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I tug at his pants, pulling them down his hips and leaving them down around his calves. Then, I run a finger along his shaft, wanting to see it jump again.
It does not disappoint, eager for my touch, wanting attention.
It’s not so big I’m afraid to pull his underwear down, and I sigh with relief; I’ve never seen a monster dick in person, but Claire and Emily have told me horror stories, and I’m suddenly grateful that Noah—for his tall size and stature—possesses a proportionately average, Noah-sized package.
I wouldn’t know how to handle a giant one, so I’m giving thanks for the one in my hand. The man on my living room floor gasps when skin-on-skin contact is made, his underwear having joined his trousers.
There is a bottle of lotion nearby—another thing we used back in the day when we were too chicken to buy lube at the pharmacy, the only store in town that sold condoms and contraception—and I reach for it.
Unscented. Left there from when I moisturized after shaving before our date.
Noah is unfazed when I squirt lotion into my palms then rub them both together, warming up the cool cream. He’s barely coherent, breathing heavy—waiting.
Is it too soon to blow him?
Gretchen once said if you blow a guy on the first date, he’ll never take you home to meet his mother, but Noah’s dick is right here, in my hand, and he’s so sexy lying on my floor…
Ugh. It’s been so long and I just want it.
IS THAT SO WRONG?
13
Noah
“Harding, Phil wants to see you in his office after practice.” One of the assistant coaches has been waiting for an opportunity to shout the message at me, the bat in my hand dangling after I hit a fly ball over second base, watching it soar into the air.
Shit. It’s never a good thing when the team’s publicist, Phil Scilara, wants to have a meeting after practice. Usually it’s tactical, to strategize about a public fuck up someone on the team was involved in, and usually those have nothing to do with me. Wallace, yes. Espinoza, yes.
Me, no.
Besides, unless there’s a situation—drunken photos emerging, or misconduct all over the news, or a woman claiming paternity—Phil is rarely in his office.
“Do you know what he wants?” I toss the bat in my hand to a different assistant and wipe my forehead with the towel in my back pocket.
“No clue.” He shrugs. “Sorry man.”
“I know what it’s about.” Wallace—the sneaky fuck—is behind me, and I turn, batting gloves coming off one at a time, as I watch him walking toward me.
Why is he always around when there’s drama?
“Are you going to tell me?” I can’t stand when someone beats around the bush. If he knows why I’m being called into the principal’s office, I want him to spit it out.
“You’re all over the news.” He spits on the ground. “You and your friend.”
Friend? “You mean Miranda?”
“Yeah.” For once in his life, Buzz Wallace comes at me looking bashful instead of cocky. Hesitant instead of aggressive.
That…cannot be good.
“And?”
His feet shuffle in the red dirt, the toe of his cleats soiled. “Fuck, man. I don’t know what to tell you.”
What does that mean?
“Shit.” Wallace pauses, hands stuffed in the pockets of his team issued athletic pants, company logo of our sponsor emblazoned on the side. He takes them out and claps them, as if trying to psych himself up. “Okay, I’m just going to say it—like tearing off a Band-Aid.”
I wait for him to fill in the blanks.
“You’re in the news—you and Miranda. And the headlines are…” He dips his head, staring down at his shoes. “They’re embarrassing.”
“We were at dinner.” How could that be considered embarrassing?
Buzz begins a slow pace to home plate, to where the catcher usually squats, then back to me. His arms rise and his giant, sweaty palms clamp down on my shoulders, squeezing firmly. “Look dude, you’re my best friend…”
Oh shit.
“…but this is going to fuck you up.”
I scoff with a loud, “Pfft. We had dinner—nothing indecent happened. A few people took pictures, but that was it. We weren’t at a strip club, I didn’t get a lap dance, no one was drunk, we went to a nice place.”
Side by side, we begin our walk toward the dugout, and I can feel Wallace thinking beside me; he’s that deep in thought, brows furrowed into angry slashes.
“Hey pretty boy,” one of the guys says as we get closer.
“Shut your fucking mouth, Gomez,” Wallace snaps and it’s then that I take his words seriously.
“Wallace, what the fuck is going on?”
We don’t make it to the dugout before he takes my arm and pulls back, leading me toward the tunnel for the locker rooms. Stops, shifting me to face him. “Bro. You know I think you’re fucking awesome. You know how the paps can be dicks and reporters are fucking worse—”
