Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
“Jack yourself,” I tell him. He barely needs permission. Seconds later, his fist flies along his shaft. There is nothing hotter than Chris riding me and fucking his fist.
My balls tighten. My own climax builds, closer, closer.
When he shoots all over me, I’m just done. I come with a loud groan, the world blinking off.
Later, after we clean up, washing off champagne and sex from our bodies, then starting the laundry, we return to bed, and change the sheets. Once we flop down, I ask him a question. One that feels like it has an obvious answer, but asking matters. Asking is important. “Spend the night?”
Chris scoffs. “Dude, did you really think I was leaving?”
I shrug, maybe to hide my smile. “Just making sure.”
“I begged the manager to let me play in Tampa. Fucking Tampa. And trust me, it wasn’t to see the sights of the town.”
I can’t hide a smile now. I kiss his nose. “Good.”
“Also, I noticed your hamstring was perfect. Were you ever injured at all or was that just a trick to get me here?”
I gaze down at his naked body in my bed. “Seems it worked. Told you I wasn’t stupid.”
“I don’t know. You might need to prove it to me,” Chris says.
I roll over, pinning him. Pressing kisses to his neck, his shoulder, his jaw. “I’ll prove it when you come over after our opening day game. Maybe the next night too.”
“Josh Spencer, are you trying to lock me down?”
No point even trying to play it cool. Stoic me has left the building. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Chris just shrugs, laidback and easy, but his smile gives him away. It’s a whole new one—magnetic as always, but intimate. Just for me. “Good,” he says. “Let’s keep it that way.”
I plan to.
Epilogue
Chris
Opening Day
* * *
Four weeks later, Josh comes to the plate in the Gothams ballpark. He’s carrying his bat and, from the way he strides into the batter’s box, the weight of the world. Or maybe he’s just bringing along the memory of the last time our teams played against each other.
The fifty thousand screaming Gothams fans probably don’t help. Even from where I’m standing on third base, I can see the determined set of his mouth. Our pitcher winds up and throws an arcing curveball that Josh swings at and misses.
If I thought this place was loud before, now it’s thunderous. I almost feel bad. But not bad enough. I hope he strikes out—or better yet, hits one right at me so I can throw him out.
I don’t get my wish, because he connects on the next pitch, sending the ball swooping into an outfield corner. Our right fielder scrambles after it, and Josh breaks for first, rounding it, then doesn’t slow as he passes second and heads toward me. Hustling out a triple.
My teammate hurls the ball across the diamond toward me. And Josh does what any good base runner would during that play. He slides.
Into me.
His cleats spike my ankle. I jump back, but not before attempting—and failing—to get a tag on him.
The umpire calls him safe.
Josh lies in the dirt, out of breath from running hard. I could let him stay there.
Instead I offer him a hand up.
The leather of his batting glove is smooth against my palm as he levers himself up.
“Nice night for some baseball, huh, Garnett,” he says.
We haven’t seen each other, except on FaceTime, since that night in Tampa. Four more weeks in Florida that apparently agreed with him, because he looks tan, thick with muscle, his beard cropped close. And I want to say a bunch of things to him, like your place or mine but there’s the small issue of an umpire behind us plus fifty thousand fans.
“You doing anything after the game?” I ask.
Josh pretends to consider it. “Someone once called me a baseball monk. So you know, early night at the monastery.”
“Nothing I could to do persuade you to go out? I’m told I can be convincing.”
“More like persistent.”
“Some of us can go hard for hours.”
And I swear the third base umpire makes a slightly strangled sound.
“Well, I know one thing I probably have to do tonight,” Josh says. “Answer questions about our supposed feud to the New York media.”
I scan the stands on the third base line. “You think anyone noticed you slid into me?”
“Nah, probably not,” he jokes. “Both our fanbases are known for their completely level-headed reactions to sports. Doubt anyone will even say anything.”
After the game, I stand in front of my stall in the clubhouse for the usual post-game scrum. Of course, all anyone asks me is about the slide. “Spencer got me pretty good in the ankle,” I say. “It happens. Decided not to make a federal case about it.”
Gently razzing the Union player only encourages the media. “Any response to what Spencer said about the slide a few minutes ago?” a reporter asks.