I laugh. “Of course.”
It’s then that Adam looks up and glances out the windshield before he smiles and shakes his head. “The batting cages, huh?”
“Ever been?”
He barks out a laugh and opens his door before stepping out. “Uh, yeah. You really don’t know much about me, do you, ladybug?”
I roll my eyes at his nickname as I get out of the car and shut my door. “Like what?”
“Like the fact that I was MVP of my varsity baseball team in high school and got a partial scholarship to UNC—University of Northern Colorado—to play.”
Sweet fancy Moses, did I do a potion for the perfect man and don’t remember? Because the more I find out about Adam, the more I learn he ticks off nearly every box on my Perfect Boy list. If I had one of those. Which I do not.
I clear my throat. “Oh, yeah? No, I didn’t know that. This little competition should be pretty easy for you, then.”
“Competition, huh?”
“Yeah, I thought we could make it a little more interesting.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I’m listening.”
“Pretty simple…it’s winner’s choice. Whoever hits the most balls.”
“Okay, and when I hit the most?”
I roll my eyes at his show of confidence. “The winner gets anything he or she wants.” At his cocked eyebrow, I clarify, “Within reason.”
He walks around the car and meets me at the trunk, stepping so close I can feel the body heat emanating from him. He leans forward and I inhale the fresh, clean scent of him as his breath brushes against my mouth. “You sure you want to make this bet with me, sugar lips?”
The name is absolutely freakin’ ridiculous, but my stomach doesn’t think that when Adam’s eyes drop to said lips and his tongue sweeps across his own. Those butterflies that were present earlier come back in full force, tiny little tornadoes in my belly, and no matter what pep talk I give them, I can’t get them to settle down.
Forcing a bravado I don’t feel, I say, “Oh, I’m sure. You gonna back out now?”
With a smile, he steps back. “Definitely not. Let the games begin.”
FIFTEEN
adam
Paige is a hustler.
A hot hustler with perky tits and legs that go on for miles, but a hustler all the same. That’s clear as she sends another ball flying—a triple, no doubt, if we’d been on the field. It’s obvious this isn’t her first time by the confident way she takes her stance, how her body twists when she swings. By the power in that swing, sending the balls soaring into the overhead net.
And it’s hot as hell.
I’ve never been attracted to athletes before. Either that or I just never looked in that pool of women. Or maybe it’s not athletes as much as it’s just Paige. Somehow this girl has completely rewritten every preconceived notion of what I assumed I wanted in a woman. Erased them all and scribbled in every one of her attributes instead.
As much as it turns me on watching her, as much as I’d love nothing more than to just sit back and stare at the way her ass presses against those jogging pants every time she swings, I can’t. Because I want that goddamn prize. A free pass to get whatever I want from her? Yeah, I’m going to do everything in my power to get it. And, no, I’m not above heckling. “You gonna start swinging for real pretty soon? Time’s tickin’. I know we agreed to best two out of three, but every round counts.”
She doesn’t even turn around or acknowledge me with anything other than a brief, “Fuck off.” And even how she says that—not hostile or even teasing, just Paige—turns me on. I think this girl could bring me a dead mouse and I’d get wood for her.
She swings again, connecting with the ball. The solid ping of it against the bat is one of my favorite sounds in the world. Because of that, I’ve got a war raging inside me. On one hand, it gives me this overwhelming sense of…satisfaction…to see her doing this. To see her succeeding at something that’s been such a big part of my life…at something I’ve always loved doing, but haven’t had anyone with whom to share it. On the other hand, I don’t want to hear it at all right now, because I want my damn prize. She waved a red flag in front of a bull, tempted me with the one thing I haven’t had from her, and I’m not stopping until I get a taste. I’ve sucked her nipples, bit her neck, pressed my tongue to her pussy, but I’ve never tasted her lips. And I want them. Badly.
The last of her balls for this round shoots out of the machine, and she, once again, connects with the target, sending it into the net. When she’s done, she spins and walks toward me, pulling off her helmet as she goes, a face-splitting smile directed at me. She should look ridiculous with her hair mashed down to her head, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Instead, she looks hotter than I’ve ever seen her. Even hotter than when she was in that red dress a couple weeks ago, and that’s saying something.
“You’re up, Reid. That’s eight hits you’ve got to beat. Think you have it in you?” She passes me the bat.
“For what’s on the line?” I lean toward her and watch with satisfaction as her breathing stops. Just ceases completely, her lips parting and her eyes going a little glazed. “Oh, yeah. I’ve got it in me.”
With a smile, I step back and grab the men’s helmet she brought. After I put it on, I shed my hoodie and step into the cage. I take a few practice swings, getting the feel for the bat. It’s been a while since I’ve played, but I’m confident I can outdo her. I have to. “Ready.”
“Roger that. Ball one, coming your way.”
I listen to the whir of the machine winding up and get ready to swing.
“Oh, hey, your shoe’s untied,” she calls.
I glance down to see my shoelaces still tied, and the ball whizzes past me. Turning around, I glare at her, fighting against the tug at the corner of my mouth when she just grins. “It’s gonna be like that? You sure you wanna play with the big boys, snuggle muffin? Things could get heated.”
“I’m ready for whatever you can dish out, Reid.”
She’s going to be sorry she said that, but I don’t say anything more. Instead, I twist back around and focus, put her right out of my mind as I swing and hit, swing and hit. By the time all the balls have been pitched, the score is close, but she beat me by one ball—the one that flew by when she diverted my attention at the beginning.
She’s positively beaming as I step out of the cage. “Thought you were bringing it? If my calculations are right, that round goes to me.”
With a nod, I concede. “It does. And it’ll be the only round you win tonight.”
“Big words for a loser.”
I laugh, shaking my head at her as I hand off the bat and we switch places. “Just remember you brought this on yourself.”
* * *
paige
I step into the cage, pleased as fuck with the turn of events. But it’s still too close for my liking. Yeah, I won the first round, but only by one freakin’ ball. And if I hadn’t diverted Adam’s attention at the beginning, I have no doubt that round would’ve gone to him. And that is unacceptable.
“Brought what on myself?” I glance back at him, and God, why did I do that?
Because at that exact moment, I get an eyeful of Adam stripping off his T-shirt, the act of him tugging the collar over his head bunching the muscles in his arms, his sculpted abs coming into view one two-pack at a time. And then he’s just standing there in nothing but low-slung shorts and a sheen of sweat over the perfection that is his chest. My eyes don’t know where to look first—the defined, broad shoulders? The cut arms? His pecs or freakin’ eight-pack abs? That delicious V that disappears into the waistband of his shorts? Or the trail of dark hair that leads straight to what I absolutely am not going to think about? Snapping my eyes up to his, I see his stupid smug face grinning back at me, and I glare.
“Nice try, Adam. You think you’re the first guy with a nice body I’ve seen? Gonna have to do more than that to get me off my game.”
“Whatever y
ou say, honey bunches. You ready?”
I face forward and give a quick nod, forcing myself not to look back. Taking a deep breath, I try to forget what he looks like standing there behind me, all dark-haired, muscled perfection. I try to concentrate only on the balls coming at me at sixty miles per hour, but it’s goddamn hard. And it only gets worse when Adam steps into my peripheral vision, coming closer to the cage. He’s standing off to the side so he doesn’t get hit with stray balls, his fingers hooked in the chain-link of the cage. The stance is casual, but his intent is anything but. I know he has an ulterior motive. I’m not an idiot, and neither is he. When he stands like that, with one arm braced higher than the other, it does amazing things for his arms and his abs and, seriously, Ryan Gosling has nothing on him.
I miss four times in a row, and it’s clear having him there messes with my mojo.
“God, can you go somewhere else?” I yell, taking another swing and missing.
“Something wrong?” I can hear the smug satisfaction in his voice, and I want to wipe that smirk off his face. With my tongue.
I growl at him, the fear of losing inching up my spine. I shouldn’t have made that bet. I was an idiot, because, yeah, I was planning on having him doing something funny and beneficial to me—like baking me cupcakes while wearing that frilly apron my mom bought me as a joke. It would’ve been hilarious as fuck. But him? I know his winnings are going to be far more detrimental to my sanity than a frilly apron could ever be to his.
When the last ball comes sailing out and I miss—a-freakin’-gain—I stomp out of the cage and point the bat straight at him. “I’m calling DQ on that bullshit!” I’m not even sorry it comes out as a yell, causing a few of the others around us to glance our way.
He’s the picture of innocence as he turns to face me, leaning back against the chain-link, his arms crossed, and my God, what kind of exercises does this guy do to get arms like that? Bench press houses? “What?” he asks. “I didn’t do anything. Didn’t even heckle you.”
“Oh, no, I can handle heckling. What I can’t handle is you being all”—I wave a hand in his direction, encompassing all that is his fuckhotness and make a disgusted sound—“you know.”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“Oh, please, you totally know.”
“‘Fraid not. Gonna have to spell it out for me, sugar plum.”
“Look, dude, I’m not going to shower you with compliments over your fuckhot body, so try again.”
He doesn’t say anything, but the smile that starts slowly and then takes up so much of his face I want to kiss it off speaks volumes. Oh, it is so on.
“Fine. Just remember you brought this on yourself,” I repeat his words from earlier. With that, I walk over to the bench that has all our stuff littered over the top of it. I pull off the helmet I’m wearing and set it on the bench. Then I reach down and grab the hem of my T-shirt, tugging it right over my head.
“I’m ready. Hit m— What the fuck are you doing?” His voice is like granite, hard and penetrating.
I shrug, not glancing at him. “It’s hot.”
“I don’t give a shit if it’s hot. You’re not walking around without a goddamn shirt on.” He glances around at the other cages. It’s not terribly busy, but we’re not the only ones out here. His jaw clenches as he spots a few guys a couple cages over looking at us. “Put your shirt back on, Paige.”
“I have a sports bra on, Dad. This is way more than I wear at the beach.”
“We’re not at the beach,” he bites out.
“Nope, we’re here to hit some balls, and I’m starting the machine, so you better get ready to swing, big boy.”
He snaps his mouth shut, his eyes glaring daggers into me, and I really didn’t think this whole thing through. Because now, not only am I staring at a half-naked Adam, but I have one less layer covering me to hide my reactions to his body… How was I supposed to know he’d get all…territorial about me? And that I’d like it?
Without saying another word, he turns around, his attention on the machine, and starts swinging with a single-minded focus. It’s a thing of beauty to watch. There’s no denying it—Adam knows his way around a bat and ball. And, God, the way his back and shoulder muscles flex with each swing, the glimpse of his abs as he twists, the powerful clench and release of his leg muscles…holy mama. Batting cages were a really fucking bad idea.
By the time the last ball comes to him, I’m huffing on the bench, arms crossed and lasers attempting to be shot out of my eyes into his general direction. All his focus paid off, because he takes that round, making us even. He comes out of the cage and walks toward me until he’s standing right in front of where I’m sitting on the bench, his helmet held in his hand.
I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t dare look into them. Don’t dare look at his body, either, so I glance up and stare just off to the side, past the delectable muscles in his arms.
“You have any idea how difficult it is to swing with a hard-on?” he asks, his voice all low and scratchy and delicious.
I swallow, forcing my eyes not to drop to the front of his shorts and get another peek of what I already know he’s packing. “Can’t say I do, no.”
“Yeah, well, it’s really fucking difficult.”
“Hey, don’t blame me. You’re the one who started stripping first. I warned you I’d retaliate.”
He huffs out a laugh, lifting his hand to run through his hair, and I finally allow myself to meet his gaze. His eyes are focused, intent, and he looks…hungry. And determined. The combination is hot as hell if the wetness in my panties is anything to go by.
“If you think I didn’t get hard until you stripped off your shirt, you haven’t been paying attention, Paige.” He drops his helmet, then rests his hands on either side of my hips on the bench, trapping me there as he leans toward me. “But just so you know? I’m not losing tonight.” His eyes flit down to my lips, and I part them in response. “And I’m going to get my prize.”
SIXTEEN
paige
Turns out Adam can tell the goddamn future.
To his credit, he’s not being smug about his win. In fact, as soon as he hit the last ball to put him in the lead, he stopped. Just turned and walked right out of the cage, balls still flying out of the machine. He grabbed his shirt and yanked it on before thrusting mine at me, then grabbed all our shit off the bench and jerked his head toward the parking lot.
And now here we are. Me in the driver’s seat, pouting, waiting…wondering. And he’s seated on the passenger’s side, not looking smug.
“Are you saving your gloating for when we get back to the apartment, or what?”
He slides me a glance out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t gloat.”
“But you will collect on your winnings.”
“You’re damn right I will.”
The confident way he says this, his voice a little gruff, has all my best places clenching and throbbing with need. Damn them. I have to swallow before I can speak. “Are you going to tell me what it is yet?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I’m afraid if I tell you now, I’ll take it, and I’m still a little pissed at you for stripping down in front of two dozen other people. It won’t go how I need it to.”
“How do you need it to go?”
“Slow.”
“And if you do it now…?”
“Not slow. Or particularly nice.”
Who knew Adam had this side to him? I sure as hell didn’t. And from his reactions, I’m not sure he did, either. The thought sends warmth through me when it shouldn’t. Warmth at the thought that I might be the first girl he’s felt like that for. Like I might be the only girl he’s felt like that for.
“Fine, if you’re not going to tell me yet, you need to do something else to cheer me up. I’m a very sore loser. I need to look through your murse.”
“My what now?”
“Your mu
rse.” I shake my head and roll my eyes. Men. “You know, your man purse.”
The look he shoots me is pure outrage as he reaches around and grabs the said murse out of the backseat and places it in his lap. “This is not a murse. It’s a duffel bag. A manly duffel bag where I carry manly things.”
“Like a cup for your junk.”
“Exactly.”
“Which you didn’t even use, by the way.”
“And thank fuck for that. Would’ve been uncomfortable as hell in the state you put me in.”
Why does him reminding me of it turn me on even more? “Quit stalling and hand over the goods, Reid. You promised.”
He does so without comment, passing the nylon bag into my lap. With a giddy smile, I unzip it and yank it open, relieved when it doesn’t smell like sweaty socks and dirty underwear. Somehow I knew he’d be like that…clean. Tidy. Makes me want to remind him when he wasn’t like that. When he was dirty and messy and hot as hell.
I start tossing stuff out into his lap. First an extra pair of shorts, then folded up socks, some weight lifting gloves. “Boring, boring, boring.” I was hoping he’d have something good in here. Something I could taunt him with. Like a bottle of hairspray or face lotion. Something feminine in his manly duffel bag. But then I don’t even care that he doesn’t have anything like that in here, because I come across what can only be described as something from another planet. I pull out the cup, still in the packaging, and stare at it before bursting into laughter. “Holy shit, it looks like something an alien would wear over their face. See?” I ask, pointing at it, then holding it up in front of my face. “Like, their nose here and it strapped around their head?”
He raises an eyebrow at me, and I can tell he’s trying to fight a smile. “I can assure you I’ve never put one of these anywhere near my mouth.”
“Looks like you’ve never worn one, either,” I say, gesturing to the plastic package.
Paige in Progress (Reluctant Hearts #3) Page 11
