Make Me Yours (Top Shelf Romance Book 4)

by Devney Perry

  He chuckles, but it is anything but amused. “Because talk is cheap, Scout. Your lips are saying one thing, but your body and eyes are telling me something completely different. Did you already forget how incredible the other night was? How good I made you feel?” His eyes pin me motionless with a dare to refute him. “So go ahead and lie to yourself —stand by your one-night stand excuse—but just know I don’t buy it for one minute. I was there. I know the truth.”

  “Maybe I’m just a girl who likes to see how many major leaguer notches I can add to my belt.” Deflect. Divert. Distract.

  “You’re full of funny today, aren’t you? Do you think the other night would have happened if I thought that you were a baseball betty trying to charm me into the diamond between your thighs?”

  “Then why did it happen?” The question is out before I can stop it, and I know it’s surprised him because I can feel his fingers stiffen on my arm. I immediately want to know and don’t want to know the answer.

  “Because you’re incredible? Is that a good enough answer?” He angles his head and just stares at me for a beat in a way that has heat spreading from my center out to my toes and back in. “Because we had a day.”

  “A day?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad. It was just a day filled with a little bit of everything, and you don’t share a day with someone you don’t like.” His reasoning is simple enough, and sounds so sweet coming from this gruff baseball player who is a mixture of so many things. “And because we danced. We drank. We sulked. You stood in my apartment and looked at a symbol representing my whole life and summed up how I feel but can never put into words. You got me. And then you seduced me.”

  “I what?” I cough the words out as that soft smile of his turns big and bright.

  “You seduced me. A beautiful woman with a sharp tongue, a sharper mind, and a look in her eye that said she was scared and confident, haloed by the light of a baseball stadium . . . I mean, a man only has so much restraint when it comes to that kind of perfection.”

  And I’m a puddle. A big, messy puddle of feelings that are so foreign I’m not sure what to do or say or how to act other than to reject the words. But for some reason nothing comes from my lips because . . . because, look at him. Complete virility mixed with sincerity. Everything a normal woman would fall into the arms of when all I can think of is running away.

  But my feet don’t move. They don’t listen to my head because they are too busy listening to Easton. They are too busy letting his words break them down and give them an ounce of hope when hope was supposed to be lost.

  All I can do is stare at him—wage a war with everything I’ve conditioned myself to believe—and try to trust what he’s saying.

  “Or maybe you were just using me so you could see my private baseball field.” He delivers the joke with a soft smile, but his eyes tell me he knows I’m freaking out inside and is trying to add some levity to calm me.

  “Perhaps.” I give him an inch and secretly wonder if I do so because I want him to take the mile.

  “See?” He shakes his finger at me as his smile grows. “You forget I can read you. And you like me, Scout Dalton. So, pretend all you want that you don’t. Tell me the other night was a mistake. But I’ll be over here chipping away at whatever is preventing you from admitting it, because that night was incredible. And not just the sex. That was phenomenal, too. But you . . . . You get me. In a world of people wanting the throwback baller they see on the field, you understand there is more to me than just him. For some reason you seem to understand the things no one else does, the parts of me I’m not sure I even get, and yet you’re able to put words to it. So, yeah . . . the sex was great. You can stick to your guns, tell me it wasn’t, tell me it was a mistake, tell me you don’t feel a damn thing when we touch . . . but I do. And I want to go out again.”

  He leans forward and kisses me. I’d like to say it’s against my will, but I’m all in, despite trying not to show it. Because we’re here. At the stadium. And I can’t kiss him.

  But I do. With lips and tongue and heart, while his hands hold my shoulders still and my body motionless.

  I missed him.

  The single thought runs wild in my head over the few seconds I allow myself to be kissed senseless and reminded of how incredible he tastes.

  And how amazing our chemistry is.

  I want. And don’t want.

  I know we should stop. But I can’t make myself step back.

  Sensing my sudden hesitation, he does it for me. He tears his lips from mine and stares at me with a vigor I’ve not seen from him before.

  “Easton—”

  “You can refuse me all you want . . .” He laughs, stopping the rebuff on my lips. “But I should warn you, I’m a determined man. I’ll win, Scout. I’m a gamer, remember? So I’ll get that date. That next kiss. Earn them from you, including the halo of stadium light in your hair. And I’ll wear you down until you figure out there’s no need to be scared of me.”

  He lets go of my arms and steps back as the arrogance returns to his grin. “It’s going to be a bitch, isn’t it? To have to stretch me. Body to body. To have your hands on me. To have to watch me get hot and sweaty. To hear me groan when I lift weights and not remember that’s the same sound I made when I came. To rub me out—nice and slow. To be around me so much you’re sick of me, all the while denying there’s something here worth figuring out.” He takes another step back, adjusts his baseball hat and lowers the sunglasses resting on its bill to his eyes. “Have fun with that. I know I will. You’ve got five minutes before I’m on your clock. Tick. Tock.”

  And with one last flash of a grin, Easton turns on his heel and jogs down the corridor like we didn’t just run a race.

  Or he didn’t kiss me senseless and then leave me speechless.

  I’m breathless.

  I’m stunned.

  God, I’m fucked.

  Scout

  “Hey, Scout?”

  “Hmm?” I murmur as I busy myself pulling my glove out of my bag, anything to keep my distance from him.

  “I need to be stretched.” His sing-song tone, laced with the promise of his words from the corridor, floats from where he’s sitting on the right field turf and hits me squarely in the gut.

  “Start your warm-up.”

  “I already warmed up,” he says, prompting me to turn his way and see his grin in full effect and aimed whole-heartedly at me.

  “Lovely,” I mutter as I make my way over to him, more than aware of the trio of players working out in left field with their conditioning coach. No rest for the weary, even on an off-day in their insane schedule.

  “What was that?” he asks, cheer infused into his voice because I know he’s pushing those buttons he mentioned upstairs.

  “Nothing.” I put my hands on my hips and stare down at him where he sits on the turf. He’s changed into his baseball pants, cleats, team T-shirt, and a new baseball hat. Add to the mix that grin on his face and he’s irresistible, but hell if I’m going to let him know I think that.

  “How do you want me?” he asks, and I know he’s trying to pull me back to that first time we met. We’re around each other so much it feels like that was months ago, but in reality, it has only been weeks.

  I don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, but rather motion for him to stand up. Stepping behind him, I begin our routine—stretching, working through the stiffness, and feeling for any click in his shoulder.

  I work in silence, trying to listen to his body and ignore it all at the same time. His taunts from earlier replay in my mind, challenging me to disregard them, despite the ripple of his muscles and heat of his skin beneath my fingertips that only validate them. Because with each touch of his arm, each rotation of his shoulder, all I can think of is what his biceps looked like when he braced his body over me. When he sunk into me. When he made me come.

  “Can you do that one again?” he asks softly.

  So focused on his
shoulder, I repeat the stretch without skipping a beat. And when I press his arm up, I’m met with Easton’s waiting eyes and knowing smile.

  “Seriously?” I say, dropping his arm instantly, pissed that I just willingly walked right into his extra stretch so he could maneuver me closer to him without questioning it or him.

  He blinks his eyes a few times and feigns innocence. “It’s gonna be a bitch, isn’t it?”

  “You’re a pain in my ass.” I laugh, wanting to maintain a hard line but unable to because I know he’s right. I step into him, jab my finger into his chest, and try to discipline myself anyway. “If this is contract, and that is pleasure, then let’s keep it that way. Don’t bring it on the field. This is my job. You’re my job. So, suck it up, Hot Shot, get your gear on, and meet me behind home plate,” I say the words that I know will stop him from saying anything else.

  “What?” His excitement is heartwarming.

  “You’re throwing down.”

  “What did you just say?” I can hear the hope in his voice as he jogs up beside me, and it tugs on every heartstring that he hasn’t already tugged on.

  “You heard me.”

  “I know you didn’t just say that to distract me from the conversation and not plan on following through.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. Not when it comes to your arm. This is contract, remember?”

  “Then say it again.” His grin is contagious, and I smile at his reaction, my bipolar emotions on overdrive.

  “Please don’t tell me you forgot what throwing down is.” I toy with him, speaking to him like a teacher does to a child, fingers pointing to each location as I explain. “I know it’s been a few months, so I’ll explain. Throwing down is when the catcher, that’s you, sits behind home plate—that’s the white thing over there behind the batter’s box. And when the pitcher—that’s the person on the mound—throws the ball to you, you throw the ball down to second base—that white square way out there—to try and get the runner out who’s trying to steal.”

  “Thanks,” he says drolly as he gestures to the glove in my hand and then stops when he notices his gear already laid out in the dugout. Thankfully Manny was around and helped me get that part done. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  The look on his face will forever be etched in my mind as one of those times my job is incredible. Reverence. Awe. Gratitude. Relief. All of them are reflected as he slides on his armor. The barely visible inscription Thou shall not steal written in black sharpie around the edge of his chest protector makes me smile.

  I’m reminded of the times I’ve watched a game on TV, stared at his inscription, and wondered what kind of cocky asshole would taunt a runner by wearing that. But then within a few pitches he’d pick the runner off the base with such ease, I’d know that if anyone could pull off wearing that chest protector, Easton Wylder could.

  Waiting for him at home plate, I give him a moment to enjoy feeling semi-normal again, putting his gear back on for the first time in months. It’s a milestone—physically and mentally. And I love that when he walks out of the dugout, he’s greeted by hoots and hollers from his teammates still in left field.

  “’Bout fucking time, Wylder!” one of them yells, which earns him a middle finger from Easton, but his huge grin doesn’t lie about how this makes him feel.

  “So, here’s the deal . . . we’ll start off slow. We’ll warm up tossing the ball, and then once you’re warm enough, I’ll take a few steps back—we’ll throw some at that distance—and then I’ll step back farther, keep going until you feel any pain or discomfort.”

  “Sounds good, but why the gear?”

  “Because you throw different with your gear on. You might not think so, but you do. Slow and steady wins the race here, Easton. There’s no prize for coming out hard.”

  “Fitting.” His laughter is loud and rich and hits me about the same time I realize the innuendo in my words. All I can do is shake my head and step down the first base line. “I know all about slow and steady, Kitty. Don’t you worry there.”

  I turn to glare a warning at him. “This is contract, Hot Shot,” I say knowing damn well he’s enjoying this. “We’ll start working our way to first base, and then, depending on how you’re feeling, we can move on to second.”

  Thankfully, he lets that innuendo slide with only a snicker as I lift my glove and motion for him to throw the ball.

  “How is it feeling?” It’s been about thirty minutes since we started, but the grin on his face tells me all I need to know.

  I think.

  “Good. Better with each throw.”

  “That’s good.” My hands go automatically to his shoulder, pressing, kneading, feeling. “Was there any tightness or pinching or—”

  “A little tightness, but this is the most I’ve done in months, so it feels good.”

  “Mm.” I stare at him, wishing he’d take off his sunglasses so I could see his eyes and know if he’s being truthful or not. But this is where I have to trust him. He knows his body best, after all.

  “So, do I get to play with second base?” he asks, hopeful that I’m going to let him throw the full distance.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.” I laugh because all of this—his lack of pain, how good his arm looks and feels, our flirty banter—has put me in a good mood. Add to that working with Easton out in the sunshine and making progress has given me time to think.

  “You’re looking good,” Drew Minski says as he jogs over on his way to the dugout from the outfield.

  “Feels fucking great to have leather and laces in my hands again,” Easton says.

  “Hi, Drew.” I greet him when he nods my way. “Great at-bat last night.”

  “Thanks.” He glances over to Easton and then back to me. “Hey, man, some of us are thinking about going out tonight if you want to hang with us.”

  “Thanks, but I have plans,” Easton says, and I hate that regardless of how much I’ve pushed him away, a little part of me is jealous of whoever he has plans with.

  “Your loss. I know it’s your thing to keep them all strung on a line, but that pretty little blonde keeps asking for you.” He chuckles in that way that says, go for it. I’ve been in enough clubhouses to know the sound of encouragement when I hear it.

  And the sound of it pisses me off.

  He’s got plans with one woman, is stringing the blonde along, all the while making promises to me. Done with the conversation, and not wanting for him to read the emotions I can’t seem to hide from him, I turn without saying another word and head over to grab my bag.

  I try to be rational. I try to not care, and I hate that I’ve lowered my guard enough, let myself hope enough, that I thought he really liked me. Believed he was different. Not a player.

  And the idea of other women liking him irritates me because I know thousands of women would way more than just like him; they’d hop in bed with him without a second thought.

  “Scout?”

  “You’re done for the day.” I try to hide the hurt, try to hide the fact that I might be overreacting, because I should know better. Hope is a dangerous thing, especially when you’re pinning it on someone else.

  One step forward and five steps back in the How Fucked-up Is Scout’s Head game.

  Easton

  Cool down like normal. Ice for twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. Text me if you have any problems.

  -Scout

  A note?

  She left me a fucking note?

  Whoever did a number on her is a fucker. Grade A asshole. But I don’t have time to worry about him because I need to find her. Talk to her. Wear her down. Figure out what the fuck spooked her again.

  I run out of the locker room—cleats still on—and see Manny. “Hey, Man. Did you see which way Scout went?” A grin spreads slowly on his lips, and I know he’s assumed I’m looking for her for more than just my cool down instructions. “Save the lecture, old man.”

  His gri
n grows wider, and he points down the tunnel that leads out to the parking lot. “No lecture at all.”

  His laugh echoes after me as I hustle down the corridor and out the side entrance of the ballpark. It only takes me a few seconds to spot Scout and jog after her.

  “A note, Scout?”

  She freezes midstride for a split second before she begins walking again. “Yep. A note. You worked out. You can cool down with my instructions. I’m your trainer, and—”

  “If you’re my trainer, then do your goddamn job!” I shout at her, frustrated in every way imaginable by this woman who continues to test me, push me away, run away, when I can see in her eyes that she wants me just as much as I want her.

  “I was. You got your instructions. You know what to do. Didn’t know I had to hold your hand, Wylder.”

  “I know what to do, all right,” I mutter as I glance around to make sure no one from the team is around. Throw you over my shoulder and take you up to my place so we can figure this the fuck out. And then I can lay you down and we can make this all better.

  “Once a player always a player, right?” she sneers.

  “Drew.” His name is all I have to say to know what she’s pissed about. I’m a dumbass for not putting two and two together.

  “String ’em along? Is that what you’re doing to me, so you can keep a woman in every city, ready and waiting for when you pass through town?” The hurt in her eyes is undeniable, and I hate that I put it there.

  “What the fuck did he do to you to make you think so highly of men, Scout?”

  Emotions flicker through her eyes before she can clear them and avert her gaze. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

  I jog after her, pissed at myself for chasing her, and at the same time wanting to figure out what exactly is going on. “The blonde is no one.”

  “Mm-hmm.” She keeps her eyes focused straight ahead and refuses to look my way.

  “Seriously. You want to keep this all secretive—”

  “There is no this.”