Caught by You

by Jennifer Bernard

  “What are you waiting for, Solo?” Donna wiggled her butt back and forth. “You said quickie.”

  “I’m trying to remember where my condoms are. I’m the guy who took a Vow of Celibacy, remember? I don’t usually have to worry about protection.”

  “Back pocket of my jeans,” she said, peeking over her freckled shoulder at him. His hands stilled on her skin. “Don’t look like that. I challenged you, remember? And the last thing I need is for another accident to happen. I wanted to make extra sure.”

  He shook off his momentary hesitation and gave her a little pat on the rear. “Hang on. This’ll just take a second.”

  He found her jeans draped across a box and rummaged for the condom. The thought of Donna carrying around protection had jarred him, because it made him wonder who else she’d had sex with. Which was idiotic, because obviously she’d had a whole life before him. A life that included a baby. Donna was no virgin.

  Angela . . . Angela had been a virgin when they first had sex. He’d been her first, and she’d been his first.

  He found the condom—­not a brand he normally used—­and viciously ripped open the package. What was he doing, thinking about Angela? He’d had sex with plenty of women since her. Fun, meaningless sex.

  His movements slowed as he withdrew the condom from its foil package. It was a familiar sight. After Angela had dumped him—­and after he’d recovered from the surgery—­he’d gone on a sex binge, fueled by bitterness and the need to drive her from his mind. That was one of the reasons he’d started taking the vow at the start of the season. Sex was fantastic. He loved sex. But he was on a mission to reach the major leagues, and he didn’t want the distraction.

  Off-­season, he’d done whatever he wanted, with whatever girl was interested. No strings, no drama, no regrets sex. About as shallow as a puddle in a Texas heat wave.

  He traced the rim of the condom, readying it to slip on his penis. Donna was different. Obviously, she was different because he planned to marry her. But it was more than that. She touched a part of him that he’d thought beyond reach. He felt things for her. And now they were about to have sex, which was great and he was incredibly excited about it . . . but it was serious too. The first time with Angela—­a full year after they’d gotten engaged—­had been hushed and tentative; it had felt almost sacred. For the first time since his heart had been ripped from his body, he was about to have sex that meant something.

  He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. In a way, this was good-­bye to Angela. Good-­bye to the death grip she’d put on his heart.

  Shaking off the dark thoughts, he rolled the condom onto his erection, which had begun to soften. When he turned back to the bed, it was empty.

  Donna had left him. He felt hollow and ridiculous, standing alone with his latex-­covered dick pointing at nothing. Hell, he probably deserved to be kicked to the curb, with all his morose thoughts about Angela. He reached down to peel the condom off his penis, when a sound made him look up.

  “Dah-­dah-­dah-­dah-­dum.” The classic stripper theme. One naked leg peeked from the other side of the doorjamb. “Dah-­dah-­dah-­dah-­dum.” She straightened that leg, so the whole limb was exposed, then slithered around the edge of the door. Completely naked, except for his baseball glove, in which her hand was engulfed, shielding her sex. With the other hand and arm, she covered her breasts. Sweet little mounds of flesh plumped above her forearm. A cheeky smile dimpled her mouth. Her hair curled in wild fiery tendrils, just brushing her shoulders. She was adorable and sexy, and his cock went hard as wood.

  “That’s my glove,” he said stupidly. His glove had never been anywhere near a woman’s body before. Even from here he could smell the faint scent of oiled leather.

  “Yes. Want it back?”

  She executed a sexy little twirl. When her back was to him, the riveting sway of her ass gave his cock another infusion of stiffness. Once she was facing him again, she pretended to drop the glove, which gave him a quick flash of her coppery curls.

  “Oopsies.” She put a bashful hand over her mouth and batted her eyelashes, covering herself again with the glove, which looked like a leather fan. Or a big, thick-­fingered hand. His gaze shot to her breasts, which were now exposed, her rosy nipples erotically engorged.

  Lust flooded his brain, and all he could think was Woman . . . want . . . now. He strode to her, plucked the glove from her hand, lifted her with both hands under her ass, and crowded her against the wall. “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

  “The bed’s right—­”

  “Too far,” he grunted. “Do it.”

  She did it, and the feel of her soft flesh surrounding him made the mad need pound through his veins. With his last scrap of rational thought, he reached between them to stroke a finger inside her. Wet and warm and velvety heaven. Groaning, he took hold of his cock and poised it at her entrance. She tilted her head against the wall, her eyes half closed, glowing gold. So beautiful, so sparkling and vivid and fiery and . . .

  He was inside her. Heat clung to him as he pressed forward, inch by inch, as if claiming his territory. I belong here, the crazy thought surfaced. She belongs to me. All the way in now, his cock seated completely within her, a sword in its scabbard, a hand in its glove. Exactly where he belonged.

  He pulled out so he could plunge in again, feeling the expansion of her passage accommodating his thickness.

  “Mike,” She sighed, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. “That feels crazy good.”

  He couldn’t answer; he was too immersed in the feel of her, his encased flesh sliding against her slick tissues, her thighs trembling against his hips. He pumped into her, her spine pressed against the wall, her legs tight around him. She might be getting tired holding this position. She didn’t spend vast stretches of her life building up her thigh muscles, the way he did.

  Another thrust, then another, the pressure building in his spine, the pleasure shorting out his brain. And then . . . the explosion rocked through him, paralyzing him. A groan left his mouth, long and primal, echoing in a distant way, as if it came from someone else.

  Euphoria. Release. Happiness. As soon as the spasms stopped, he swung her around and walked her to the bed, then lowered her down. He removed the condom and climbed next to her, cuddling her body next to his.

  “You okay?” she whispered.

  He nodded. “Give me a minute.”

  He’d had sex. Broken the vow. He waited for the guilt to swamp him. Instead the image of Donna prancing around naked with his baseball glove flashed into his mind. He relaxed back on the bed and let the laughter roll out of him, free and deep and easy. “You are something else, Donna MacIntyre.”

  “Thanks. I guess.”

  He rolled over and skimmed his hand across her belly. The little muscles along her torso quivered. Letting his fingers saunter up the slope of her breast, he realized it wouldn’t take him long to be fully hard again. “What made you come up with that glove idea?”

  She shrugged. “It seemed like you were getting awfully serious putting that condom on. Thought I’d lighten things up a little.”

  “You’re good at that, aren’t you? Lightening things up.”

  Another shrug. “It’s my thing.”

  He reached her nipple, which stiffened with gratifying speed. “I’m a little worried what will happen the next time I use that glove.”

  “Really?” Breathless, she shifted under his touch.

  “I’ll think of you. And this. Here.” He gathered her breast into his hand, the plump warm flesh filling his palm. “And here.” Shifting his hand to the thicket of curls between her legs, he squeezed lightly. Her eyelids flickered closed, and without warning, he was completely hard.

  “Ready for the second inning?” he whispered as he moved on top of her.

  “How many innings are there again?”

>   “Nine. Unless the score is tied, then we go to extra innings. Longest game in history lasted thirty-­three innings. Eleven hours and twenty-­five minutes.”

  “We can break that record.”

  Chapter 15

  DONNA CAME BACK to awareness with a start. The sun was slanting through the window blinds, casting long slices of lemony light across the room. She lay on her back, diagonally across the bed, one arm flung sideways, the way Zack always slept, and one leg draped across Mike’s thigh. His powerfully muscled thigh, strong enough to bear her weight while he screwed her against the wall.

  Holy Sex Marathon. After Mike had broken through his hesitation, they’d made love over and over again. She’d brought only two condoms, so for the “third inning” he’d taken a break and unpacked several boxes to locate his condom stash. After that, nothing held them back from their all-­nighter. Sexual satisfaction hummed through her body, along with a slight ache in her private area, which hadn’t had much to crow about lately.

  She extracted her leg from Mike’s thigh and leaned over the bulk of his shoulder to peer at his face. Slack-­jawed and deeply asleep, he looked like an innocent choirboy with those black curls tumbling over his forehead. Like an Italian painting she’d seen in an art book at the library. It was only when he opened his eyes, those devil-­green eyes, that his mischievous side was revealed. His body sprawled loosely across the bed, magnificent in relaxation, pure masculine perfection. His penis curled against his legs, his heavy balls loose and flaccid under their covering of black curls.

  Oh, the things that penis could do. The things it could make her feel, along with his rough, clever hands and greedy tongue.

  She shivered and lay back down. The air was still and slightly stuffy, and a hint of sex still tinged the air.

  They’d done it. They’d had sex. She’d wanted it, as a way to call his bluff and make sure he was serious about getting married. And because she’d wanted it.

  Anxiety tightened her throat. Had she pulled her usual routine and acted without thinking things through? She hadn’t anticipated this feeling, this hopeless, cursed emotion nagging at her. Before last night, she’d considered herself to be infatuated with Mike. Now her feelings had shifted. They’d settled into her bones, infiltrated her circulation, like some kind of virus. As if every beat of her heart sent more of it pumping through her body. She loved Mike. Utterly and completely.

  Cripes. What had she done? Yes, things were real now. Too real. They were going to get married, which meant she’d be tied to someone she was hopelessly in love with—­but who didn’t love her back. Torture.

  He’d had sex with her to prove he wasn’t still hung up on Angela. Maybe he wasn’t—­but that didn’t mean he had real feelings for Donna. He’d definitely never mentioned anything like that.

  Did it matter?

  Mike would get called up sooner or later. He’d leave Kilby. She would stay. She had to stay because of Zack. No way would Harvey or the Hannigans let her leave, and she wouldn’t want Zack to be without his extended family anyway. She and Mike would have a long-­distance relationship, and everyone knew those didn’t work. It would fall apart, they’d end the marriage, and she’d begin the process of rebuilding her peace of mind.

  At least she’d have Zack, which made up for everything else.

  Mike’s phone buzzed from the floor somewhere. One of his arms shot toward it, feeling along the edge of the mattress. Donna rolled out of bed, skipped to the other side, then put the phone in his hand.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled into it, once he’d plastered it crookedly to his ear. Silence ensued while he listened to whoever had called. Donna took the opportunity to find her own phone and check the time. Six-­thirty. She had to be at work at nine. Who would call Mike at six-­thirty in the morning?

  When she turned back, he was sitting up, rubbing the sleep grains out of his eyes. “Yazmer? That dickhead. Where?” He swung his legs over the side of his bed and strode from the room. Donna couldn’t help watching the way his ass muscles flexed with each step. Sweet Lord, he was a sexy, sexy man.

  But this wasn’t the moment for lust, since clearly something bad was in the works. She untangled the top sheet, which looked as if it had gone through the washer too many times, and wrapped it around her. In the living room, she found Mike bent over a small black-­and-­white TV that sat on a box in the corner.

  “I don’t even know if I get any channels,” he was saying. “Hang on, let me get to my laptop. Don’t hang up.”

  Donna spotted a laptop on the butcher-­block island next to her. Obligingly, she opened it for him and turned it on. Naked, powerful and magnificent, he walked toward her, brushed a kiss across her lips, and leaned over the laptop.

  Her lips tingling, she watched as he pulled up Twitter. He searched for @TheYaz, which brought up a profile picture of the pitcher about to kiss a baseball.

  Mike scrolled through a series of tweets, in which Yazmer was making some kind of announcement. Slowly, he read aloud. “Searched my conscience. The dear Lord showed Yaz the way. Crush Taylor gotz to go.”

  Next tweet. “Tried to get him in on petition to keep locker room sacred. Told me no politics in the clubhouse.”

  Next tweet. “Want to use my fame to do the Lord’s work. Lord told me, Crush Taylor’s got to go. Let’s make this shit viral. Hashtag CrushIt. RT, baby.”

  He glanced at Donna. “RT? What’s RT?”

  “Retweet,” Donna told him, apparently at the same time his mystery caller did.

  “Retweet? This is nuts. Who cares what some rookie pitcher thinks? I gotta go, Caleb. This is too much bullshit first thing in the morning. Catch you later.” He tossed his phone onto the butcher-­block countertop.

  “Retweet?” he repeated to Donna. “What is going on here?”

  “You don’t spend much time on social media, do you?”

  “I post stuff to Instagram now and then. Facebook. I’m just a dude who plays baseball. What am I going to put on Twitter?” He ran a hand through his thick curls, then along his jaw, which was studded with black stubble. He blinked at her. “Donna.” He sounded surprised to see her.

  “Remember me?” Still clutching the sheet, she gave a little wave.

  “Um, yeah. I’m not about to forget a night like that. I just wish the morning hadn’t started with this bullshit. I’d rather be under your sheet with you.”

  He reached for her, but she took a step back. She wasn’t quite ready to surrender to the tug of lust that had already sprung up between them. “So Yazmer’s starting a campaign against Crush?”

  “Yaz wants attention. He needs it like oxygen.” He went to one of the boxes occupying the living room and knelt down to rummage through it. After a short search, he pulled out a bath towel. Rising to his feet, he wrapped it around his waist. Donna was a little sad to see him covered up, but at least his torso was still on display, with its rippling muscles and light sprinkling of springy curls.

  “He’s been passing this petition around to keep gay reporters out of the locker room. It’s not like we even have any in this town, as far as I‘ve heard. And how would we even know if they were? What does he want to do, make them wear a big LGBT label on their foreheads? Of course, if it was a hot lesbian reporter he’d be all over it. The dude’s a straight-­up homophobic hypocrite.”

  He ran a hand across the back of his neck. Donna was riveted by the way his biceps bunched from the movement. If only Mike wasn’t so physically appealing. It just wasn’t fair. Even first thing in the morning, after being woken up by a surprise phone call, sleepy-­eyed and a little grumpy, he looked beautiful to her.

  “Well, I hate to say this, but he’s not the only one. We have some close-­minded ­people in this town. When the owner of the Smoke Pit came out as gay, some ­people boycotted it. But most folks didn’t care, so long as they still ran their burger and a beer five-­dollar
special on Tuesday nights.”

  A broad grin spread across Mike’s face. “I don’t know how you do it, but you always make me look on the bright side of things.”

  “You know my motto. Laugh so you don’t cry.”

  He took a few steps closer and put his hand under her chin, tilting her face up. “I never want you to cry.”

  She answered solemnly. “Then you have to make a sacred promise to never let me cut up an onion. Those things wreck me.”

  He laughed, then released her chin and went to check the laptop again. “He just sent out a new tweet. Don’t Can the Catfish. Can the Crush. Hashtag CrushIt. RT, baby.”

  Slamming shut his laptop, he shoved it aside. “How does he even have time for this crap? Last I heard, he was designing a Yazmer action figure and a line of underwear.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Who knows? He talks about a lot of things. You never know what’s real. The guy has an imagination almost as big as his ego. We had him pegged all wrong, you know. At the start of the season he was spouting off to the press all the time, and we figured he had no experience dealing with the media. I think we had it backwards. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He wants press attention and he’ll say all kinds of offensive shit to get it. Anything about gays in sports always gets the reporters going.”

  “Won’t he make the reporters hate him? At least, the gay ones?”

  “He doesn’t care if they hate him. Any attention is good attention. He’ll probably become a hero to the anti-­gay crowd.”

  Finally, the light dawned. She couldn’t believe it had taken so long to put the pieces together. “Joey. That’s why you’re so upset about Yazmer.”

  “Yeah, my brother’s a big part of it.” Mike circled around the kitchen sink, pulled a ­couple of plastic stadium cups from a cupboard, and filled one of them with water. He handed it to her over the island. “Drink up, you need hydration after a night like that.”

  He winked, giving her a glimpse of the playful, mischievous Mike Solo she was more used to. Not that she didn’t like this serious version of Mike as well. She did. Too much.