Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
I also want to come right this second.
Josh props himself up, looking at me, face flushed, mouth wet. There’s no way the photographer won’t know something’s up. But I’m okay with that. Better than okay. So good with it I want to take out a billboard in Times Square that says, Yeah, I made Josh Spencer come, and yeah, he called my name.
I lift myself up to sit on my knees, leaning over him.
Josh reaches up with one arm, rubbing a thumb over the seam of my lips. His shirt is rucked up, revealing his chest and stomach. “Come on my chest. All over me,” he commands.
And fuck, it doesn’t take much, just a few cycles of my hand, and I’m doing just what he said, painting his skin with my release.
I collapse forward, panting, and the world goes pleasantly, amazingly blank.
After a minute, Josh taps me on the arm in an effort to get up. I roll off him, slumping against the back of the couch. Whatever mess Josh was hoping to avoid clearly didn’t work. My pants are still open, and I reconcile myself to trying to get cleaned up when Josh comes back with a bottle of water from the catering spread, along with a handful of napkins. He’s dabbing at his belly, frowning.
“Hey,” I croak at him, and hell, my voice really is shot. If we do pre-season interviews, I’m going to have to cite a reaction to Florida pollen and not the Union second baseman’s cock deep in my throat.
Josh smiles at me, the kind he doesn’t give when he’s pretending to like the press, but a real one, soft at the edges.
“Here.” He hands me the bottle of water, which I drain, then follows it up with the napkins, swiping them over my stomach.
Eventually, reality sets in. I stand, straightening up further, trying to look like we haven’t been doing exactly what we’ve been doing. Except every so often, Josh shoots me a look like he can’t believe that happened either.
Noises drift closer from outside the studio, the crew returning. We look decent enough, even though my lips are stinging from the scrape of his beard and my hair a mess.
Josh’s jersey is back on, but he skipped a button. I reach out, sliding it into the buttonhole, feeling the firmness of his chest underneath it, wondering what’s next. If we’ll part ways to go to Florida for six weeks of meaningless scrimmage games before the season starts. That once he’s had the Chris Garnett experience, he’ll decide it’s not for him.
Josh drops his gaze to my hands on his shirt, watching me as I finish dressing him. I can feel his heart thumping fast.
He lifts his face, his expression maybe like he’s working through something, solving a problem. “Come get a drink with me,” Josh says. “After this.”
I pretend to consider it, so I don’t sound overeager. “Well, I don’t know. It’s noon, and I’m flying to Miami later today.”
“Coffee, then. A mimosa. A glass of water. I don’t care.” Josh is so intense, asking me just like he plays ball.
Warmth blooms in my chest. “Careful, Spencer. If you keep that up, someone might think you like me.” I hope he does, and it’s not just the spectacular orgasms talking.
Josh starts to say something when the photographer returns, shaking her head. “Sorry about that, guys. I didn’t mean to be gone so long.”
“It wasn’t an issue,” I say to Sadie. “That’s the thing about baseball. There’s a lot of hurry up and wait, so you always find a way to keep entertained.”
Behind me, Josh coughs like he’s trying not to laugh. I head to the table, getting two more little bottles of water, and handing him one.
“You sound like you’re thirsty,” I say. Josh gives me a flat look, so clearly, I have to keep going. Winding him up is so much fun. “You might want to watch that. I can feel a sore throat coming on. Must be the weather.”
“I’ll be sure to invest in some tea,” he says. Though it sounds like he wants to give me another sore throat, possibly as soon as we get out of here. “Maybe I’ll get some after this. If you . . . want to get some too.”
I smile at that, a real smile that he answers with one of his own. “Sure, I’d be happy to come with you.”
7
Chris
After the photoshoot, we quickly change back into our street clothes. Or, really, Josh changes quickly and I stare shamelessly as he tugs on his shirt and jeans. He has to hop to get on the latter—mostly because his thighs look like pre-spring training tree trunks—and actually laughs about it. As much as I want to see this man naked, his rush to get out of here is somehow hotter.