Page 173 of Hiding in the Outfield

All I know is Jackson Olander will be responsible.

He was always going to be my undoing.

But I needed to be undone.

All my walls. My shields. My fears.

Those sad, yearning blue eyes pierced right through them.

All those days ago when I approached him, when I offered him a chance to explore who he is, comes rushing back:

“No pressure either way,” I murmured. “Just opportunity. If you want it.”

I thought I was the one helping him. Giving him something.

How wrong I was. Because this man gave me everything I’d stopped dreaming of.

And more.

He abruptly lets go of me and lifts two fingers to my mouth. His eyes say the command for him. Suck. I pop his fingers inside and drag my tongue between them, then suck hard. He whimpers around my dick.

Yeah, loverboy. Two can play at this game.

And Jackson came to play.

He presses down on my tongue, making me gag. Saliva pools in my mouth, and it has him shifting on his knees, pupils flaring. Then he slips his fingers from me, and they’re back between my legs. Those slippery fingers find my taint, and my hands fly to the countertop. My knees have disappeared. There’s no weak, there’s no wobbly. They’re just gone.

My body lights up, full-on neon display of buzzing pleasure. It roars to life under my skin. He massages my taint with new determination, and my muscles lock tight. He loosens his lips, continuing his onslaught while holding my orgasm at bay.

Until it can’t be contained any longer.

He presses his knuckle into me in just the right spot, and bliss overtakes me. Swallows me. The same way Jackson swallows me down. He groans as he takes me, one of his hands pressing on his dick. The sight has another wave of pleasure crashing over me.

My sexy, sexy ballplayer.

He pops off me, chest heaving, and I lean boneless against the island. Something I’ve never seen before flashes across his stormy eyes.

And before I know what’s happening, I’m on my knees.

FIFTY-EIGHT

JACKSON

God, he looks so wrecked. Those cheeks dark with a mauve blush he gets only during sex. His eyeliner is smudged, lids still hanging heavy in post-orgasm bliss, and it only fuels whatever’s building in my chest. Something new.

My attention skates over my backwards cap. Fuck me. He’s back to wearing a light beard again, and it only serves to highlight his high cheekbones and sharp features.

He’s otherworldly.

He’s mine.

That feeling in my chest ignites, and a growl rumbles from my throat.

Mine.

I stand and shove him to his knees.

He goes so willingly, looks up at me with those lust-glazed brown eyes. Waits for my command.