Moonshot (13 page)

“Okay.” He swallowed, putting his hands flat on the desk, one on either side of me, the motion lowering his head next to mine. “Is this okay?”

I rewrapped my legs, bare skin against the smooth fabric of his pants, and pulled him closer to the desk. “Yes,” I whispered.

He ran his lips slowly down my neck, nuzzling the skin, pushing aside my hair with his nose, his hands still flat against the desk. His mouth opened, and I shivered, the scrape of teeth against my shoulder, then the hot, wet flick of his tongue. “Is this okay?” he repeated.

“No.” I said, bolder, my hands running up his sides, coming across the front of his shirt, my fingers pulling at the top buttons of it. “I need more.”

He growled, the sound low in his throat, and I felt the twitch of his thumb against the outside of my left thigh. He shifted, keeping one hand flat, and lifted the other, sliding it softly up my thigh, his fingers spreading across the skin, his head dropping to watch its journey, my breath losing a beat when his fingers hit the edge of my jersey, gently tracing the fabric before slipping underneath it.

I could feel every single finger and its movement, the anticipation heightening the arousal, my heart hitching as he whispered my name, his kiss suddenly soft as it landed on my collarbone, then the hollow of my neck, then my jaw. I tried to prepare for it, tried to stay still, tried to contain the sound in my throat, but I whimpered, unable to hold it back, his fingers now moving along the edge of my panties, the gentle scrape of his nails, and then he gripped them, pulling slightly on the cotton, the boyshorts cutting in between my legs and my arousal turned the corner of insanity.

I had never known this. The pulsing need, the urge to grind against something,
anything
, my legs trembling, body crying, every thought reduced to the primal instinct of wanting more. Everything. Anything. I sat on that desk before him and opened my mouth and begged, the word
please
slipping out, over and over, my hips twitching against the desktop, needing more friction, my hands clawing at his shirt, pulling at the fabric, reaching for the belt, my actions instinctual, the consequences be damned.

He twisted his hand, pulling the panties tighter, the cut of them in between my legs almost bringing me off the desk. I closed my eyes, and dropped my head, completely at his mercy.

“Good lord, Ty.” He groaned the words, and his other hand was suddenly there, tight and rough in its grip of my opposite thigh. “Look at me,” he rasped out. “If you want more, I need you to look at me.”

I opened drugged eyes, his face coming into focus, his eyes tight on mine.

“There, Ty. Look at me.”

I tried. But then his clench on my thigh was gone, and he ran his fingers across the tight stretch of my panties, a brush that did something inside of me, something that broke down any last stronghold, something that made my legs collapse, my thighs fully spreading for him, my chin trembling. His fingers brushed back, then took on a new life, slipping down, between my legs, pushing and rolling across the soaked fabric, my head falling back again, eye contact difficult as I tensed beneath his touch.

“That…” One of my hands was suddenly on his shoulder, my nails digging into his shirt, holding on for dear life. “Don’t stop.”

“Look at me, Ty. Stay with me, baby.”

“I—” I whimpered out the word, not sure where it was going, his eyes reading me well, one of his fingers pushing past cotton and dipping inside of me.

Holy shit
. If I thought that … whatever that had been, was amazing, his bare finger, pushing inside of me,
bending
inside of me … it was, in an instant, the sweetest, purest pleasure I had ever known. I cried out his name, twisting before him, my hands clinging to him, crazy sounds of nonsense pouring out of me, everything in me focusing on the maddeningly perfect touch of his.

I broke under his hands. I might’ve cried. I definitely swore. In those moments, his eyes on mine, his touch pushing inside, I climbed into heaven and fell back down a different woman.

42

He couldn’t. Never again, not with anyone else. Nothing would ever, after that moment, compare. Not with her cry, not with her reaction, not with her kiss. A woman shouldn’t be created in such heartbreakingly beautiful combinations. A woman shouldn’t, in fifteen minutes, have the ability to ruin him for life.

43

When I woke up, the room was dark. I rolled over and reached for him, my hands finding nothing, the bed empty. I sat up far enough to see the clock. 1:02. When I’d fallen asleep, I had been on my side, he on his, my body under the blankets because he’d said he couldn’t take the temptation, his body on top, six feet of gorgeous stretched out, his shoes kicked off.

“Tell me about Ty Rollins,” he said, his gaze on me, his hand gentle as it tucked a bit of hair behind my ear.

“Not much to tell. My mom died when I was seven. I joined Dad on the road. Been a clubhouse brat ever since.” I smiled, and his eyes softened, dropping to my mouth.

“Tell me about your mom.”

My smile faltered. “I don’t remember a lot.”

“Was she a baseball fan?”

I shook my head. “God no. I remember them fighting. That was really all I knew about my dad. That he’d be gone for long stretches of time, then he’d show up and they’d fight. About money, about his job…” I winced at the memory. “I was terrified when he picked me up and took me on the road.”

He rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling. “There was no one else you could have stayed with? Grandparents or an aunt?”

“Sure.” I snorted. “But he was stubborn. And for whatever reason, he wanted me with him. I hated him for it at first. I wanted to be home, with my friends, back in Pittsburgh.”

“Not on the road with a bunch of old men?” He smirked.

“Exactly.” I mimicked his pose, rolling onto my back, his body scooting closer, his arm lifting around me, and I rested comfortably in the crook of his arm. I’d never been in that place before, my chest rising and falling next to another, my face close enough to turn my head and kiss his neck. “But … you know … it was the best thing to ever happen to me. Not my mom dying, but coming on the road with him. Once I got over it all—the guys, the team—they became my family.” I curved a little into him, my hand resting on his chest. “And I wouldn’t change anything about it now.”

“Anything?” His voice held a bit of hope, and my heart had lifted despite myself.

“Maybe I’d change one thing,” I conceded, thinking of all of the places this conversation could go. A relationship talk? Was this what we were about to have? Or was it still too early for that? In baseball, I knew everything. With relationships, I knew nothing.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I didn’t give him anything more, was too shy to put myself out there, and our conversation moved to baseball’s greats, then movies, then spring training and our favorite stadiums. We’d talked until we were hoarse, then we didn’t say anything for a while. At some point, the room had blurred, my eyelids too heavy. At some point, he’d left, turning out my light and going back to his room. Room 724. He’d thrown that out at some point, lifting his eyebrows suggestively, my eyes rolling in response.

Room 724
. I moved out of the bed and brushed my teeth. Staring into the mirror, my hair was loose and wild, my lips bruised from his kisses, the faint burn of a hickey on my neck. I pulled my hair back and stared at it in the mirror, fascinated.
A
hickey
. I’d never had one before. I let my hair fall back into place and examined my reflection, a stranger’s reflection, that of a wild woman.

Room 724
. I rinsed my mouth and flossed. Walked back into the bedroom and found my phone. Plugged it in and checked my texts. Three from Tobey, one from Dad. Nothing from Chase. I crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling.

Room 724
.

My body knew before my mind. My feet moved quickly when I finally stood, my room key pocketed, pajama pants pulled on underneath my jersey. I opened the door and was careful in my shut, glancing toward Dad’s room, the door closed without incident, then I was headed down the hall, with no clear game plan in mind.

I was such a stupid girl. Running to a man’s room in the middle of the night. A man who I thought I shared something with. A man who had left my bed for something a little more mutually beneficial. I realized my mistake as soon as she swung open the door, her hand to her nose, her eyes swinging a little before they landed on me. Her boobs had grown since the game, pushed huge and out of a corset top, a beer and cash in one hand, her smile wide, Chase seen dim in the background, his back to me, a second girl hanging on him, the glimpse of her the last thing I saw before I turned, muttering
wrong room
, and ran down the hall, tears blurring my vision, to the safety of my room.

When I rounded the curve, almost there, I was stopped, strong hands grabbing me, my name said as I looked up through the sting of tears and into a familiar face.

44

“Ty.”

It was Tobey, and I almost pushed away, my mind conflicted, escape my primary goal. What if Chase came after me? What if Tobey saw? What would he say? What would
I
say? Stupid, stupid, stupid. A shot of anger coursed through me, and I straightened, finding my footing, my hand wiping at my face.

“Are you okay?” His face, so concerned, so
not
Chase. From down the hall, there was the sound of a door banging against something, and my urgency increased.

“I’m fine. Where’s your room?”

“Right here.” He held up a key, a beer in his grip, and I grabbed it, tilting it to my lips, the liquid cold and sour against my freshly-brushed teeth.

“Easy, Ty.” He laughed, reaching for the bottle, and I held it away, nodding to his room. “Open it.” I chugged the rest of his beer, liking the way his bleary eyes followed my throat, settling on the open neck of my jersey. My first sip of beer—it was weak and watery, cold and a little bitter. I swallowed and wanted more. Wanted to be someone different, a girl who didn’t care about Chase or our night or…

the girl, her back to me, her lips against his bare shoulder, her arm reaching around him…

Why had they been in his room? And why did he give me his room number if he was going to do that?

Tobey’s door was open, and I stepped through, the empty bottle tossed toward the trash, my feet bee-lining for the kitchen of his suite, my hand pulling at the door of his fridge. Empty. White lights illuminating clean shelves.

“What’s wrong?” Tobey was right behind me, so close that when I turned, I bumped into him, my hand pulling at the bottom of my jersey.

I tried to smile. “Got any more beer?”

“No.” His voice was wary, the response stretched out, and he stepped back slowly, my hopes of erasing this night with alcohol dimming. Then he crouched, fumbling open a cabinet, and my eyes dropped, the door open, a row of mini bottles shining from the dark depths. “But I have these.” He smirked up at me, and I stepped forward, my hand held out, mind replaying too many things.

We were so good together
. I twisted the cap of the first tiny bottle, something clear, and I swallowed a huge gulp of coconut fire, my throat burning, my eyes tearing as I took the juice Tobey handed me and chased down the liquor.