Throwing Heat: A Diamonds and Dugouts Novel

by Jennifer Seasons

  To win the World Series and Leslie in one swoop was pretty much every dream he’d had for the last four years rolled up into one. And he was feeling lucky. He was feeling a lot like it was past time to have it out with Leslie. The sexual tension they’d built between them was more dangerous than a landmine.

  He was ready for the explosion.

  Peter leaned forward and whispered into Leslie’s ear, “Tonight.”

  He felt her back snap straight as a helpless little whimper escaped her lips, betraying her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  The hell she didn’t. Her breathing had gone shallow. Peter could feel her core get hotter and pushed his middle finger into her gently, teasing her through the fabric. It killed him, what she was wearing.

  Princess.

  Knowing that she had picked it just to torment him made it so fucking sexy. Almost as hot as the way her breasts were displayed, all pushed up together with the best cleavage he’d ever seen. It had nearly dropped him to his knees when he’d first laid eyes on it.

  Glancing down the table to see if Mark was watching, Peter nipped the back of her neck and said roughly, “Don’t play coy.”

  He was going to say more when Mark glanced over at them, frowning slightly. So instead of keeping his hand on her like he wanted to, he stepped back and said, “It’s still on.”

  She tossed him a look meant to be dismissive, but the hint of uncertainty he saw in her eye ruined the effect and had his gut squeezing. So she knew it too. Tonight was their night.

  “Hey, Kowalskin! Come join the celebration!” shouted Drake. “You’re missing all the fun.” The jolly green ballplayer waved down the table to the stacks of empty shot glasses.

  “I’ll be there in a second,” he replied, his attention on Leslie as she sashayed away with her nose in the air, looking every bit the regal, royal princess she was pretending to be.

  She was headed straight toward Paulson. Once she reached him, she poured a shot glass full of whiskey and raised it up, shouting to be heard over the music. “To the Rush!” And then she downed the drink, not waiting for anyone to join the toast.

  “Hey!” protested the veteran. “Sharing is caring, sweet thing.”

  Leslie smiled tightly, and Peter couldn’t help admiring the way her hair looked all bundled up like that with little strands dangling against her neck. It was different than what she normally did. It was softer. He liked it.

  “Sorry about that, y’all,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Crazy night.”

  Right then the lights flickered and went out, making somebody scream, and she added dryly above the noise, “Case in point.”

  He was just starting to become uncomfortable in the dark when the lights came back on. The first thing he saw when his eyes readjusted to the brightness was a giant ugly green man with an afro like a head of broccoli. The second was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen wearing a purple dress potent enough to drop a man at twenty paces. He might not have gone down, but that didn’t mean the impact of her hadn’t hit him like a wrecking ball.

  She was a fantasy.

  His fantasy. Peter’s very own princess.

  “What’s on your mind there, Walskie?” How had Paulson snuck up on him? The guy moved like a lumberjack.

  “Visions in purple,” he replied, not even trying to pretend.

  The veteran scratched his chest and muttered gruffly, “Damn stuff itches something fierce.” His green shirt was open in a deep V like a seventies porn star—he was making the Green Giant into a perv, apparently—and he’d used one of those green spray cans of hair paint on his chest, turning his thick patch the color of summer leaves.

  “I have to give you props. When you go at something, you really commit,” he said, gesturing to the getup.

  “It’s all about the love.” Drake held out a shot glass full of fine malt whiskey. “Hey, your vision is about to hit the floor with the Lone Ranger. Unless you want to see her ride off into the sunset on Silver, you better intercede, man.”

  Peter’s gaze whipped to where Drake had indicated, and sure enough his princess was taking to the dance floor with some poser in a cheap costume. His jaw clenched and his gut turned sour.

  It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care. This whole bet thing with her was just physical anyway. All he wanted was to replace the memory of their shitty night with a new, improved one. Why it mattered so much, he didn’t know. Didn’t really want to know. He just knew that he was tired of carrying the memories with him like a frigging ball and chain. He wanted them gone. As long as he got what he wanted then it shouldn’t matter at all what the hell she did.

  It shouldn’t.

  But it did.

  Chapter Twenty

  * * *

  LESLIE SAW HIM coming for her. Like a panther stalking his prey, Peter was stealth and grace, cutting through the crowd like a big cat in the tall grass, his eyes locked on her. Her pulse skittered and her breath caught in her throat. God help her, but it was exciting.

  “Come closer, fair maiden,” said her dance partner with a suggestive wiggle of eyebrows almost hidden by his mask.

  Oh God, really?

  She should have known that any guy who’d be the Lone Ranger for Halloween wouldn’t know how to pick up a woman successfully if directions had been written on the inside of his ten-gallon hat. But, whatever. He had just been a handy excuse to get away from Peter anyway.

  Or so she’d thought.

  Now she had a way nerdy and slightly creepy dance partner and a dangerous man stalking toward her. With nowhere to run. Or hide.

  As the ballplayer bore down on her from across the dance floor, she cozied up to the Lone Ranger, completely unashamed of the fact that she was doing it just to see what kind of reaction she could get out of Peter. Until she figured out how to not be in love with him anymore she was stuck with it—stuck with feeling vulnerable.

  And if she had to feel that way, then it was time to poke at the pitcher and see what was hidden behind that cool, detached exterior of his. See if he really was jealous. Because if he was, then it meant that she had a hold on him too. And that would be okay because then she wouldn’t feel so alone.

  “Here, like this,” she shouted as “Thrift Shop” by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis came on, the rap music filling in for the reggae band while they took a much deserved break. Leslie spun around, hiked up her full skirt, held fistfuls of it on her knees, and rocked against the Lone Ranger.

  He put his hands on her hips and moved with her, calling out, “What’s your name?”

  Never going to happen, was all she could think to reply, but then she saw Peter scowling and shoving his wave through the crush of hot bodies toward her. Oh my. The look on his face was one she’d never seen before. It was hard with warning, and when she did a booty shake and backed up to the Ranger, Peter’s eyes flashed like diamonds in the sun and her instincts went on high alert.

  Leslie’s feet wanted to bolt from her spot, but her heart needed her to stay right where she was and look for proof that she hadn’t made another ginormous mistake. That she hadn’t just tossed her heart away for a man. She needed desperately to feel that Peter was deep in this thing too.

  He was moving to her, getting closer and closer with every bass beat as Macklemore went on about popping tags and only having twenty dollars in his pocket. Excitement had her breath coming in hard, fast bursts. Her heart raced from exertion and from having a very tough, very sexy man barreling down on her with a look in his eye that promised trouble once he got his hands on her.

  Part of her was scared. Any sane woman would be. Peter Kowalskin on a mission was a sight to see, all pale lethal eyes and hard athlete’s body. Her stomach pitched and her nerves were singing. He had that effect on her.

  Suddenly a full-figured Hispanic woman dressed up like Fergie during her Black Eyed Pea days spun around and discovered Kowalskin right behind her. With an, “Hola chico guapo!” she grabbed him up by the waist and wrapped herself aroun
d him like a vice, hooking one heavy thigh around his hip and her hands around his neck, stopping him dead in his tracks. The look of utter astonishment on his face was absolutely priceless.

  Leslie started laughing and couldn’t stop. Peter glared at her, tried to unwind himself and failed, glared again. In return she just shrugged delicately and rotated her hips. Her dance partner hollered into her ear, “Can I buy you a drink after?”

  That was sweet, really, but, “Thanks for the offer, but no.”

  The Lone Ranger stopped moving, clearly disappointed in her response. “I’m done here then,” he practically spat and left her standing alone in the middle of the dance floor with her purple dress around her knees.

  Suddenly self-conscious, Leslie reached out and snagged a shot glass full of something from a passing server’s tray and tossed it back. She needed fortification. When she glanced back at Kowalskin, she found him giving her a smile that wasn’t really a smile at all. It was the self-satisfied smirk of a predator who had a clear line on his prey and was just about to pounce.

  And she ran.

  She couldn’t help it. Every instinct in her told her to tuck tail and run for dear life. The panther had been bated long enough and now he was after her.

  It was terrifying. Exhilarating. Erotic.

  Leslie took off through the crowd, blind to anything but putting distance between her and Peter so that she could breathe. She’d made a mistake, teasing him. She took it back.

  With a quick glance over her left shoulder, she swallowed a cry when she saw he was right behind her, successfully untangled from the big-chested Latina. And he was still grinning.

  Leslie broke free on the far side of the dance floor, “Thrift Shop” still slamming through the speakers to the delight of the party crowd. A laugh bubbled up in her chest and let loose as she took off running down the hall that led to her office. Was he still coming after her?

  She glanced back again and there he was, pushing out of the crowd after her. Oh God, here he comes. Nerves, anticipation, fear, arousal. All of it pooled in the pit of her stomach and began swirling, mixing in an intoxicating concoction that made her light-headed.

  Leslie reached the door to her office, yanked out the keys she’d shoved between her breasts, and stepped hastily inside. And that’s when it happened.

  The lights went out.

  A scream rose in her throat. Rationally she knew she was okay. It was her club, her office, and it was Peter stalking down the hall toward her, not some random guy.

  But it was Peter.

  “Come on, lights.” She muttered under her breath and fumbled for the door knob in the pitch dark, trying to close it before he reached her. Because she wasn’t sure what was happening. She’d baited him and now he was coming after her. There would be no turning back if he got his hands on any part of her. The look in his eye had said as much.

  And she didn’t know what time it was, didn’t know if she had the willpower to hold him off. Didn’t know if she even cared.

  Now anger took a stand and joined her, and she welcomed it. It helped reel her back in. How could she even think of caving now when she was mere minutes away from winning her career back?

  Relief flooded her when her hand finally gripped the cool round doorknob and started to pull it shut. It was replaced by a skitter of fear when it was yanked out of her hand and her back was pushed up against a wall, a hard body pressing flush against hers.

  He’d found her.

  “Now you’re mine,” he growled against her ear, and in the dark with her senses heightened his Yankee-tough voice was just about the most erotic thing she’d ever heard.

  She was wet and needy for him in an instant.

  “No,” Leslie whispered raggedly, not really meaning it. His mouth was on her neck, kissing her in that sweet spot just below her ear that was so sensitive. She grabbed at her control and fought against the intense arousal coursing through her.

  Peter thrust a heavy thigh between her legs and pushed them apart, one hand pinning both of hers above her head, the other streaking boldly, possessively over her hips. “No more games, princess. You want this. You know you do.”

  So help her, she did.

  His lips scalded her neck and Leslie let her head fall back, moaned when his tongue slowly tasted her, teased her sensitive flesh. Through the door she could see the lights were back on down the hall, but her office was still dark. It only served to excite her more, being in the semi-dark with Peter. The feel of his hard, unforgiving body pressed against hers made her knees weak.

  “We can’t do this.” The words sounded hollow even to her ears. One of his hands stroked down her leg until it reached her knee and gathered the fabric of her skirt, pushing it aside. Then his jean-clad thigh was rubbing against her crotch and he was taking her mouth in a hungry kiss. Tongue and teeth and primal, aroused male. Never had she been kissed like this, not with this much unbridled passion.

  It pushed the last of her resistance right out of her mind.

  On a moan of surrender, Leslie opened to him and began kissing him back with matching heat. She tugged her captive hands, but he held her steady, ground out, “Not yet,” his voice rough with need.

  His hand skimmed up her bare thigh and when Peter reached her panties he yanked them to the side and slid a finger in between her slick lips. “Fuck, Leslie,” he growled. “You’re so wet for me.”

  Always. She was always wet for him. “Yes,” was all she could say because his thumb had found her clit and was rubbing it, driving her closer and closer to orgasm.

  “Come,” he demanded. “Come now.”

  Like she was a puppet and he was her master, Leslie came. The orgasm tore through her with almost violent force and she cried out, “Peter!”

  “Again,” was all he demanded, his fingers taking no mercy on her as he drove her straight into another orgasm, blowing her mind.

  “Why?” Leslie whispered raggedly when the second orgasm began to subside.

  Peter trailed kisses over her jaw, searching for her mouth and when he found it he kissed her slowly. “Because you coming is the most beautiful sound in the world,” he breathed against her lips, devastating her.

  Her heart flung wide open and tears stung the back of her eyes as love and arousal coursed through her. The rush of emotion that overcame her had her gasping and clinging to him.

  “Touch me,” she breathed. His hands on her were what she needed, what she craved most. Every stroke was charged with emotion; so much of what he couldn’t say was communicated through his fingertips.

  Needing to feel him, needing to know his heart, Leslie captured his lips with hers in a lingering kiss and moaned when she felt his sexual energy change from aggressive to fluid and erotic. She was suddenly swimming in an ocean of sensuality that verged on dark and decadent. If she’d let him, he would pull her under. And it was so, so tempting.

  But she needed to know his feelings first. “Put your hands on me.” Leslie couldn’t tell if it was a command or if he was begging, and she didn’t care. All that mattered was getting his hands on her now.

  And she got them. Peter released her captive wrists and ran his hand down the length of her arm, across her breast and over her rib cage, with a touch that was confident and possessive and oh-so-hungry. “I want more,” he said against her mouth. “More of you coming for me, panting my name.”

  She wanted that too. But because she wanted to hear him say it, Leslie ran a freed hand down his flat, chiseled stomach and didn’t stop until she was holding his straining erection in her palm.

  “Why so needy?” she whispered as she stroked him through his jeans, loving the feel of him, hard and thick with desire for her. He sucked in a sharp breath and moaned softly.

  Then he reached out with a hand and flung the door shut, flicked on a nearby lamp, and looked at her with eyes that melted into her soul. His voice was rough and gravelly against her neck when he growled, his hands stroking boldly up her bare thighs. “Because p
rincess, I’ve come so many times for you, you don’t even know. Now it’s your turn.”

  A mental image of Peter touching himself over her, stroking himself off, had her going so achy with sexual hunger that it overrode all her senses, and all she could do was moan helplessly, overwhelmed with the knowledge that he’d wanted her like this all along.

  Then her hands were all over him, ripping at his shirt, tugging at his jeans. Peter naked was all she wanted—everything she could need. When his shirt got caught at his chin, he laughed and yanked it the rest of the way off.

  “Better?” he said, eyes hot and hazy with passion. She was about to respond when he snagged two fingers into the front of her bodice and tugged hard. Her breasts sprang free and he grinned wickedly. “No, this is better.”

  A laugh bubbled loose and she tossed back her head just as his mouth captured one of her nipples and sucked gently. Then she groaned and grabbed for his zipper, yanking it down. As soon as he was free, she wrapped her hand around him and smiled victoriously when his hands dug into her hips hard and he hissed between his teeth. His forehead fell to hers and he closed his eyes, panting. “Jesus.”

  Her thumb slipped over the head of his penis, traced the plump ridge and he shuddered, swore. It drove her crazy. Stealing a peek down her body, Leslie moaned softly at the sight of her hand wrapped around his thick shaft, stroking. Her fingers circled the base, and when she moved them down the impressive length of him she noticed it.

  Peter’s tattoo.

  And she suddenly burst out laughing. “Oh God, you really do have one! I was so drunk that night I thought I’d imagined that!”

  But she hadn’t. There, right where the base of his cock met his groin in stylized black script was his THANK YOU FOR RIDING tattoo.

  Still laughing, Peter nipped her skin playfully and growled against her neck as he spun her around and moved her to the desk, “What’s so funny?”