Page 168 of Bad Run

I cup his cheeks in my palms, staring into his eyes. “What did you do?”

Lance licks his lower lip. “I was the one who tipped off the tabloids about us.”

He what?

Before I can respond, Lance kisses me, hard and deep. My brain glitches and I melt into him as his tongue curls around mine. His fingers dig into my butt cheeks as he holds me in his arms.

I know he’s trying to distract me so that I don’t get angry at his scheming. So much anger and hurt could have been avoided if he had told me his plan; then maybe I would’ve talked to my father sooner.

Would you have, though?

Any anger I can muster fizzles out because the truth is I was nowhere near ready to talk to Dad about Lance. My husband made the right call.

And seeing as my dad and I worked everything out, my dream job is mine, and my relationship with Lance is as strong as ever, I don’t care about how we were outed to my family.

I have everything I want.

When we break apart, the only thing on my mind is getting my husband inside me.

“I forgive you,” I pant.

Lance gives me a cocky grin. “Knew you would. Now, what do you say, from here on out, no more bad runs, just hot streaks?”

“How hot are we talking?” I ask, rubbing my slit over his hard shaft.

“Burning. Scorching,” he grumbles, walking into the pool house and laying me down on the stack of beds in the middle of the room. “So fucking hot you’re going to be dehydrated. You think you can handle my heat?”

I throw my head back and laugh. “I think I can handle your heat, Husband.” Locking my ankles at the base of his spine, I align our hips, guiding his tip to my entrance. “Question is, can you handle mine?”

He slowly sinks his cock into my pussy, one thick inch at a time. “I can handle anything you throw my way, little witch.”

We begin to move in sync and let our bodies finish doing the talking, and they both agree right here is where we belong.

fifty-two

Epilogue

Gwen

Three years and three months later

A buzzing silence falls over the stadium as the pitcher for the Boston Revs winds up for his pitch.

It’s the sixth game of the World Series, and The Evaders are down by one in the bottom of the ninth inning. If the guys pull off a win tonight, the series is over and they will be crowned champions for the fourth time, making baseball history. The only other team in professional baseball to hold for championship titles is Boston, when The Evader’s coach, Rowan Anson, was on the team decades ago.

My gaze moves from Blake—who currently stands on second—to the Revs pitcher, then to the man standing in the batter’s box, watching and waiting.

Lance.

His back is to me as he stares at the mound in anticipation. I wish I could see his handsome face. Watch his blue eyes shine under the light as he stares down his opponent.

I lean forward, watching Lance’s hips shift back as the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand. A second later, and with impossible speed, he simultaneously twists his body and swings his bat, the wood slicing the air at the speed of light.

The ball hits the bat with a deafening crack.

I jump to my feet and grip the railing in front of me as I watch the ball sail through the air and land on the other side of the fence and into the glove of a waiting fan.

Home-freaking-run.