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It doesn’t stop. The pleasure never seems to find its peak, thanks to the way she opens her thighs eagerly for my come, her whines of Daddy filling my ears. I suction my mouth to the side of her neck, leaving marks, my hips slamming me home until the pressure in my stomach begins to abate and I flatten Pippa to the mattress, devouring her mouth, absorbing her sexy whimpers until we’re both replete, panting, boneless in the aftermath.
Moments later when I pull her into my arms, she comes so naturally, I can’t imagine us not doing this every day for the rest of our lives. But when she looks up at me in the dimness, there is a frown marring her forehead. As if there’s something on her mind she can’t vocalize.
And I spend the night wide-awake, wondering what it means.
6
Pippa
The morning moved too quickly.
For all my knowledge of baseball, I had no idea how early Cort would need to be at the ball field the day of a game. When I woke up from the deepest sleep of my life this morning, I was alone in bed. There was a note on the pillow explaining that he didn’t want to wake me, that I looked too beautiful. That he needed to be at the field for a team meeting before the game and would have a driver waiting to bring me later, along with a ticket to the game.
Not sure what to do with myself, I shower and make use of Cort’s toiletries, dressing in my clothes from the previous day. Thankfully I have some makeup in my purse and I dab on some concealer, lipstick and apply mascara.
It doesn’t feel as if I’m in a stranger’s home. I feel…warm here. It’s as though I’m surrounded by the man himself. His protective presence. I don’t question whether I’m taking too many liberties with his things or if I should ask before rustling up breakfast. I just do it, because I know he would want me to be comfortable.
There is a fierce ache in the middle of my chest, so insistent that I can’t help but rub at it as I saunter through the living room. I pick up the remote control and turn on the television, unsurprised when it lands on ESPN. The heads of two commentators fill the screen, their hands wrapped around microphones. I sit down on the couch when I realize they’re standing in front of the Astros baseball field, talking about the upcoming game.
“Cort Mulloy is on today’s roster, scheduled to close. It’s anyone’s guess if he’ll be able to break out of the season-long slump,” says one of the men.
“After reports of a scuffle with famed reporter, Randy Carville, in the locker room yesterday, baseball insiders are starting to wonder if the slump is a sign of some unknown personal issues. But as we know, Mulloy is far from forthcoming about his personal life…”
They cut to a live feed of Cort pacing the dugout, the brim of his baseball cap pulled down low on his forehead. My pulse begins a wicked beat at the sight of him, memories of the night before flooding back in. How ferociously he took me, that big, hard part of him moving inside of me, his shoulders flexing against the backs of my knees, his breath pelting my neck. He looks every inch the Baseball God on the screen, his thick arms testing the seams of his white uniform shirt, his sinewy thighs flexing with his pacing steps.
It’s more than his appearance that affects me, though. It’s the fact that…I know this man. We might have only met yesterday, but our connection reaches out and touches me through the screen. Warms me. Makes me feel safe, like I belong somewhere.
With him.
He opened up to me about his past. Told me things no one knows. Deep, powerful events in his life that have shaped him into the successful man he’s become.
And I know in that moment that I can’t write the article.
I can’t take these things he’s confided in me and use them to my advantage.
No way in the world.
It takes me a moment to realize I’ve risen to my feet. I’m staring at Cort on the television and my heartbeat is hammering in my temples.
Why didn’t I tell him I love him?
He bared himself to me and I was too scared, too worried about giving myself over to him completely, thus losing sight of what has always been most important. My career. But I can have both. The job and the man I love.
I can work my way up to the top. I have confidence in myself and my abilities.
I also have confidence in the fact that Cort is the man I’m supposed to be with forever.
The commentators are back on the screen, discussing Cort as if he’s not a living, breathing man with emotions and a difficult past. As if he’s just a commodity. And I can’t stand it. I can’t let him play today’s game without knowing how I feel about him. He needs someone on his side. Someone to choose him over everything else.
