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)
Yes. Fucking yes.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I say.
Josh shakes his head. “You might want to keep the cork in that champagne, Garnett.”
But I’m a hopeful guy, and I’m so damn close to solving the problem of him and me. Because he’s not pushing me away. He’s not tearing my hand off his shirt.
He is staring at my lips.
So I close the distance with one more jerk of his fabric.
He’s right up against me, his hard-on pressed against mine.
His breath hitches, and he dips his face.
Then groans. Low and filthy.
That. Sound.
Right there.
I lean into him, my lips barely brushing his as I whisper, “Like I said, I’ll show you what it means to play dirty.”
Josh doesn’t say anything for a second, but I’m willing to bet comebacks are forming in that head. Comebacks at odds with his cock pressed against me. “No doubt you would,” he says, barely audible. “But I’m going home.”
Which would be more convincing if he actually got in his car. The key fob chirps the doors open once more.
And yet, he’s still right up against me.
“You’re going home, Spencer. So are you inviting me over then?” I brush my lips across his jaw, dragging them over the prickle of his beard. “We can beat the traffic. Take the I-87,” I suggest.
Savoring the gasp that comes from him.
The press of his hips into mine.
The feel of his arousal against me.
Most of all, the way he lifts his chin just so, just a millimeter, giving me access.
And I take what he’s offering, as my lips travel down his neck, to his collarbone, then I lick. And press a hot, open-mouthed kiss on his skin.
He moans.
Yes.
I want all his noises, all his sighs, murmurs and grunts. So I rope my free hand around his hip, cover his firm ass, and tug him against me.
The sounds he makes are criminal as I grind against him, and he answers me right back with his body moving with mine.
My god, the things I want to do to Josh, for Josh. With Josh.
I could probably convince him, with my tongue, and hands and cock. But I want to hear it from the man himself. That he wants this, wants me, as much as I want him.
I break apart, meet his gaze. “So, what’s it gonna be tonight?”
His brown eyes are hazy, and they have that intoxicated look that tells me he wants all the same things. Me having him. Him having me.
But then he blinks, breathes out hard, and steps back. His nails press into his palm. “Not in the mood tonight.” Said like he's arguing with himself. “Some other time.”
He cuts past me, gets into his car, and drives away.
Leaving me with my erection, this bottle of champagne, and a whole lot of dirty dreams unfulfilled.
4
Josh
February
* * *
Commentators like to say that baseball is a game of short memories. You win some and flush the rest. That’s bullshit. There’s no forgetting losing the World Series. On TV. As part of the first “Subway Series”—two New York teams playing each other—in more than twenty years.
Also, people in this city aren’t exactly prone to letting things go. As it turns out, I’m not either. I haven’t forgotten a single detail from that night in late October.
Especially the ones that happened after the last out.
The day I’m supposed to leave for spring training, I peel myself out of bed. My apartment is big for Manhattan and small for anywhere else. Now, it’s dark from the blackout curtains I use during the season to sleep late, rendering it either cozy or claustrophobic.
I wish I’d slept late. Wish I’d forgotten the blinking calendar appointment on my schedule.
Trouble is, I haven’t stopped thinking about this day. In an hour, I have a photoshoot. With Chris.
Groan.
How the hell do I act with him? Like I didn’t totally want him to take me apart last time I saw him? Like I didn’t want to punch him? Like I’m just totally cool being this attracted to the guy who stole my World Series ring?
My agent says that it’ll be good for me to lean into the rivalry. My teammates say it’ll be therapeutic to see Chris in controlled circumstances.
My buddy Grant has simpler advice every time I see him.
After I make myself more or less presentable, I meet the catcher for the San Francisco Cougars for a cup of joe. After a quick once over, he shakes his head, then serves up what he’s been telling me for the last few months when it comes to Chris Garnett.
“Dude, you look like you need to get laid,” he says, as he stirs sugar into his cup.
“Gee thanks.”
“No, I mean it.”
“I can tell. Also, who doesn't need to get laid?” I say, since, well, facts are facts. Grant shakes his head and just smiles like I’m not quite getting it. “It’s not a philosophical question, man. It’s more like words to live by.”