Page 89 of Saving The Shortstop

The doors open, and I’m half relieved and half bummed that no one walks out. Would it be humiliating? Kind of. But exhilarating? Hell yes.

Once we’re inside, the doors close, and I expect him to put me down. I’m wishing for him to, anyway. Maybe press me up against the wall and show me what a bad girl he thinks I am.

My heart is racing at that thought alone.

Instead, he stands there, keeping his protective grip over my ass.

“Put me down, QB,” I utter, wiggling around. “I’ll be a good girl, I promise.”

“Too late for that, Short,” he mutters. “I’ll let you down when we get to our room. Then—and only then—you can show me what a good girl you’re going to be the rest of the night.”

Between my legs throbs uncontrollably, and the air in the elevator gets thicker because I want him so bad. Want isn’t even the word.

Need. I need him so bad right now.

“Fine,” I huff out, pretending like I’m not dreaming of spankings and a little light punishment right now.

The doors open and we’re on the move again, heading down the hallway. He stops at our door before reaching into his pocket for the key card. Within seconds, we’re in the room, but I’m still on his shoulder.

Walking through the small living area, he continues to the bedroom before he sets me onto my feet. He glares down at me, his eyes swirling with just as much desire as they do anger. “Strip,” he commands. “Now.”

Probably all too eagerly, I peel my clothes off. First ripping my shirt over my head and undoing my bra, letting it fall to the floor, keeping my eyes on his as he drinks me in. Next peeling my black jeans and panties down, stepping out and kicking them to the side with zero grace.

Reaching for my chin, he grips it tightly. “You were a very bad girl tonight, Haven.” His voice is thick, and I can’t stop myself from my eyes darting to the growing bulge through his pants. “You made me real fucking pissed down there, showing off for everyone the way you did.”

I’m practically salivating, knowing that even though part of him is pissed, he’s also loving this as much as I am. My pussy aches for him, and my breath hitches when he drops his hand from my face and reaches for his belt.

“I think it’s time you show me how sorry you are, don’t you agree?” he says gruffly. “Sit on the bed. And don’t make me say it twice.”

Plopping my ass down, I’m practically bouncing on the mattress in anticipation, needing to get my mouth or hands on him.

Unhurriedly, he starts undoing his belt before unzipping his fly. My head feels dizzy, and all I can do is nod as I watch his beautiful, hard cock spring free when he pushes his pants and briefs down.

Veins wrap around the length of it, and I’m unbelievably eager to run my tongue over them to feel just how turned on he is for me.

When my hand reaches to pull him closer, his sharp voice stops me from touching him.

“Don’t,” he growls lowly. “Sit on your knees and put your hands on your thighs.”

Slowly, I bring my legs up and plant a hand on each thigh, staring up at him pathetically.

Holding his hand in front of my mouth, he swallows. “Spit.”

My heart thunders inside my chest, but after a few seconds, I spit onto his hand, envious of his palm because I know soon, it’ll be the one touching his perfect dick.

“Now you can’t rub yourself or try to touch me,” he says as his arm drops down and he wraps his hand around his cock. A croak escapes my throat while I take in the sight of his hand moving back and forth over his length. At first slow and steady, but then he tightens his grip, moving faster.

“Could have been those slutty lips of yours wrapped around me right now.” He continues stroking himself, making me crazy. “If only you didn’t pull that little stunt downstairs to piss me off.”

My fingernails dig against my thighs. My brain registers the pain, but I’m too engrossed in the show before me to care. Envy fills every part of my body, and I’m left jealous of his hand because right now, all I want is to be as close as possible to the man before me.

“I’m—” The word comes out in a rushed, pathetic breath. “Sorry,” I whisper, swallowing down the drool pooling in my mouth. “Please …” My nails continue to scrape the flesh on my thighs. “Let me make it up to you, sir.”

“Oh, you will.” His eyes turn a shade darker. “You can make it up to me when you sit there like a good girl while I paint your face with my cum.” His chin tilts up slightly, but his eyes cast downward, still boring into mine as he continues to move his hand up and down himself. “The cum you could have had inside you, if only you didn’t act like a brat.”

I’m as aroused as I am frustrated, because I don’t know how much longer I can sit here and not touch him … or myself. Part of me wants to see what happens if I lie back, spread my legs, and slide my hand between them to show him how needy I am. But in the chance that he’ll make me wait even longer to be filled by him … I decide that’s a bad idea.

“I had this whole plan in my head, you know,” he starts, his breathing labored and his eyes hooded. “We’d stay downstairs for forty-five minutes, an hour—tops, and then, I’d whisper in your ear that it was time to go. I was going to strip your clothes off, fall back onto the bed, and tell you to sit on my face and grip the headboard.”