Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
When my feet touch home plate, I blow a kiss to the stands, then finish it off with a wink.
We win the game two innings later, and I high-five my teammates then head off the field, hoping a reporter calls me over.
Sure enough, as I near the dugout, Erin Madison waves a mic at me. “Gunnar, I’d love a quick post-game interview,” she says from her spot at the edge of the field.
“Absolutely,” I say, as if this wasn’t my plan all along. The blonde reporter fires off a few standard questions about the game, and I answer them all.
Then she gives a professional smile—curious and inviting, but not inappropriate. “And I have to ask, was the kiss for anyone in particular? Is there a special someone here in the stands today for the Dragons third baseman?”
I flash her a friendly grin. “C’mon, Erin. That was for all the fans. They are my loves, and I’m crazy for them. I adore every Dragon fan madly.”
She lifts a suspicious brow. “I’ve no doubt you do love your fans, but I’m not sure I buy that it was a kiss for everyone.”
“What?” I ask with humor and some cheek. “You think it was for someone in particular?”
“It seemed . . . pointed,” she says, then puts the mic in my face and waits.
I’m quiet for a beat, indulging in a long, sensual sigh, then I look away from her and straight into the camera. “If you’re watching, you know who that wink was for.” I turn back to Erin. “What can I say? I hit like a dragon, and I flirt like . . . me.”
She laughs and wraps up, and I thank her before I take off, bounding down the steps of the dugout.
My phone beeps as I make my way through the corridor to the locker room, and I check the screen, feeling smug.
Rafe: No, Gunnar, you flirt like an all-star. And imagine my private thrill when I knew that kiss and wink were for me. The reward I’m getting soon . . . is also for me. Once I receive it, perhaps I’ll give you one.
Gunnar: Question. Why don’t I get the reward? I’m the one who hit the home run.
Rafe: Because you want to please me. That’s your reward. Pleasing me.
I stop in my tracks, a sharp, hot bolt of pleasure shooting down my spine. Is that what I want? The thought of pleasing him gets me wildly hot. Turns me on in all new ways.
That’s what Rafe seems to do—unlock new parts of my desire. How is that possible when all we’ve done is kiss and grind?
Questions spin in my mind. What does he want? How far does he plan to take this flirtation? Where are we going with this attraction? And will it fuck up my bet with the guys?
It won’t. As long as I don’t fall.
I can avoid falling. But can I avoid wanting?
Wicked fantasies unfurl on the tail end of those questions, visions of Rafe doing unholy things to my body. I want, oh hell, do I want.
My thumbs fly across the phone’s screen.
Gunnar: How can you tell what I want?
I genuinely want to know how he’s figured me out already. As I near the locker room, the corridor seems unnaturally silent. My footsteps echo and my heart pounds in my ears. I want his reply so badly. When my phone beeps, I pounce on his message.
Rafe: The way you moved your body against mine. That’s how I could tell. But enough questions. We had a deal. I want what I want, Gunnar. And you want it too. Your reward is . . . arousing me. Do it, and do it fucking soon.
I sizzle at reading his message. I close my eyes and set my palm against the concrete wall to steady myself and settle my rocketing desires. But I can’t leave him hanging, so I obey.
Gunnar: You’ll get it in an hour.
In the locker room, I count the seconds—one by one, minute by minute—as my teammates get dressed and trickle out for the night. When I have the place nearly to myself, I go into the shower, get in a stall, shut the door, and turn on my phone.
God bless waterproof phones and covers. Rafe will get a whole lot more than a photo. And then I’m going to collect a reward from him.
8
SHAMELESS EXHIBITIONIST
Rafe
With a glass of scotch in hand, I stride across my penthouse overlooking the city and the San Francisco Bay below. Starlight glints off the water. In a half hour, my guests will arrive for the private, late-night poker game I host for friends and business associates. Normally, I would enjoy the quiet in the meantime, relish the moment to think, to read, to imagine.
Tonight, though, it’s hard to settle into the new thriller I’ve been reading. I’d love to spend thirty minutes lost in this story of a jewel heist in Amsterdam, but I mostly want my phone to beep.