by Kristy Marie
A small crowd has gathered to watch her unique coaching strategy. Unique as in, she threatens and throws shit at me when I don’t do it like she says. Even Bellamy is enjoying my torture, flashing me a shit-eating grin while Ans reams my ass six ways from Sunday. Michaels is amongst the crowd, sending me hate glares as often as he possibly can. It’s a damn miracle that I am able to focus.
“Come on, T.” Brody’s encouragement is severely lacking in confidence but highly appreciated, nonetheless.
“Theo!” Anniston grabs the ball from Brody and marches toward me. “Release it a half-second earlier. Do what I am fucking telling you!”
On a huff, I snatch the ball from her outstretched hand, pound it over and over in my glove. It’s times like this that I want to launch this damn ball into space and give all these fuckers a “deuces,” but no, I have to be an adult. Be responsible they say. Fuck that.
Anniston retakes her position behind Brody, leaning over his shoulder for a perfect view of the plate. He gives me the signal, adjusting his crouch to the corner and opens his glove, providing my target.
I double-clutch the ball, rubbing the laces in a clockwork pattern. It’s a habit and has no effect on how the pitch is thrown. Most of the guys on the team have some kind of tick. Maybe they open and close the Velcro on their batting glove each time they step out of the batter’s box. The movement creates a beat of time in which the batter can gather his thoughts, take a deep breath and anticipate the pitch. It’s strategy. It’s a mindfuck. Either way, we all do it to buy time.
Once I finish my ceremonious rubbing, I wind, bringing my knee to my chest, pulling my fingers apart, and release the ball at the hip. It’s too far outside. Again.
“A fucking kindergartner could have hit that!” Her frustration is palpable as she yells at me mid-pace to the mound. In her current state, anything is possible, so in an effort to calm her fury I reach back into the bucket of balls behind me, grabbing another, and set up before she can reach me.
“I bet you couldn’t hit it.” The voice that irks me on a daily basis spills out of Michaels’ mouth from the first baseline. What could possess a human to be that stupid? It’s like he said, “Today, I want to die.” I realize he’s still a little butthurt about Anniston’s remark in the locker room but now he’s just being petty.
Baseball players typically are nonaggressive players. Unlike football, baseball players use sneaky maneuvers like having their pitcher pitch to the far inside or flat out throw a fastball into a nonlethal body part. They don’t just haul off and fight. No, we’re catty bitches and like to be passive-aggressive until it’s your turn to bat.
My head snaps up just in time to see Michaels smirk at a pissed off Ans. Again, what an idiot.
My eyes track to Ans, her lips thinning into a straight line.
“Give me the bat,” she demands Liam, my relief pitcher.
He looks at me, then at her, his head mirroring a dog tracking a treat. I’m not a good people reader but the expression on his face is pretty clear. He’s fucking terrified.
The thought that Ans inspires fear in my teammates curls a smile onto my lips.
Seriously, Liam, she doesn’t work for the team. What could she possibly do to you?
But that’s the thing about fear…it’s the unknown that really gets to you. If you knew the worst that could happen then you wouldn’t be as scared.
“Give. Me. A. Bat,” she repeats slowly, approaching Liam like a hungry lioness.
Liam hands over a bat with unsteady hands, quickly halting her strides toward him. Okay, someone has to stop this madness. She can’t really be out here hitting my pitches, not that she hasn’t before. She’s hit many of my pitches but I usually slow them down and make sure she is geared up properly.
“Come on, Ans,” I plead.
She’s being stubborn and downright unreasonable now. Ignoring my plea, she steps up to the plate in her little shorts and tank and digs in.
“Paint me a corner.” She takes a practice swing, cutting the bat up high then leveling it at chest height.
“Come on, Ans, you don’t even have a helmet.”
I look to Bellamy for help. Don’t get me wrong, I like her crazy, but this is serious stuff. She went to school for ten years for shit’s sake. What if the ball hits her in the head and causes brain damage or something? I love her but I’m not sure I’m ready to take the step of wiping her ass for the rest of my life.
“Dr. McCallister, I have to insist that you don’t do this.”
Thank you, Bellamy. Finally, someone of authority tries talking sense into her.
“Come on, Commander.”
As much as Cade’s voice grates on my last nerve, I’m actually relieved to hear him speak up. Maybe she’ll listen to his dumbass.
Nope. Anniston takes another swing, keeping her eyes on me, totally ignoring the “please” and “common sense” being asked of her.
“Throw the fucking ball, Theo.”
Twenty years of friendship and fifteen years of sleeping together, not to mention she’s my trainer, allots me some pull on most things but not with my training. No, in this area she is the boss, my motherfucking Commander. I know what happens if I don’t throw the ball. The question is, do I want to deal with the consequences? Like my head is not my own, I shake my head once, no.
“What if I hit you?” No sense in not giving it one last shot before I cave.
“You won’t hit me. Now. Throw. The. Ball!”
I won’t hit her. Psh… has she seen me pitch before? How many batters have I hit? Fifty? A hundred? Shit, it’s so many I’ve lost count. Let’s be realistic here.
Anniston takes one more practice swing and points the tip of the bat in the air, indicating left field. I glance over to Michaels, who is looking on with rapt fascination. Fucking prick. I hope Cade beats the fuck out of him later. With the hate stare Jameson is rocking, Michaels will be lucky if he walks out of this ballpark unassisted.
I pull in a deep breath as I clutch the ball in my glove, snagging a look at Brody for confirmation that we are actually participating in this craziness. His head shakes in exasperation but he resignedly gives me the signal with two fingers to his left thigh and a tap to his right, indicating he is ready for the curve.
With a head nod, I acknowledge his command, curling into my wind and then sending a pitch whistling through the air. I know the instant it leaves my hand that she’s going to hit it—the determination in her eyes brooks no argument. Her knee drops lower, her shoulders square up just as she swings hard into the pitch.
The unmistakable crack of the bat echoes in the stadium, creating a cacophony of gasps. My curveball soars through the sky and drops politely into left field. Just as she predicted. A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth as every head follows the path of the ball.
“How bout you go fetch that, Michaels? I’ll fucking sign it for you.”
This damn girl. My damn girl. I double over laughing as Cade turns his back to me, his body shaking in laughter, too. Even Bellamy is wearing a smug-ass smile. Michaels stands stupidly, glaring daggers at Ans before accepting defeat, turning on his heel, heading for the dugout. She gives him her attention for all of a second before she pulls her focus back to me.
“Now, do what I told you!” she yells, her coach voice ringing out.
I get out a strangled, “Yes, ma’am,” before I release the next pitch, half a second early, painting the left corner of the plate perfectly. Just like she said it would.
After the tenth time of turning over in bed, I’m done. Fuck it. Sleep is not in the cards for me tonight.
Ans is curled on her side, her hair a mess of tangles on the pillow. She looks serene with a half-smile on her face. I place a whisper of a kiss on her forehead, careful not to wake her. With great technique, I’m able to maneuver out of bed without being caught. She would certainly shove a pill in my face if she discovered me up at this hour.
My apartment is cold, that’s not unusual though. It always feels col
d to me, and not just the temperature. It’s not my home. It doesn’t feel like I belong here.
I press the button on the electronic thermostat and turn up the air just a little. Maybe if Ans gets too hot she will come out of some clothes. Mmmm. Great idea, Theo.
I smile with the pornographic thoughts that come to mind as I make my way to the kitchen in search of a cup of coffee. I know, I know. I should drink some of that sleepy tea or some shit Ans forces down Cade, but as much as Ans thinks she runs me, she doesn’t. That’s why I am going to take this cup of coffee and savor it outside. Where she can’t smell it. Or find me drinking it.
The Keurig spits out my coffee entirely too loud for what I paid for the stupid thing. One would think if you spent over a hundred dollars for something that brews one cup of coffee at a time that it could do so in complete damn silence.
I grab my cup and silently turn off the alarm to the balcony doors—the Keurig could learn something here—and literally sprint outside before any smell can be detected by Ans’ killer sense of smell.
The air is crisp, not as humid as it usually is. The night silent with only the faint sounds of sparse traffic traveling by and the garden fountain below me bubbling, the running water not enough to lull me back to a sleepy state. I miss the plantation. Shit. I miss Georgia, period.
I sip slowly, reclining in a deck chair, allowing the scalding coffee to return my brain back to a pre-zombie state. I hate it black. I would rather pile spoonful after spoonful of sugar and cream into it but no, it’s not good for me. No sugar they tell me, no carbs. I’m so fucking sick of being told what I can eat I could scream. At least Ans lets me cheat. I mean, she will run the hell out of me afterward but it sure tastes good going down. Not so great coming up.
Speaking of tasting… Cade has really been cramping my Ans’ time. It’s like we have this newborn or something that we have to care for.
“He needs to rest.”
“He needs to eat.”
“He needs some time with me.”
“He needs me.”
What he needs is a swift kick in the ass, down the road to a local shelter that deals with this shit. Not in my house and not with my damn girl.
Hate brews in my gut as I glare out at the city I loathe. I hate this apartment. I hate this job. I hate this town. I hate my diet. I hate everything!
Okay, so not really, but let me have this pity party. I’m tired. Ans is leaving this afternoon and I’m on the roster to start. I don’t know why she can’t stay for the game. Her bullshit excuse that Cade’s had too much is stupid. He doesn’t need to be back to his routine. He’s not a fucking baby.
Gah! It’s so frustrating. I just want her back. I want her all to myself. Fuck Cade. Thanks for serving our country and fighting for my freedom. Let me make a donation in your honor that will get you some help and out of my damn house.
Angry and pissed at the current situation, I tug at my hair almost violently. I shouldn’t be up. I should be asleep, not thinking about this shit. But as karma would have me, bent over and taking it up the ass, here I am once again. Fucked.
My aggravation is overwhelming as I chug the last few sips, the caffeine coursing through me. Out of the chair, I lunge for the railing and start to pace, feeling like a caged animal.
It’s a long fall, more than enough to put me on the disabled list. I’m joking. Geeze. Leaning over, allowing the blood to surge to my temples, I let gravity take over as I stare out at open air below me. It hurts, the blood pounding against my temples, but the pain dulls the sensitive feelings churning inside me and that’s what I need at the moment. An escape from reality.
The rollers on the door screech as they move. I keep still like a ninja while still hanging over the balcony rail. Maybe whoever it is will realize I am having a meltdown and let me self-destruct alone. Spare me some dignity.
“Theo?”
Ah, the voice that haunts my every thought. The whole reason I’m out here.
“Can’t sleep?”
I hear the soft pads of her feet cross the patio before she circles my waist, slipping her small hands under my t-shirt. The featherlike feel of her fingertips as she grazes the trail of muscle down my stomach sends tingles up my spine. Why? Why does one woman have so much control over me? Why can’t I fuck other girls and be happy? Why must I endure this bullshit with Cade?
Because when she breathes along the back of my neck, my dick hard, pressing against my stomach painfully, my body alive with excitement, I know all too well this feeling. This chemical feeling is none other than good old-fashioned love.
I love Anniston McCallister and there is nothing I can do about it.
When I don’t answer her earlier question, she pulls me closer, rougher. One more feather kiss to the neck is my undoing.
I push off the railing, spinning around, the pounding in my head amplifying with the abrupt movement, and clutch the back of her neck, pulling her into me, slowly teasing her mouth open with subtle pecks. Her body heeds to mine, allowing me the control she knows I desperately need. Effortlessly, my tongue pushes through, brushing the roof of her mouth. Seeking. Anniston moans appreciation, licking and nipping at me, begging for more.
“What do you need, Theo?” she breathes against my open mouth, her question sparking the territorial need to claim her.
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I jerk her against me, hitching her up around my waist and walk us until her back is flush against the patio doors. No longer able to control myself, I shove my hips in a harsh thrust against her dampening center, finally answering her question.
“I want everyone to see me fuck you.”
She pulls the short hairs at the back of my head, forcing me to turn my head so we are eye to eye as I continue to grind my painful erection against her lower body.
“I want them to see me fuck what’s mine.” I growl a little on the last part and her eyes blaze with the need that plagues us both. We get off on this kind of kink. We thirst for it, and no matter how many times we do it, it’s never enough. Not for me and definitely not for her.
I grind once more, eliciting a whimper before easing her to the ground. She needs no instruction on how this goes.
She rips at my tee but I take charge, pulling it over my head before she tears it. My shorts hit the cement next before she cups my balls, drawing pleasure from me, one pull after another. Shit. I am so fucked for this girl.
Disentangling from her voodoo, I pull away, not ready to come yet. This is my show, not hers. My t-shirt she currently wears is yanked over her arms quickly. Her perky tits spring free as I toss it behind my head. I don’t give a shit where it lands because her perfectly round globes glisten in the moonlight, calling to me for attention. My tongue darts out, moistening my lips, readying them for the onslaught.
Slowly, I lower, taking one pert, pink nipple between my teeth, Anniston gasps, arching back, inviting me to take more. I caress the neglected breast, rolling it over and over in my hand, until the nipple pebbles between my fingers.
“So damn perfect,” I croon in between sucks and soft bites. Her answering scratch across my shoulder tells me all I need to know. Keep. Fucking. Going.
I ease my assault to her breasts, trailing my fingers lower to cup her bare pussy.
Her body jerks in surprise when I add pressure, allowing one finger to slip past her lips, intruding inside, finding the wet heat that awaits me.
“Always so tight,” I mutter, sinking all the way to my knees. My ass is full-on beaming at the moon and any unsuspecting early risers, but I don’t care. The thrill of being watched, of someone jacking off to me fucking Ans makes me hard as fuck. Call me crazy but don’t knock it until you try it. After all, it’s how the porn industry earns their money. People are curious. They like to watch.
Readjusting the spear between my legs, I run my hands up along Anniston’s chilled calves and over her knees, kneading as I go. With my thumbs, I give her thighs a gentle nudge to open wide enough for my face to
align. With a deep, lingering breath, I inhale her arousal, a musky, womanly scent with a mix of something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s decadent. It’s a special dessert. And it’s all fucking mine.
“Theo…” she whines, anxious for my mouth to be where she wants it.
It makes me chuckle. I kind of like having her by the balls for once. “Patience, love,” I chastise.
She jerks a fistful of my hair, planting my face directly at her slit. “Patience is overrated. Eat.” Her voice teeters on the edge of sanity. It’s becoming hard for her to maintain this submission. She wants to take control, to hurry me along.
To de-escalate the situation, I bring my tongue out to play. Firm strokes and soft swipes have her knees buckling almost immediately. Pinning her to the glass to keep her upright, I clasp her hips with both hands. Nothing ruins the moment like a concussion.
Anniston’s moans fill the silence as she starts to come apart with each hard thrust of my tongue. Her knees tremble, making it hard for me to keep hold.
“I’m going to come,” she gasps, taking in short, choppy breaths.
I stop, not wanting her to come just yet, and lace my arms behind her knees. She whines her protest as I stand and crowd her against the door, forcing her to taste herself on my tongue. She pushes back, aggressively claiming my mouth, controlling the kiss.
I lift her leg with one hand, and with my free hand, take hold of my extremely patient dick and line it up with her soaked entrance. The tip pushes at her threshold, testing my restraint.
“Hang on,” is all the warning I give before plunging into her hot, creamy vice.
She muffles her scream against my shoulder, biting down to ease the pressure. When the clenching eases, I pull out in a long, torturous stroke. Her impatience ignites as she meets me on my way back in, then thrust for thrust, picking up the tempo.
The light flicks on in the kitchen, distracting me from ripping Anniston from the inside out. Cade shuffles in looking exhausted.
Anniston grinds against me, annoyed that I’ve slowed down again.
Cade’s eyes track to the patio and narrow at seeing Anniston’s naked body smearing streaks of sweat up and down the glass. I’m not sure if he can even see me but I give him a fuck-you smile anyway, just in case.
