Total pages in book: 12
Estimated words: 11411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 57(@200wpm)___ 46(@250wpm)___ 38(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 11411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 57(@200wpm)___ 46(@250wpm)___ 38(@300wpm)
“Sort of,” she says playfully. “It seems that your Prince Charming is a bit of a showboat.”
I sit up straighter, my interest piqued.
“Your secret admirer is the third baseman for the San Francisco Dragons.”
I blink in surprise. “I don’t follow baseball. I had no idea he was a ballplayer,” I tell Theresa.
“Well, I do. And lots of other people know he’s a ballplayer. He posted a picture this morning on Instagram of him wearing one of your designs.”
My lips twitch.
My fingers tingle.
This I have to see. I click over to Instagram, find the shot.
My cock twitches as I savor the image.
An image I need to look at alone.
“I have to go,” I tell Theresa, then hang up.
Need a minute with this shot all by myself.
I stare at him. I fucking gaze salaciously. Because this man looks better in my design than anyone ever has. In fact, if I were playing the what underwear would suit him game, I wouldn’t be able to decide.
Gunnar would look good in everything and anything—and nothing fucking at all.
I stare at the screen, taking it all in. From his cocky smile, to his fuck me eyes, he looks so damn stunning. And he seems to like playing games.
Judging from his caption, anyway.
How about a new design, Rafe? Here you go.
Well, Gunnar. Two can play at that game. If he’s going to throw down publicly, I’ll do the same.
But first, I do something else. I take out my cock, run my hand down my hard shaft, give it a tug. I imagine Gunnar’s at my office right now, kneeling for me right underneath my desk. Asking what I need. Staring at me with heat in his eyes. Licking those lush lips.
I tell him to open his mouth, take me deep, let me fuck his throat hard.
And he drops his jaw in a heartbeat. He does exactly as I say.
One more stroke, then I squeeze the base, and zip up my trousers. I’m not going to jack-off at work. But I know exactly what I want. I might not know baseball, but I know men, I know the game of dating, and I know how to get things done. This man wants me. And I’m going to give him everything he wants.
I look up Gunnar’s schedule, buy a suite for the game later today, then call the Dragons’ PR department and ask a favor.
Baseball game, here I come.
5
Gunnar
* * *
I dig in at the plate, take a few practice swings, then get in the box. It’s the seventh inning and I’m hitless so far against the Chicago Sharks today.
And that is not okay.
This pitcher has annihilated me in the past, but I think I’ve got his number now. I’ve done my research and I know how to hit his ball.
I just need to focus.
And when I crowd the plate the slightest bit, he fires off a fastball, and I swing hard, connecting with a loud crack.
The ball soars down the right-field line, arcing, taunting me near the foul line . . . but it’s fair.
It’s a home run.
That’s how you play.
That’s how you turn a game around.
As I round the bases, I thrust my arms in the air, my eyes swinging around the ballpark. From here, I can’t make out anyone, of course. But an idea flashes through my mind all the same.
What if Rafe came to one of my games? I bet he’d like to see what I can do on the field, bet he’d love to watch me. I have a feeling that’s the kind of guy he is. Someone who’d be damn proud of his man.
Where the hell did that thought come from?
My cleats hit third base as I round the diamond. I’m not his man.
We just kissed.
More like he’d be proud of the guy he’s fucking.
But something about the chemistry we had . . . it’s crazy. But it felt a little like everything I’d always hoped I’d find someday.
Maybe some other time I’ll find out if he is the right one for me—if he comes back to the club some night I’m there, that is. Disappointment slings through me as I think of our missed opportunity, but that’s how it is as a pro-ball player. Schedules don’t always align. Hell, maybe it’s why I’ve not found the right person before.
When I cross home plate, I turn to the crowd, blow a big showy, flirty kiss like I usually do when I go yard, then turn my gaze to the boxes.
My heart beats faster for a second.
Do I see him there?
Or do I just want to see him there?
Want to. It’s an illusion. He can’t be here.
When the game ends with a win for the Dragons, I walk off the field to the locker room. After a quick shower, the publicist finds me. “There’s somebody who’d very much like to see you,” Owen says, a wry smile on his lips.