by Devney Perry
My breath hitches as he reaches up and takes my hand that’s still holding the fortune and brings it up to the bicep of his other arm. “And biceps. Is this what you’re talking about, Scout? Is this what you like?”
He wraps my fingers around as he flexes so I can feel every muscle beneath twist with the movement. I force a swallow and make myself meet his eyes again. “And what is it about you and romance novels? Is it the happily ever after? Is it the man who’s too good to be true? Because I assure you, we all have our flaws, even the fictional ones. But the happily ever after depends on what you put into it. The hard work, the listening instead of talking, the laughing instead of crying, the sticking it out instead of running away, the knowing that sometimes silence is best but having her wrapped in your arms can still solve a lot of problems. So, you can have your romance novels while I have my King and Follett and Patterson because I don’t want to read about having that kind of love someday. I’d rather be over here trying to take a chance at it in real life.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out because I don’t know what to say. He effectively just stole a little piece of my heart when it was still under padlock and steel.
“Oh, and snoring? When you’re with me, we’ll both be too damn tired to even worry if you’re snoring, so that’s a moot point. But, uh, nice try.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” His grin is lightning quick as he leans in and brushes his lips ever so tenderly against mine. It’s achingly soft and causes a warmth to spread from my center out, seep into every fiber of my being, and then leave me a little shell-shocked and wanting more. “You smell good,” he murmurs.
“Ewww. I haven’t showered since my run today. I was sidelined by the same person who’s telling me I smell good, so I’m quite sure something is wrong with you.”
He chuckles, and then surprises me by placing an open mouth kiss on my neck and then licking a line up to just beneath my earlobe. The sensation, the act, the everything about it is like a livewire exposed to water. “You taste salty. And all I smell is your shampoo.” He tugs on my earlobe with his teeth, and that slow, sweet ache between my thighs burns bright. “Sweat on you is sexy.”
“Men.” I laugh and push against his chest, all the while enjoying the feeling of him sinking against me.
“I offered you the shower.”
“Yeah, well, good thing I didn’t take it, or else I’d have been standing in your kitchen in a robe or one of your T-shirts when your dad showed up, and we both know how that would have looked.”
“He won’t say anything to anyone.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I kind of like the idea of what you’d look like in my T-shirt.”
I can’t resist. I lean forward and take the initiative by kissing him soundly on the lips. It surprises him. But I love that he lets me take the lead. I love that he allows me to control the depth and the demand and the softness of it. I pour everything that I’m feeling but can’t express into our connection.
We shift some, but the pace never quickens, the urgency nonexistent; it’s just us, with a setting sun at our backs and the fortunes from our cookies crinkling on the couch when we move. No hands wander, no fingers itch to touch more, because our lips, and everything their connection evokes, is simply enough.
It’s intoxicating. It’s unexpected. It’s everything in a kiss I never knew I needed, and yet somehow knew was missing.
It’s not a means to an end, but rather a slow, sweet seduction of the senses, and when it finally ends—when he leans his forehead against mine, with our breaths feathering over each other’s lips, and our minds trying to process the moment—he speaks.
“I’m going to hate myself for this the minute the words are out of my mouth,” he murmurs.
“Then don’t say it and just kiss me again,” I tease before I lean in and bring my mouth to his.
His groan sounds tortured when after a few seconds he tears his lips from mine , sits back on his haunches, and squeezes his eyes tight before looking back at me. “I don’t think I’ve ever said these words before in my life.”
Now he has my attention. “What words?”
“No.”
“No?” I laugh; the pained look on his face is more than comical. “No to what?”
“No to what I want to do to you right now. Desperately.”
“What do you want to do to me, Easton?” My voice is coy, my eyes inviting.
He clenches his jaw, and the muscle that pulses at its corner is so damn sexy. He laughs, a sound like audible restraint. “I want to fuck you, Scout. I want to take you in my bedroom and make you so tired your body forgets to snore. Okay?”
And now it’s my turn to clench my jaw—and my thighs—together as he stares at me with an intensity that only adds to his allure. “So, why don’t you?”
His smile is half-cocked when he speaks, “Because I made a promise to myself and to you. I told you we were going to get to know each other better, build up some trust, and see where this thing takes us . . . and so that’s what I’m trying to do. Even though, currently, where I really want it to take us is my bed.”
“I don’t know what to say.” I’m flattered. I’m dumbfounded. And, holy hell, how I’m turned on from that kiss and the feeling of his thighs caging mine.
“Tell me you understand the sacrifice I’m making, because right now, all I want is you. Under me. On top of me. Any way with me.”
“Then let’s—”
“You don’t get it, do you? I can see it in your eyes, Scout. I can tell you’re spooked, with one foot out the door and one foot in my bed because it’s easier to be in either of those places than it is to be in this position. The one where you have to talk to me, where you have to let me get to know you better, instead of shying away from it. So even though it’s said under serious protest, the answer is no, we’re not having sex tonight.”
“That’s admirable,” I murmur as I lean in and tease his lips with mine, “but we’ve already slept together, so does it really matter?”
He chuckles. “Yes, it does matter because you’re trying to distract me with those lips of yours when all my mind keeps thinking of is all of the other things you could be doing with them.”
“Like what?” I purr.
He leans back and shoots me a warning glare. “I told you, Scout. We’re getting to know each other.”
“So even if I go like this . . .” I run the tip of my fingernail over the more than obvious outline of his hardened cock through his jogging pants.
He groans my name, his body tenses, and his head falls back as I complete one long stroke of my fingertip. And just when I think I might have won the battle, his hands flash out and tighten like a vice around my wrists to prevent me from tempting him any further. “Not going to happen,” he grits out.
I try to move my arms, but he doesn’t let them budge. And there’s something about his reaction and the strength of his hands on mine that urge me to try again.
“And I couldn’t persuade you if I did this?” I lean forward and circle my tongue around the flat, bronzed disc of his nipple before sucking on it gently.
“Goddammit, woman.” His tone is sharp, but the groan that follows it is so damn sexy I grow wet between my thighs.
“What?” I feign innocence as I look up at him and bat my lashes with my lips still pressed against his chest.
His grin is full of warning, and yet his erection is pressing against my thigh. With our gazes locked, I lean forward to lick the other nipple, knowing I’ve put him in a quandary.
And just as I make contact, he makes his move. The element of surprise, and probably my own escalating desire, gives him the opportunity to pull me onto his lap, twist me around so my back is to his chest, and wrap his arms around me so that I can’t move mine.
“There.”
“You bastard.” I chuckle because now his cock pressing against my lower back is his reciprocated torture.
“Is somethin
g the matter?” he teases, hot breath against my ear.
I wiggle my ass over his dick and feel his thighs grow tense. He repositions and adjusts so his arms are tighter around me, and he brings his legs over my calves to quiet my wriggling.
All I can do is laugh.
He sighs. “See? Perfect position to watch a movie together.”
“A movie? That’s the first thing that comes to mind right now?”
“Yep.” He shifts so that he can hold the remote in one hand and me between both of his arms. “We’re going to sit here and watch the first movie I come across on the menu.”
He scrolls through the on-screen guide. “Your hair is in the way . . . what’s that one say?” he asks, and I smile, knowing exactly what movie it is. Perfect.
“Click that one.”
And when he does, and the guide cuts to the movie, the screen fills with a very involved sex scene. Moaning and nudity and thrusting and licking. How was I to know it would be at this scene already?
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters with a laugh. “Perfect.”
“It seems fate is trying to tell you what you should be doing.”
“Fate or a manipulative and determined woman.”
“Maybe a little of both. But this is actually a movie adaptation of a hugely bestselling romance novel, I believe,” I say, tongue in cheek, while my body is reacting to the visual porn in front of me and tangible porn against me.
“Ah . . . and now it becomes clear why you like romance novels.” He laughs.
“It has a great story line,” I say in jest.
“I can see that.”
“Seriously. You can have hot sex and a great story line.” I try to gesture to the television, but my arms are still restrained. “Or we could just have the hot sex, instead.”
“I’m not budging, Scout. You told me I needed to read a romance novel, so no time like the present to watch one. With you.”
“I thought you only liked King and Follett and Patterson?”
“I do, but I’ve recently been told that romances are where it’s at.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes and laugh but only get a kiss on my shoulder in response.
So, we sit like this and watch the movie.
And another one after that.
But more memorable than the movies that I can’t quite pay attention to is the fact that when I fall asleep in the late hours of the night, my last thought is I’ve never let myself fall asleep in the arms of a man before without there being sex first.
But this time I did.
And when I wake up the next morning with his body behind mine on the couch, and his arm still holding me tight against him, I realize this isn’t so bad.
But more importantly, as scared as I am to let him in, I’m more scared of walking away.
Scout
“I just needed to hear your voice.” It’s all I say but it’s the truth.
“I’m here, Scouty-girl. I’m here.” His voice rumbles through the connection and soothes my heart that was having a mini-panic attack over needing to talk to him for no other reason than to know he was still there.
I sag against the wall beside me and close my eyes, willing away the tears that threaten.
“You okay?”
No.
“Yeah. I’m good.” I clear my throat and look around the empty hallway outside of the locker room. “Sometimes a girl just needs her dad.”
“Understood. This time of year is always tough for you,” he murmurs. “I’ll sit here on the line as long as you need me.”
“Thank you.” My voice is almost a whisper as I try to contain my emotions. We both sit on opposite sides of the connection, we don’t speak, and yet I find comfort in knowing he’s there.
“I need to get to work,” I say after a few minutes even though I’d stay like this all day if I could. “Thank you for …”
“Anytime.” He clears his throat. “Remember, clear mind, hard heart.”
“I know,” I say before the line disconnects and then whisper, “I love you.” I know he’s no longer there, but I say the words anyway.
I take a moment to pull myself together—frazzled female emotions make gruff men uncomfortable —before I head into the locker room to prepare for Easton’s first of two training sessions today.
But it’s when I walk into my office to grab the notes on my desk that the fake smile plastered on my lips becomes genuine.
Sitting on top of my notes is a mess of wintergreen Life Savers, crudely arranged to look like a flower. There are three white mints making up each petal, and they all connect into the center Life Saver. Except the center candy isn’t wintergreen white.
It’s red.
Cherry red to be exact.
And there’s a Post-It note beside it that has ‘Have a day’ scrawled across it.
It’s a simple something that at a glance looks like candies tossed on a desk but speaks volumes to me. It says I’m thinking about you. It says remember what I like to do with cherry Life Savers. It says I’m still here, still determined to prove you wrong. It says remember that first time we ‘had a day’ together? Well, here’s to more of those.
My heart does a little flip flop in my chest. There’s only one person who could have done this. One person who had no clue that I needed something like this right now but who gave it to me anyway.
I pull the wrapper off one of the wintergreen Life Savers and look up through the training room window to see Easton standing at his locker, looking my way. Our eyes connect for the briefest of moments so as to not give away what’s happening between us, but it’s long enough for me to slip the candy between my lips and offer a ghost of a smile. His nod is ever so slight before turning to say something to J.P. as if our exchange never occurred.
But it did.
And as I look down to the flower (less one Life Saver) I’m left struggling with how to accept all of the good things happening in my life—the rehabilitation contract, my time spent off the field with Easton, the prospect of a long-term job that will allow me to stay in one place for more than a few months—when I should be thinking about my dad instead.
The guilt eats at me when I know I can’t let it. I just have to take things one day at a time.
Another quick glance Easton’s way drives the point home because while I may not want to admit it to myself, the time I spend with him is the highlight of my day.
Easton
“Where’ve you been lately?”
I glance over at Drew and wait for him to say what his eyes are insinuating. “You guys have been on a road trip, so I’ve been here, and you haven’t.” I snap my towel at him to emphasize my point.
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with that hot little trainer you’ve got rubbing you down, now would it?”
“Fuck off, Drew. You’re just jealous I get a female.”
“Damn straight, I’m jealous. Please tell me you’ve tried to round the bases with her, because, dude, I’d be worried if you hadn’t.”
Heads have turned our way, ears listening, the locker room full of players as they come back in from batting practice, the game’s first pitch a little over ninety minutes away.
“Shot down, brother,” I lie, and he bumps my fist and laughs. “She’s all business, all the time. Last week I thought I had a shot when she showed up at my place after I threw hard for the first time . . . but nope. I had my phone off and hadn’t answered her, so she swung by to make sure I’d iced my arm. Not exactly the kind of front-door service I was hoping for.”
“There’s hope for me yet if Wylder still gets shot down.”
“That’s cold, man.”
Comments ring through the room right beside the disbelieving laughter at the fact that I’d been rejected by Scout.
Little do they know the damn woman has owned my thoughts more than I’d fucking like to admit. It could be that I get to see her every damn day of the week. That I’ve badgered her into having a few dinners with me. That
getting drunk on her kiss is what I look forward to.
But hell, this “getting to know you” shit has to end soon, because a man only has so much restraint and his balls can only get so blue. Besides, there’s only so much satisfaction in jerking off when the one you’re fantasizing about does something like she did today, showing up in a tank top that makes you want to cave on your promise.
Oh, fuck, how I’d wanted to cave. And not because it was revealing, but rather because every time she rubbed against me during our stretching routine, all I could think about was that I know what her tits look like beneath it. Perky. Pink. Suckable.
The drought definitely needs to end.
And soon.
But isn’t that the damn problem? Just when I thought we’ve gotten to know each other better, that sex is just what the doctor ordered, she showed up today with that fucking spooked look in her eyes. The one that had her so antsy she left right after we cooled down and she was done with me.
I play it off that she’s having a bad day. Maybe her uncle is still sick. Who knows, though, because she won’t say shit to me about him.
Then again, maybe she’s just freaked.
Fucking women.
“Well, one thing for sure,” Stanza says from across the locker room, “Santiago is going to get some chin music tonight.”
I meet his eyes across the distance and just nod—a quiet thank you for letting me know that when he pitches tonight, he’s going to throw a few inside to push Santiago off the plate. A little “fuck you” for hurting me.
Those who say there’s no retaliation in baseball have never played. A pitch aimed a little too close to the head. A tag thrown just a tad too hard. A shoulder lowered or cleats angled up when going in to slide at a base. You fuck with my teammate, we’ll fuck with you back, is the motto for most teams.
Especially mine. Especially for me because the play was dirty.
“Fuck that fucker,” J.P. mutters, getting a rise out of the guys.
