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But I’ve never had a defense against Reese. “Sure.”
He slips behind me, toasting my back and taking control. Smoothing down my arms, Reese guides me into position, choking my grip up on the bat, and working his hips to drop my stance.
“Feel the power?” Controlling our connected arms, he takes a practice swing.
“I feel it.” But the power isn’t coming from me.
Reese presses so close, when he tightens his abs, he lifts the back of my shirt. “Ready?”
I’ve never let him this close.
Not even when he taught me to hit.
The machine whirrs. Reese holds me a moment longer than I would’ve waited to move. He swings, wearing my body like a suit. Our joined force pings the ball high into the nets, shooting tingles to my toes.
I’ve been missing out.
Reese surrounds my shoulders.
Arms holding my arms, hands covering my hands, and hips—
He guides me with the barest movements. Telling me exactly what he wants me to do with a touch, a nudge.
“Few more hits,” he grunts after another stroke. “Build the muscle memory.”
Reese steers me, moves me, basically already owns me.
It’s safe in his arms.
No squidge at my neck.
But I’m not building memories.
I’m imagining futures I can’t have.
Sinking in melted chocolate, I lean into the twist of his abs and the snap of his hips. His forearm veins pop like he’s cast in bronze.
It’s no stretch to imagine our clothes disappeared.
That instead of swinging, he’s driving into me from behind.
I’d drip for him.
My body finally matching how I feel.
“Reese,” his name escapes, more moan than request.
I don’t even know what I’m asking.
Just know I need to get away.
I rip from his arms. The pitching machine whirrs.
“Sol!” Reese lunges.
The shadow of the ball blooms at the corner of my eye. Reese twists, folding to protect me.
Instead of shattering my cheekbone, the ball craters Reese’s shoulder. There’s an ugly fwap. A muffled groan.
