Heartless

by R. C. Martin

  “Don’t. Don’t do that,” she insists, stepping toward me as she pinches her eyebrows together.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I reach up to rub the back of my neck as I ask, “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t look at me like that—like I’m off limits because I’m too young.” Stepping even closer, she takes hold of my free hand, staring straight at me as she declares, “I’m not a kid. I stopped being a kid a long time ago. I’m not standing here in front of you because I’m some stupid little girl who was somehow coerced into coming. I’m standing here in front of you—I’m standing here with you—as a woman capable of making my own choices.”

  I was wrong before. I don’t just want to taste her—I need to taste her.

  Clenching my jaw to keep myself in check, I offer her a curt nod before turning toward our destination, pulling her along with me.

  Blaine

  HE’S HOLDING MY hand so tight, I can feel my pulse as my blood rushes through my veins. As he leads me into the stands, I follow after him, unable to take my eyes away from our connection—partly because his legs are longer than mine, and he’s taking the steep, narrow steps faster than I can manage without concentrating; but also because I enjoy the feel of his hand swallowing mine. It isn’t until he comes to a stop, motioning for me to step into a particular row, that I take in the grandness of our surroundings.

  The stadium lights illuminate the field, and the empty stands are lit up, too. Having been here before, seeing the place filled with bodies, I knew that it was huge. What I didn’t know was that being the only two people here would make it seem five times larger, and yet so incredibly private at the same time.

  As I obediently take a seat in the middle of the row he’s chosen, I ask, “Okay, now must be the part where you tell me why we’re here, right?”

  Reaching into the row behind us, he grabs a large, square, insulated bag and then takes the seat beside me. Grinning, he simply replies, “We’re here for dinner.”

  I cough out a laugh, nudging his shoulder with my own. He chuckles, ignoring me as he reaches into the bag and pulls out what I assume is a hotdog wrapped in aluminum foil. He hands it to me before tossing a box of Cracker Jacks in my lap, and a giggle bubbles out of me.

  “Michael!”

  “Ketchup and mustard?”

  I don’t answer him right away, my disbelief and the innocent look on his face making me giggle even more. Finally, I tell him, “Mustard, please.”

  He nods, handing me a couple packets, and then proceeds to take out two hotdogs and a box of Cracker Jacks to put in his lap.

  “Hey, why do you get two?” I tease, lifting an eyebrow at him. “What makes you think I can’t out-eat you?”

  Raising both of his eyebrows, he counters, “Is that a challenge? I’ve got two more hotdogs in here.”

  Fighting a smile, I seriously contemplate whether or not I’m hungry enough to scarf down two hotdogs. Deciding that it’s the principle of the matter, I hold out my hand expectantly.

  “Damn, I like you,” he mutters, reaching back inside the bag.

  Even though he said the words in jest, his statement still makes my stomach clench in excitement. I don’t hold back my smile as he hands me another hotdog. He then sets aside the insulated container and reaches behind us again. This time, I hear him pop open a lid before pulling out two beers.

  “Hope you don’t mind beer. We’re at the ball field—it’s the only way to go.”

  Shaking my head, I assure him, “I don’t mind at all.”

  He opens them both, placing them in our respective cup holders, and I thank him as I doctor one of my hotdogs. Taking my first bite, I decide that this—the two of us eating junk food in the middle of an empty stadium—it’s so much better than anything I imagined. It’s fun and random and private; even more, it’s the complete opposite of the fancy restaurant he was going to take me to last week. I appreciate the contrast more than I thought possible.

  After swallowing my bite, I watch him chew his mouthful as I tell him, “I don’t know how you did this—or why you did all of this—but I wanted to say thank you. This is awesome.”

  He stares at me contemplatively as he finishes chewing. He then replies, “I know a guy. That answers the how.”

  Remembering who he is, I accept his vague response before ask, “And the why?”

  “I owed you an apology. I told you I wanted to make it up to you, and I meant it.”

  “Oh,” I murmur.

  Thinking back a week, on all the thoughts that were swirling around in my head as I fled from that restaurant, it becomes very clear that I was incredibly wrong about what he was feeling. I’m so flattered, I don’t even know what to say. No one has ever gone out of their way to make me feel as special as he is in this exact moment.

  “Thank you.”

  A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth before he informs me, “You already thanked me, Blaine. Now I want to see you polish off both of those hotdogs.”

  “I wouldn’t underestimate me, Governor,” I warn before consuming a big bite.

  “Mmmhmm,” he hums, taking another chunk of his dinner into his mouth. “We’ll see.”

  “So I take it you’re still totally into baseball?”

  He stops chewing, looks around us, and then quirks an eyebrow at me.

  “Right,” I say, speaking through a laugh. “Do you get to come here often?”

  He shrugs and swallows. “I like to catch a handful of games each season. I usually come with my brother.”

  “Oh, yeah. I think I read somewhere that our governor is one of three children. Where do you fall in the pecking order?”

  “I’m in the middle.”

  “Yikes,” I mumble, pretending to feel bad for him. “Isn’t it the middle child who always has the most issues?”

  He barks out a laugh before he asks, “And what do they say about people like you? What do they call it, only child syndrome?”

  Joining in on his laughter, I remind him, “We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you. So, is your brother older or younger?”

  While we both work our way through dinner, we talk about each other’s families. I can tell by the look on his face as he tells me about his relatives that he’s very close with them and loves them immensely. Listening to him talk about his nieces and nephews is sweet, and the respect he has for his parents is evident. I, in turn, tell him more about dad, sharing a little bit about Simone, too. They’re all the family I’ve got, but I wouldn’t trade them for more.

  While we munch on our caramel popcorn, I prop my feet up on the seat in front of me, and we discuss a bunch of random things. Just like at the Lounge, conversation is easy and playful between us. He makes me smile in that way that seems unique to only him—like it’s somehow his duty. I certainly don’t mind. When I smile, he smiles right back, and it’s an expression he wears extremely well.

  When I’m out of popcorn and I’ve polished off my second beer, I manage to take my eyes off of Michael long enough to notice the change in the atmosphere. The sun is long gone, the moon high in the sky, and the lights shine down on the field even brighter than before.

  Suddenly feeling more daring, Michael making me completely at ease in his company, I turn to him and ask, “Do I get something for exceeding your expectations and consuming two whole hotdogs?”

  Admittedly, I wouldn’t normally eat as much as the mountain of a man sitting next to me—who happened to stop after two dogs, too—but I wasn’t lying about my love of his dinner choice. Except, now I’m totally stuffed, and I’m hoping that what I have in mind will help with that.

  Chuckling, he inquires, “Perhaps. What are you thinking?”

  I tug my bottom lip between my teeth, looking out at the field before I focus my attention on him once more. “This guy you know…will he let us out onto the field?”

  Grinning, he replies, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Michael

  BLAINE HELPS ME
gather the trash, and I carry the small cooler and meal bag as we leave the stands. It takes us nearly ten minutes to get to the belly of the stadium, where I abandon my supplies and she leaves her purse. Then I grab her hand. She walks so close to me, her arm brushes against mine almost constantly, and it’s as though I can feel her excitement as we traverse our way through the tunnels that will take us to the field.

  I had to make a number of phone calls and pull a lot of strings in order to make this happen. So far, it’s been worth the effort. I haven’t been to a dinner this fun in ages. Honestly, I don’t know who’s to blame for that. If I really think about it, I’m not even convinced that there’s any one place for blame to be assigned. Is it even possible to experience the high I’m feeling now with all the history that exists between my wife and I? Furthermore, I’m learning that Blaine and Veronica simply aren’t comparable.

  I brought Blaine here because a night at the ball field is something that I will always treasure. It reminds me of a time in my life that I won’t ever get back. I’d hoped that she’d be up for it—that she’d enjoy herself and appreciate what I had planned. I wanted to offer her a grand apology, and this was the first thing that came to mind. That said, I wasn’t sure if this would be her taste or not. I took a risk. Walking into this evening, I was certain of one thing only—that Veronica wouldn’t find hotdogs and Cracker Jacks the least bit romantic. She outgrew her tolerance for anything to do with the sport of baseball immediately after I stopped playing. It’s nothing I hold against her, it’s just a fact.

  “Are we almost there, yet?” asks Blaine, pulling me from my assessments.

  Shoving aside all thoughts of Veronica, I remember where I am and the good time that I’m having. I then give Blaine’s fingers a light squeeze. Jerking my chin toward the double doors ahead of us, I inform her, “Right through there. You ready?”

  She flashes me the biggest grin and then nods her head enthusiastically. We hurry down the corridor and push through the doors before climbing a few steps and stopping just beyond the dugout. I hear it as she blows out a breath, and then I get lost in my admiration of her. Watching as she takes it all in, I see the reverence clearly etched into her features. She’s a woman who isn’t shy about expressing her thoughts and feelings—that, or she’s incapable of hiding them. Either way, I appreciate the trait. Especially now.

  When she finally settles her gaze back on me, her hazel eyes sparkling, my chest swells, causing a tightness in my lungs that almost aches. Then she giggles, drops my hand, and races out onto the field, heading straight for the pitcher’s mound. For a second, I can’t move. I know that if I do, that if I chase after her, it’ll be for one reason and one reason only. I know that I won’t be able to resist anymore. My desire is too strong. My greed is now undeniable.

  Si salgo, la voy a besar, y no sé si seré capaz de parar.1

  I clench my fists, the ache in my chest making it impossible for me to think.

  “Michael!” she calls out, waving for me to join her. I can see the smile that lingers on her lips even from here. While I continue to hesitate, she cranes her neck back, turning in a slow circle as she takes in the view from the mound.

  After she’s spun around in a full rotation, she realizes that I’ve yet to make my way toward her. This time, she doesn’t call out to me. Rather, she extends her arm, her hand opened in invitation. Staring at her, it dawns on me that this is not the first invitation she’s offered me.

  Foster, she had told me. My last name is Foster.

  Taking my first step in her direction, I wonder if this was always inevitable. If the door to this moment was opened so long ago, that there was no stopping it. After my second step, I wonder what will become of us? I wonder where can we possibly go from here? By my third step, I’ve graduated to a steady jog. As I close the distance between us, my mind already made up, I acknowledge that I have no answers—only this desire, this hunger that’s been eating away at me for weeks. Whatever it is that exists between Blaine and me, it’s created a craving that won’t be satiated by anyone other than her. Wrong as it may be, I’m blinded by my need.

  I slow my steps when I’ve reached the dirt of the pitcher’s mound, but I don’t stop. I don’t stop until my chest is pressed against hers—until I’ve got my arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against me. I don’t stop until my hand is cradled around the side of her face and my lips are pressed against hers.

  Blaine

  I CAN’T BREATHE. He’s literally stolen all of the oxygen out of my body. When he finally made his way toward me, as soon as I could interpret the look in his eyes, I knew that things were about to shift between us. What I didn’t know was how he would forever alter the axis of my entire world when he pulled me against him and pressed his lips to mine.

  The kiss he’s giving me is soft and chaste. He lingers for a long moment, and my head grows faint. My eyes open slowly when he severs our connection and looks down at me. His irises are so dark, it’s like I’m staring into a violent storm in the middle of an ocean. Without a word spoken, I know that he’s asking for more. I know that he’s telling me that he’s shown me what he wants, and now it’s time I do the same.

  Still unable to catch my breath after that one, simple kiss, I come to an easy conclusion. I rationalize that the only way I’ll possibly be able to breathe again is if I take back the breath that he stole. Pushing myself up onto my tiptoes, I circle one of my arms around his neck. I then reach for the bill of his baseball cap and gently slide it from over his thick, dark hair. I’m just getting ready to kiss him when he grows impatient and kisses me first. Only, unlike the first time, this one is not soft. It’s not soft at all.

  I gasp, my lips parting open as he uses both arms to crush me against him. My heart pounding and my stomach clenching, I cling to him, wanting every single feeling he’s giving me. When the tip of his tongue grazes my bottom lip, I whimper, opening my mouth wider as I beg him for more. He responds in kind, and the next thing I know, his tongue is tangled with mine. I drop his hat, needing both hands to bury my fingers in his unbelievably soft curls, and he groans.

  I’m lost.

  All there is is Michael. I don’t feel the cool, night air. I don’t sense the vastness of the stadium. I don’t remember what day it is or what color underwear I’m wearing—only that he’s making them wet. His whole body—hard and warm and perfect—it consumes me. His hold around me is unrelenting; and I don’t know if I can hardly breathe because he’s crushing my lungs, or if it’s because I’ve offered him my air supply in surrender, but I don’t care. I don’t want him to stop. I don’t want him to let go.

  When he slides a hand up and buries it in my hair, holding my head as he tilts his and deepens the kiss even further, my nipples pebble, and I can feel my clit begin to swell. My pulse makes itself known between my legs when he groans a second time. The sound is deep, rumbly, and desperate, making me crazy. I graze my teeth over his bottom lip, holding it captive while I taste it with my tongue, and he holds me tighter still.

  Michael

  “MICHAEL,” SHE WHIMPERS as I tug my lip free only to trace the tip of my tongue around her mouth’s entrance.

  My dick throbs, pressing against the confines of my jeans, and I wonder if she can feel it—feel what she does to me—with one damn kiss.

  She moans softly, tugging on my hair, pulling me closer, her impatience getting the best of her. I smile as I bring my lips back to hers, turned on by her zeal. She sweeps her tongue through my mouth, tasting me as she circles her arms around the back of my neck. Hugging me as tight as she can manage, I swear she’s trying to meld her body with mine. When another whimper spills from her mouth, it’s as if I’m swallowing her desperation, and I know I’m in over my head.

  Her lips are soft, but her kiss is hungry.

  Her body is slight, but her hold is unyielding.

  Her chest heaves against mine, and I get the feeling that she’s struggling for breath as much as I am, but neit
her one of us pulls away. This kiss is unstoppable, as I knew it would be.

  No. Not as I knew it would be.

  More than I imagined it could be.

  I can’t stop.

  I’m hooked.

  Blaine

  I DON’T WANT TO stop. I know, the moment we do, I’ll wish we hadn’t. But if I don’t take a break, I’ll pass out from a lack of oxygen. Bringing my hands around to his cheeks, I hold his face with every intention of slowing us down. Before I get the chance, he does it for me. Only, rather than slowing to a stop, the strokes of his tongue become gentle and languid. In an instant, all thoughts of breaking away from him are nonexistent.

  When he closes his fingers in my hair into a fist and lightly tugs my head back, another moan crawls from out of me, my jaw falling open as if I’m too distracted to shut it. While he drags his lips away from my mouth and down the column of my neck, my eyes roll into the back of my head. Then he tastes me, leaving a trail of wet kisses up and over my chin before his lips reconnect with mine.

  My panties are soaked.

  Undeniably soaked.

  And still—I cannot make myself stop.

  I’m hopelessly strung out on his kiss.

  Michael

  “MIERDA,” I MUTTER, forcing my lips away from hers.

  Both of us breathless, we stare at one another in awe and wonder. Her wide-eyed gaze does nothing to help calm the stiffness of my cock—neither does the sight of her swollen, pink lips. When she tugs her plump bottom lip between her teeth, I groan, leaning down to press my forehead against hers.

  “Michael?” she whispers hesitantly.