by Lori Ryan
In the end, he’d been glad. He realized he would have been locking himself into a marriage before he was really ready. She did him a favor. She not only saved him from making the marriage mistake he’d seen others make, she taught him how to recognize the women that wanted nothing to do with guys who were stuck playing kid games. And, he was beginning to think that Ashlyn was one of those women.
“Hey,” he said, and laughed a little when she jumped and spun around. Apparently, she hadn’t heard him come in the room. “Sorry about that. Do you know where Elise is? I wanted to say goodbye.”
“Oh, um … ” She looked nervously over his shoulder as if being in the same room alone with him made her anxious. What on earth was up with this woman? “She just ran upstairs to grab something. She’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” he said, watching her intently as he leaned one hip against the counter. She seemed to struggle to come up with something to say. He didn’t feel the need to make idle chitchat about the weather or her latest sewing project or whatever she was about to bring up, so he stayed quiet. Instead, he watched the way her small breasts gently sloped under the peach-colored camisole she wore, wondering if she knew how sensual it was that a tiny scrap of her lace bra showed at the top of the shirt. Probably not. She probably hadn’t intended it to be an alluring outfit, but somehow, it was.
He was so focused on her breasts, he almost missed the words she said, but the unexpected topic caught his attention quickly.
“ … and once you troubleshoot your routine,” she was saying, and he was shocked.
Everyone knew about his routines, but no one other than his teammates was polite enough to call them routines instead of superstitions. Rafe turned his attention to her words and her face, surprised by how animated and excited she seemed when talking about baseball. His level of interest shot up.
“As soon as you troubleshoot things and get your routine back on track, you’ll get the errors worked out and then you can take advantage of the Hawks’ third baseman.”
Holy hell. She was talking baseball like she knew the game. Not only knew the game, but knew it damn well.
“He’s playing you too deep. If you drop a bunt down the third baseline tomorrow, he won’t see it coming.”
Rafe felt a rumble come from deep in his chest as he inched closer to her, trying to get a tiny whiff of the intoxicating scent coming off her. Something flowery, but light. Not overpowering at all. Her scent might not be strong, but she was overpowering. She was sexy as hell. It wasn’t something a guy would notice at first glance. She was really a tiny mouse of a thing with unremarkable dark brown hair and plain brown eyes, but when she opened her mouth and sounded as sharp as his hitting coach, shit, she did something to him.
She turned him on, is what she did.
Rafe intended to take a step backward, to pull away before he got stupid. But, apparently, he had already hit stupid a few beats back. Instead of retreating, his feet moved closer still, until he was toe-to-toe with her. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it, but before he realized what was happening, he had reached out and looped an arm around her waist, pulling her in close.
She put her hands on his chest and gasped in surprise, her brown eyes going round and big, and his cock hardened against her stomach. He didn’t know what in the hell had come over him, but damn, he had to taste her. He expected her to shove him away or maybe even slap him, but a small whimper escaped as she melded her body to his. Those eyes seemed to melt into a caramel color as enticing as she was.
How had he ever thought they were plain?
Rafe lowered his head to capture those cupid bow lips with his mouth, and she answered the kiss with more heat than he would have thought that petite little body possessed, sending all the wrong messages to his dick. Messages about stripping her bare and burying himself deep and hard in her right there on Kane’s kitchen counter.
When Rafe’s arm first came around her waist, Ashlyn was stunned into silence. What on earth could he possibly be doing, grabbing her, pulling her body into his? His very hot, hard body that set her on fire at only the simplest contact.
She felt a brief moment of anger at his audacity. Of course, he thought he could just touch whomever he wanted, grab the closest woman around, whether she’d asked him to or not. Why shouldn’t he? After all, he was the great Rafe Wilson, a player with one of the highest batting averages in the American League so far this year—despite the fact that shortstops aren’t usually known for their batting skill—and one of the most adored shortstops in Strikers history.
Just when she worked up a good mad and was ready to haul off and hit him—or at the very least, tell him a thing or two about himself and where he could put his grabby hands—he’d captured her mouth and melted her senses.
Her instincts, her brain, all of her common sense.
Everything flew out the window in a heartbeat as his tongue slipped between her lips and met hers, setting Ashlyn on fire from the inside out. She was ashamed to say, the response was immediate and utterly unrestrained. Her body pressed to his as his hand came up to cup the back of her head, deepening the kiss, sending images of what that mouth could do to other parts of her body skittering through her head.
In the back of Ashlyn’s mind, a tiny voice was screaming something. Probably something about baseball players being, well, players, as well as something about a white picket fence and a good, safe man. There might have been a vague recollection of being in her friend’s kitchen, making it highly inappropriate to be wishing he would tear her shirt off and put that mouth and those hands to work in other ways.
Ashlyn mentally swatted at the tiny voice and laced her arms around Rafe’s neck, pressing her body even closer. She reveled in the feel of the hard, taut planes of his chest and stomach against her breasts, the sensation of her breasts rubbing against him as he shifted to pull her closer yet. His hard length pressed into her stomach, sending a flush of heat to the long-neglected area between her legs and, for a moment, Ashlyn was lost. Nothing had ever felt like this with any of the white-picket-fence-guys. Not even close.
Then suddenly, the voice in her head was not tiny, nor was it in her head any longer. It was coming from the kitchen doorway and it belonged to what sounded like a very shocked Elise.
“Holy Jeesum! I’m sorry, I’ll just ... ” Ashlyn opened her eyes to see Elise awkwardly backpedaling out of the room, gesturing over her shoulder, mumbling about going back upstairs until they were finished.
Ashlyn gasped and looked from her friend to Rafe—more specifically to her body draped on Rafe’s, one leg actually raised and hooked around his thigh—and then she bolted.
Yes. Bolted.
Grabbing her purse, she pushed past Rafe. She fled the room, the house, the whole scene. That did not just happen.
Chapter Three
Rafe felt another of his teammate’s hands on his shoulder as he sat in front of his locker after the game the following day. It had been an afternoon game and he and the rest of the Strikers had been back in sync. Each play perfectly executed. He’d made hits at each at bat and had no errors for the game, not that he normally expected them, but he’d come into this game not knowing what would happen.
“Way to fix it out there today, Rafe,” said Aiden as he walked by, towel wrapped loosely around his waist, hair still wet from the shower. “Knew you’d figure it out.”
He’d heard the same sentiments from the rest of the team for the last thirty minutes as he sat frozen, still in his uniform. The problem was, he had no idea what he’d done today that was different from what he’d done when they’d played their first of three games against the Hawks. He ran through his routines over and over, and nothing had changed.
Well, nothing except the fact that he had hardly been able to get his mind off that hot-as-hell kiss with Elise’s friend from the day before.
The way she’d grabbed him and leaned into the kiss, the way she’d kissed him back so completely and totally. That wasn
’t at all what he’d expected from a tiny mouse of a woman like that. He would have thought a schoolteacher would be more prim and proper, not hot and steamy and so damned sexy she stole his breath. Then again, Elise was a teacher, and although Kane sure as hell didn’t kiss and tell, Rafe knew Kane wouldn't be with someone who wasn’t a wildcat in the bedroom. Maybe there was more to schoolteachers than he realized.
Rafe’s head came up. That was it—the kiss. That was what was different. He’d kissed Ashlyn not more than twelve hours before the game. Rafe grinned and stripped out of his uniform, headed for the showers. He could work with that.
Ashlyn glanced down at her Yogi Bear pajamas as she rubbed her eyes and squinted at the clock on the mantle. Who on earth was ringing her doorbell at one o’clock in the morning? That thought woke her up as a ball of fear filled her stomach. Anyone coming to the door or calling so late probably had an emergency of some kind.
Ashlyn looked through the peephole and froze, then rubbed her eyes a few more times. Rafe Wilson was standing on her doorstep. Rafe Wilson. On her doorstep. She stepped back and frowned at the door, then moved forward again just as Rafe pushed the buzzer a second time, making her jump slightly at the sudden sound.
She wouldn’t normally answer the door for a man she didn’t know very well at this hour, but Rafe was close friends with Kane. Surely, he wouldn’t hurt her, would he? She nibbled on her bottom lip as she debated. She’d seen him a dozen or so times at parties. He was never drunk or out of control. She’d seen him hit on women, but he seemed to take no for an answer on the exceedingly rare times it was given. And, he was always polite with Elise, saying thank you and goodnight whenever he left.
Ashlyn looked down at her pajamas one last time before reaching for the door. She left the chain lock on and peeked through the four-inch space it provided, knowing full well he could likely break the wimpy little chain if he wanted.
Rafe’s eyes swept up and down her body and he seemed ... impatient. Annoyed, maybe that she took so long to answer? Who on earth comes to someone’s door at one in the morning and expects that person to answer right away? Or, for that matter, to answer at all?
He seemed to gather himself and she saw him take a deep breath, as though bracing himself. As she waited for what could possibly have brought him to her door, her mind replayed every second of his kiss from the day before. It was utterly ridiculous that her body responded to it, even now when it was nothing more than a memory. A damn good memory, she had to admit. Ashlyn blushed, trying to focus on the here and now instead of yesterday’s kiss.
“Rafe? Did you need something?” she asked.
The words that came out of his mouth were not even remotely expected.
“I need you.”
“Excuse me?” Ashlyn asked and took a step back, grasping at the neckline of her pajama top as though closing a robe more tightly around her body. But, there was no robe, nothing to cover her absurd Yogi bear pajamas, nothing with which to fortify her defenses. And, only that silly, useless chain on the door between them.
“I need you,” he repeated, as if that explained everything—as though it were self-explanatory. Ashlyn just stared.
“My game this afternoon,” he said more slowly, with the kind of deliberate breakdown one reserved for a small child who lacked the sophistication to understand concepts clear to adults. “No errors. Three hits, including a home run.”
Ashlyn nodded slowly, not at all sure what he was talking about.
“Yes. I saw. You bunted to third and brought Collier and Sampson home with your next at bat. The home run was beautiful. No one saw it coming.”
He nodded.
She shook her head.
They were getting nowhere.
“Can I come in, Ashlyn? So we can talk without a chain between us?”
She once again caught her lower lip between her teeth, not sure what to do.
Rafe held his hands up. “Just talk. Nothing more, I promise.”
After another short mental debate over the safety of letting him in, she erred on the side of he’s-good-friends-with-Kane-and-Elise and unlatched the chain before moving back into the room to let him in.
“So,” she said slowly, drawing the syllable out, “surely your hitting coach saw the hole at third base and told you to bunt. You didn’t need me to tell you that.” She had been babbling nervously yesterday when she told him about the hole the Hawks’ third baseman was leaving in the infield. Any hitting coach would have picked up on that in an instant and told Rafe to capitalize with a bunt. No doubt, Rafe himself should have noticed it easily.
Rafe nodded. “Yeah, he picked up on that.”
“Okay, then I’m not following you. What do you need me for?”
“The kiss. I need you for the kiss,” he said, taking a step closer as she took two steps back. Her nipples—traitorous as they were—voted to dive forward into his arms. She was no idiot. She took another step back for good measure, hitting the back of the couch. Trapped.
He stepped forward again, leaving only inches between them as his eyes blazed through her, heating her from the inside out. Stupid, stupid body.
“I-I don’t understand,” Ashlyn said, but the words came out a whisper.
“I need you to kiss me before the next game.”
As she stared at him, understanding dawned. His routines. His superstitions. He thought she was part of his pregame ritual now.
And, there she was shaking her head again. As though she could shake it enough to make him understand this was silly. “I’m not ... I can’t. Good heavens, Rafe, I mean, I’m not like a lucky sock you wear every game and don't ever wash.”
Now he shook his head at her. “That’s not what it means, Ashlyn. I mean, that’s not how I’d think about you. You're just my good luck ...” He looked past her shoulder as though searching for the word in thin air.
“Kisser?” she finished for him.
“Well, yeah,” he said, as though that made all the sense in the world, but she could hear just a touch of uncertainty in his voice. Maybe he could hear how ridiculous it sounded as he said it out loud. Or maybe he realized how offensive the idea was, because it was—offensive, that is, and absurd.
“So, what? I’m supposed to show up before each game and let you paw at me the way you did at Elise and Kane’s?” Heck, even as she said it, her body warmed and thrummed at the idea. Foolish, foolish body. Have you no pride? Apparently not, because the thrumming only intensified.
His eyes flashed, hot and hard. “I think you did your fair share of pawing there, too, Ashlyn. Besides,” he said as he took her hands and led her around to the front of the couch, pulling her down to sit next to him, “it’s obvious you love the game, and Elise’s told me you’re a big fan of the team.”
Note to self: tell Elise to shut her mouth.
“And, I’ll pay for your time, all your expenses. A driver, flights to the away games.”
Oh, no he didn’t.
“You’ll pay me,” she said, and she knew her schoolteacher voice had just come out. She snapped out of her stunned, half aroused reverie and was in motion in a flash. She stood and pointed to the door. “Out! Out now.”
She herded him to the door, shoving him out even as he tried to backpedal to explain he hadn’t meant it that way. It would be a cold day in a place she didn't care to go before she ever became Rafe Wilson’s pregame-good-luck-kissing-booth thingy.
Slamming the door on him felt good, but adrenaline from the anger ran through her body as she paced the apartment, trying to process what on earth had just happened. Had he really just come here and offered to pay her for kissing him before each game? What was he thinking?
Ashlyn tried to settle herself as she finally climbed back in bed, knowing she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep anytime soon. Energy whipped through her, fed partially by anger and partially by her body’s reaction to seeing Rafe on her doorstep, looking like he’d stepped straight out of her fantasies. His dark hair had been
ruffled, his eyes blazing with intensity and focused only on her, and the slight bit of scruff on his chin had made her want to reach out and lick his jaw. What was that about?
The doorbell rang again. Three times.
With a groan, Ashlyn went to look through the peephole in the door again.
The look on his face was priceless. She realized with no small amount of shock, Rafe was repentant. And, he looked a little like he might be prepared to beg. Rafe Wilson. Begging. Intrigued, Ashlyn spoke to him through the door.
“What now, Rafe?”
“Can we start over?” he asked. “Please?”
She opened the door but left the chain in place, waiting for him to speak.
“Maybe,” he said slowly, “we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement. Maybe there’s something I can do for you? Tickets to the games? Insider strategizing for your fantasy baseball team?”
Ashlyn narrowed her eyes at him. How on earth did he know she was in a fantasy baseball league?
“Sorry,” he said, looking almost bashful. “I talked to Elise. She told me about your fantasy league at school.”
Ashlyn’s mind jumped to the bet she had going at school with an arrogant math teacher who thought he could beat the pants off any woman in fantasy baseball. If she won, he had to take over her detention shifts for the entire school year. If he won, she’d have to take his. But, she didn’t need Rafe’s help to beat John Cafkin. The man was an idiot. He’d chosen Sammy Hernandez as his catcher this week, despite the fact that everyone knew Hernandez would have been sent down to the minors if the other catcher for the Sox hadn’t been injured. With decisions like that, she’d win easily.
When she didn’t answer Rafe, he continued. “Naturally, I’d fly you to all the away games anyway, so you can be there for the, uh, for the kiss.” Ashlyn almost laughed. Confident, alpha, GQ model Rafe Wilson was nervous.