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I couldn’t understand what he’d done to me, how the mere meeting of our eyes could set me on fire. And not a slow, simmering heat. An explosion, thick with danger and destruction and the promise of consumption.
A ball hit him square in the chest, and he flinched, blinking as he looked down. He picked it up and threw it, taking care not to look at me again. So I took the chance to catalog the sight of him in the tightest trousers I’d ever seen. The black baseball uniform hugged every curve of his legs, his tree-trunk thighs, the baffling and impressive shape of his backside. His jersey had been neatly tucked in, highlighting the taper of his waist from the barrel of his chest. Broad shoulders and arms like thick-corded rope caught and threw in a motion so fluid, it was clear he’d been doing it his whole life. His dark hair licked the back of his neck and ears, thick and wavy. The cap somehow emphasized the square, strong line of his jaw, framing the most masculine face I’d ever laid eyes on.
I caught sight of a small bulge in his pocket, and by God if my pulse didn’t triple at the possibility that it was my underpants.
He was wound tight, hopefully trying not to be distracted by me. It gave me great pleasure to think I actually could rattle him the same as he did. Although I didn’t think I could make him angry, not like he managed.
I wished I could have said I hated him. I suppose in moments, I very much did. But why? I had no reason to other than his audacity. And in sickening abundance. But what really drove me mad was that same audacity possessed the power to bring me to my knees if he wielded it right. Such as, if he’d kissed me at the Down the Clown booth, I wouldn’t have just let him—I would have climbed him like an animal, kissed him until he was gone or I was. Probably worse. I might have lost all sense and let him fuck me stupid right there in front of Henry and everyone.
That’s what he did to me. He left me disarmed by robbing me of all logic, driven purely by some strange, electric desire he sparked in the deepest, darkest, wildest spaces in me.
I squeezed my thighs together to appease the ache between and contain the wet slick the thought initiated.
The last thing I needed was to ruin the skirt of my dress.
The players lined up and took off their hats as everyone stood for the anthem, and once the song was over—and after a bit more careful skirt maneuvering—I was once again sitting between Cass and the hot pink, four-foot tall stuffed animal Remy had won for me out of spite.
Cass went on about the game, which apparently took place every year on this night of the festival with a neighboring town. Roseville’s rivals were of a similar caliber—half of their team had gone pro, played through college, coached or the like. The other half, it seemed, was terrible. But the Ramblers were celebrities in Roseville. They sold out nearly every home game, though Cass suggested it was more for the handful of well-endowed single men on the team than it was the spirit of the game.
She was still talking when Remy stepped out of the dugout to bat, but I didn’t hear a word she said.
His posture shifted, tightened as he stalked to the plate, his eyes dark and jaw set. I’d never seen him so serious, every molecule in his body at attention as he stood next to home plate, knees bent, bat drawing small circles in the air over his shoulder as he anticipated the pitch. This was a man who could have anything he wanted. He could win wars, conquer countries. He could find a way to survive any storm that dared cross him armed with nothing but will.
God help me if he turned that level of will on me.
I had no idea this existed in the brash, brazen, cavalier package he displayed with such pride.
His eyes stayed locked on the pitcher with a terrible determination, and when that pitcher threw, it almost happened too fast to see. Remy’s body twisted in the most perfect motion, in the exact right mathematical equation to hit the ball with all the power stored in those roiling, coiled muscles.
The bat hit the ball with a crack, and a little white dot soared across the field. Everyone sprang to their feet, and I was glad. Because the vision of him hitting that ball and the sound it made when he did it left me with another slick rush of heat between my thighs.
What is the matter with you? Get a grip.
My pussy clenched watching him run the bases.
Ugh, not on that, ninny.
He ran across home plate to a throng of celebrating players, smiling like a beautiful bastard. I realized I was smiling back. As I celebrated the point with my friends, I saw Henry in a new light, one contrasted by Remy.
Henry was accomplished, steady, kind. Gorgeous. Familiar.
Remy was a parade of red flags.
And here I was, baton in hand and boots marching, the unwitting drum major leading us straight into the fiery pit where I’d either find heaven or hell.
I probably wouldn’t know until it was too late.
By then, I wondered if I’d care.
13
true gentleman
REMY
Jessa’s panties were burning a hole in my pocket.
I shouldn’t have had them with me, but I couldn’t help myself. The little bundle pressed against my thigh was a serious distraction, much like her presence in the stands, marked by that fucking toy like a blinking neon sign. I tried not to look at her. I really did. But the second I let down my guard, my eyes would slide in her direction. Which would remind me of her panties. Which would send impulses to my dick that I didn’t have time for.
