into me. I stare down to a girl I never thought would pull this boyfriend role out of me. I ignore a foreign leap of my heart.
She kisses my cheek and walks forward, but a few steps later, she turns around, walking backward while crooking her finger at me.
Did she not just feel that moment between us?
I follow like I’m attached to a rope, and she’s controlling me.
Once I reach her, she falls to my side, and we walk around the streets of a city that could be home for us one day soon.
“Irish food is filling.” Ainsley rubs her stomach and stares down at it. “My pants just became uncomfortable.” Her hand runs along her belly.
“I have a solution,” I tell her, sitting across from her in a booth at some Irish pub we found.
Ainsley already drilled the pub owner on what happens in Chicago during St. Patrick’s Day. The city is celebrating tomorrow even though St. Patrick’s Day isn’t until next week. So, we’re going to a parade, and she got the scoop on some other Irish pubs. He assured her that, yes, everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day, granting me a smug look from her.
“Well, we do need to rest up for tomorrow.” She pushes her plate of corned beef hash to the side and reaches for her water glass.
“I wasn’t thinking about rest.”
She laughs and shakes her head like she’s not used to my mind being in the fucking gutter.
“Let’s walk it off. You have the Sox meeting on Sunday morning, and if we’re going to be Irish all day long tomorrow, I’m thinking we’ll probably be hungover on Sunday. So, let’s go see Feinberg’s campus today and walk off this food?” She poses it like a question, as though I would object to anything she wanted to do. Like I would say, Let’s go to Wrigley Field and check out where the Cubs play.
The waitress drops off the bill, and my hand reaches for it, but Ainsley snatches it before I get a chance.
“Hey,” I say, holding my hand out.
“You are not treating me this entire weekend.”
“Ains.”
We both know she can’t afford anything extra on this trip. She’s never been forthcoming about her finances, but I don’t have to be as smart as her to know that she sacrifices.
Her smile falters for the first time since we left for the airport this morning. “I’m not poor.”
If I continue to fight, this will turn into an issue, and since it’s already an issue for her that I pay for so much, I’m not going to spray gasoline, so the issue combusts on the first day of our trip.
“I’m not used to being treated.” I lean back in my bench, pat the corners of my mouth with the napkin, and change my voice to a high-pitched tone. “Well then, please allow me to thank you.” I raise my eyebrows a few times, making sure my insinuation of how I’ll thank her is clear.
She giggles and smiles on cue. “Well, I hope so. I just bought you lunch.” She deepens her voice, playing the role of some egotistical male.
“Would you prefer for me to drop to my knees right here?” I stretch my legs across and prop my feet on either side of her thighs.
She widens her legs and feels me there. A blush fills her cheeks.
I lean across the table. “Please take me back to your hotel,” I whisper, sliding my tongue along my bottom lip.
Her eyes fixate on my lips, and she sucks in a long breath.
Then, she firmly shakes her head. “Nope. We’re going to walk this off.” She throws cash down on the table and knocks my foot until I willingly allow it to drop to the floor.
“You’re a party pooper,” I say, filing out of the booth and following her toward the door.
We each say, “Thank you,” to the elderly Irish man who so nicely recited the customs of celebrating St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago to us.
He looks at us with amusement in his eyes. Yeah, we’re a pretty awesome couple.
She walks out the door, and I grab ahold of her hips, turning her around.
“Make me a promise?” I ask.
She’s smiling up to me, and her body sways into mine, like it usually does. “What?”
“Room service tonight.”
She shrugs. “We’ll see. We’re in Chicago. When will we have the chance to be here again?”
“Hopefully, you’ll be here for medical school.”
Her eyes cast down, but she can’t get the smile off her face. She wants to come here, and that makes me want to slay dragons for her to achieve that.
“Maybe we’ll be here together.” Hope fills her eyes. A hope that I don’t want to break.
Surely, baseball players have wives or girlfriends. We can totally make this work long term.
“We’ll see.”
We fall in line and start walking toward the campus of Feinberg School of Medicine. It’s down on the other end of the city, and since she wants to walk off lunch, I’m guessing we won’t be taking a taxi.
“Brax,” she says once we’ve crossed over the green river again.
I look down at her, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and pulling her into me.
“I don’t want to pressure you because I know you get the question enough, but what do you want from the meeting on Sunday?”
Her voice is shallow, and the giggling luster that always warms me is gone. She’s scared, and I won’t admit it, but I am, too. I’ve wanted to go pro since I was in little league, but now, with Ainsley in my life, I’m questioning how soon I want my dreams fulfilled.
“When Crosby, Noah, and I were younger, we used to pretend to be the 2005 White Sox champions. Going pro has been a dream, but playing for the White Sox is like the bucket of whipped cream on top of the sundae.”
She nods, and her arms wrap around my waist, squeezing me hard.
“If they want me and I turn it down, I might never get there. What if I get injured next year? What if I lose something in my game? What if someone else surpasses me, and they want that guy?”
“Cade says a lot of teams want you,” she says, her eyes never fixing on mine.
“Cade’s being nice. The truth is, a player’s chances can change drastically in a year. If I don’t enter now, I’m afraid I’ll have passed up an opportunity that I might never get back.”
I pushed so many of my feelings on this subject away because I was afraid to speak them out loud, but Ainsley hasn’t yelled or thrown a fit about me going. She hasn’t demanded to know what will happen to us or her because I’ll be leaving her behind in Ridgemont.
She looks up at me, stopping us outside a building to get out of the line of street traffic behind us. “Brax”—her hands rest on my cheeks—“if they offer it to you, take it.”
Maybe she should try it without the tear about to slip down her cheek.
She turns away and continues walking. “You never know, I might be joining you in a year anyway.”
My pace speeds up until I reach her, taking her hand in mine. “It’s a year, Ainsley. A whole year, we’d be separated.”
She faces me and squeezes my hand, asking me to look down. “We lived apart our whole lives. We can survive a year.”
If only her face matched her words, then maybe I’d believe we stood a chance.
22
Ainsley
The fir
st night in Chicago was awesome. We walked around the public areas of Feinberg School of Medicine, and we pushed away the thoughts of Brax entering the draft. We’re good at denial.
The thing that struck me was how tired everyone looked. They were running around, their steps trudging, and their eyes were sunken or dark. None of that diminished my excitement to be in the confines of a school I’ve wanted to attend for so long. They have a great pediatrics department.
“Come on, we have to get closer.” I pull on Brax’s arms to see past the mounds of people who must have camped out the prior night.
“I never knew you were such a parade girl.” His arms wrap around my waist when I stop on the curb.
I’ve never felt safer than when Brax’s arms are around me. I rest my head back on his chest.
This morning is colder than yesterday, but I came with my own warm bear—Brax.
People are lined on either side of the streets, and families are laughing and having fun. Moms are chasing kids around, and other kids are on the shoulders of their dads. Everyone is wearing green, and some people have orange beards. It’s festive and fun and exactly what we needed with such a serious weekend.
“After this, we’re going back to bed,” Brax whispers in my ear, his hands slipping under my hoodie to my bare stomach.
“Still not enough last night?” I ask him.
He chuckles in my ear, his fingers fiddling with the button of my jeans. I stiffen, stopping all movement.
“Relax. I can keep myself in check,” he whispers.
His lips press right behind my ear, and a rush of shivers run along my skin.
“Today, we’re going to enjoy the parade,” I say.
He says nothing, his fingers making a figure eight along my belly button. It’s his usual movement on my skin, and while he does so, I’ve noticed his breathing usually evens out, and his shoulders fall from whatever is weighing him down. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a calming mechanism for him.
Just then, the crowd roars with screams and claps, seeing the first float of the parade. We watch as the kids scramble to grab the candy being thrown at them, everyone smiling and enjoying their Irish heritage. High school bands and Irish dance groups along with floats blaring music line the street.
Extra Innings Page 15
