by Tara Wyatt
She shook her head, blinking up at him. “This isn’t about the past. This is about what we both want, now.”
“What makes you so sure that’s what I want?” He stepped even closer, placing his hands on the table on either side of her hips. She shimmied a little closer to him and sent him a challenging smile.
“Because I can read your body like a book.”
His jaw tightened, and he shook his head, but he didn’t move away. “It’s a bad idea, Maggie.”
She hooked her fingers into the belt loops of his jeans and tugged him against her. “I think it’s the best idea I’ve had in a long time.”
“I thought you hated me.”
She smiled up at him sweetly. “I don’t have to like you to want to fuck you. This is just sex I’m offering. No feelings, no strings.”
“Jesus.” A muscle in his jaw popped and she could see him fighting with himself while his eyes practically devoured her. “Tempting, but still a bad idea.”
“I need closure on the past if we’re going to work together. Everything between us ended so suddenly. We have…unfinished business, and I think I need to get you out of my system.”
Something that looked a hell of a lot like victory flared in his eyes. “I thought this wasn’t about the past.” One of his hands came up off the table to grip her hip, his fingers flexing into her. She let out a small hum, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. When she opened them again, they met Dylan’s. Energy snapped and crackled between them, the air charged like just before a lightning strike. Her nipples beaded to aching little points, and she rubbed her thighs together. “You think having sex with me will give you closure,” he said, his voice taking on a rough edge that turned her on even more.
“I do. When it was the last time…I didn’t know it was the last time. This time, I’ll know.”
He lowered his face, his nose grazing her cheek, his breath feathering over her skin. Every nerve ending she had stood on end as she waited for him to take the dare. To say yes. She’d never seduced anyone before, and she had to admit, it was a heady feeling, making her feel both powerful and innately feminine.
His lips ghosted over hers, the tiniest whisper of a kiss. She parted her lips, ready for more. He let out a ragged breath and then pulled away. Her eyes flew open.
“I shouldn’t do this with you, Maggie.” His gaze was full of lust and regret, and he gave her hip a final squeeze before turning and disappearing through the door.
“Oh,” she said to the empty room, her fingers going to her lips. Her shoulders slumped as a wave of nausea curled over her. Her thoughts shattered into a million little pieces, scattering further and further every time she tried to pick them up and put them back together.
He’d said no. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling naked. Exposed and vulnerable and rejected. Her face flushed, her skin hot and prickly.
“Oh.” She pushed off of the table and with weak legs, slunk back to her office, wondering what the hell she’d been thinking.
Four
“What an absolutely disastrous night so far for Dylan McCormick,” says Wayne Hopkins. “I don’t think things could’ve gone any worse for him.”
“No, I don’t think so,” agrees Ron Whittaker. “He struck out in the second, had that collision in center field in the third, which allowed the Orioles to score a run, then got hit by a pitch in the fourth, only to get thrown out when he was caught trying to steal second.”
“He’s not known for being an emotional guy on the field, but you can tell from his body language that he’s not happy with his performance tonight.”
“Yeah, you can see the frustration. He’s only two games in here in Dallas, but it looks like his struggles have followed him from San Diego.”
“Let’s hope he can turn his night around, as he’s due up next as we head to the bottom of the eighth.”
Dylan took a few practice swings as he settled into his stance in the batter’s box. He anchored his feet, digging his cleats into the dirt, but his legs still felt restless. He stared down at the pitcher’s mound, his chest feeling unusually tight. In the past, he’d been able to quiet his mind and focus when he stepped up to the plate, but now he could barely hear his thoughts as they collided into each other, crashing like cymbals.
You can’t hit. You’re gonna strike out again.
You’re a joke. A failure. And everyone here’s gonna see that.
Twenty-eight-year-old has-been, destined for the minors.
He swung at the cutter, reaching with the end of his bat even though it was down and away. He made feeble contact, sending the ball skidding toward the shortstop, who fielded it easily and tossed it to first base. Dylan shook his head, jogging back to the dugout. He took off his batting helmet and set it down hard.
“Fuck,” he ground out, kicking at a pile of empty Gatorade cups. Different city, different uniform, but nothing had changed. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck as he sank down onto the bench. Hiroshi Miyata, the team’s second baseman, sat down beside him and said something in Japanese.
Dylan stared at him skeptically, and when Hiroshi seemed to be waiting for a response, he said, “Uh…cool. Thanks.”
He nodded and stood, clearly feeling that he’d done his job. Dylan tipped his chin at Chikako, Hiroshi’s American translator, sending her a puzzled look.
“He said ‘Even Buddhist scrolls have brush strokes.’”
“Uh…okay, I still don’t understand.”
Chikako laughed, but not unkindly. “It’s a Japanese proverb. It means that even great masters make mistakes because no one is capable of perfection.”
“Oh. Well, all right then.” He looked over in Hiroshi’s direction, nodding at him now that he understood the encouragement his teammate had been trying to give him.
Javier Flores, the team’s manager, sat down beside him, not looking at him. Javier was in his early forties, his dark brown hair a little gray at the temples, smile lines fanning out around his eyes. He’d played twelve seasons as a catcher for the Miami Marlins before retiring and moving into coaching, and although he didn’t play anymore, he was still fit. He tossed a handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth.
“You a football fan?” he asked, his eyes trained out on the diamond.
“Uh, sure,” said Dylan, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees.
Javi nodded slowly. “Me too. Packers. Vince Lombardi.”
“Uh huh.” He didn’t know where Javi was going with this, and frankly he wasn’t in the mood to pretend to care.
Javier smiled. “He said that ‘it’s not whether you get knocked down, it’s whether you get up.’”
Dylan nodded, pursing his lips.
“He also said that ‘winners never quit, and quitters never win.’” He turned to face Dylan, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You’re down, and you don’t know how to get up, but I’m not going to let you quit on yourself. Not happening on my watch, McCormick.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” It was comforting to know he wouldn’t be shipped off to the minors next week.
He leaned in closer. “I don’t know why you’re so up in your own head, but the first step is to get out of it. That’s your homework. Figure out a way to calm the hell down. Hit the gym. Get laid. Meditate or do yoga or some shit. I don’t care. But find what works for you because your mechanics are solid. You’re mind fucking yourself.” He stood and walked over to where Abby was standing at the front of the dugout, her arms resting on the railing.
Get laid. The two words buzzed through his brain, heating his blood. God, Maggie this morning. He hadn’t been expecting that—she’d shocked the hell out of him. It had taken every ounce of willpower he had not to kiss her—hell, not to take her right there on the conference room table—but he’d done it, not for his sake, but for hers. He owed her that much. After having dinner—well, one scotch, anyway—with his father the other night, all the reasons he needed to stay the hell away from Maggi
e had become crystal clear. He’d hurt her once, and the last thing she deserved was to get hurt again. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he was so like his father that he wasn’t sure it was avoidable.
Did he want to have sex with her again? Hell, yeah, he did. But it wasn’t a good idea. She said she wanted closure, but what if instead of putting a period on the sentence of Dylan and Maggie, it only opened everything up again, including old wounds and long-buried secrets? Even if she just wanted sex, he had a feeling he’d want so much more from her if given even the smallest opportunity. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told her that he’d never stopped thinking about her. For him, sleeping with her wouldn’t be closure. He’d want everything from her, and he had no right to any of it after the way he’d broken her heart.
But…she’d felt so damn good pressed against him this morning.
He was protecting her.
Just that taste of her soft, warm lips had had him wanting so much more.
He was putting her interests ahead of his.
Shit, was that manipulative? Was he taking her choice away from her again, just like he had ten years ago? He shook his head as he pulled on his glove and then took to the field for the ninth inning, ready to put this game behind him.
Maggie grimaced as she watched Dylan collide with the wall as he tried to make a tough catch. He almost had it, but the ball slipped out of his glove and he crashed to the ground as Hunter ran over from center field to retrieve the ball and throw it in, trying to prevent a triple. She took a sip of her wine, curling her feet under her on the couch. While she didn’t have to attend all the games, she was expected to watch them and know what was happening with the team. And what was happening was that Dylan was having a shit-tastic night. She almost felt bad for him. Almost. But then she remembered that she wasn’t even supposed to like him, and that he’d rejected her, and he’d broken her heart a decade ago. She watched as he hobbled off the field, fans booing him. She found herself frowning sympathetically.
Well, dammit. She felt bad for him. She didn’t want to, but she did. It just wasn’t in her nature to take pleasure in anyone’s misfortune. Even if that someone was Dylan ‘this isn’t a good idea’ McCormick. Dylan ‘I’m sexy and I know it’ McCormick. Dylan freaking McCormick. She felt like he was all she’d thought about for the past few days.
The game ended with another Longhorns loss in the books, so she turned off the TV and then put her empty wineglass in the dishwasher. She turned it on and then headed into the bathroom. She took her time washing her face, brushing her teeth, and putting lotion on her arms and legs, relaxing into her usual bedtime routine.
She slipped between the covers of her bed and turned her ereader on, but then frowned. Maybe the steamy romance novel she was in the middle of wasn’t a good idea right now. She started scrolling through her other books—okay, so she had a bit of a one-click problem—when she heard her work phone chime from her nightstand. With a sigh, she picked it up, hoping it was something that could wait until morning.
It was a text. From Dylan. Two words that made butterflies explode and crash into each other in her stomach.
You up?
Was she up? She bit her lip, feeling a bit off kilter at the idea that he’d changed his mind about the two of them hooking up. She wanted to know why he’d changed his mind, why he was texting her right now, but then she decided that it didn’t matter. She texted him back before she could chicken out.
Yup.
She’d sent her text less than five seconds earlier when the phone rang, making her jump. Now he was calling her. She waited until the third ring before sliding her finger over the screen to accept the call.
“Hey,” she answered, trying to sound nonchalant.
“You still wanna fuck?” Dylan’s voice had a rough edge to it that sent her heart smashing into her ribs at triple time.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?” There was a pause. “I don’t want to have soft, sweet, sex, Maggie. I need to fuck. You gotta tell me if that’s not what you want.”
Heat swirled through her at his words. She wasn’t used to him talking like this, so raw, but she liked it. A lot. She sat up in bed, suddenly feeling suffocated by the covers. “I’m not an eighteen-year-old virgin anymore, Dylan. You don’t have to be careful with me. If you want hard and sweaty, I’m game.”
“Text me your address.” She pulled the phone away from her ear and typed it out. His phone chimed on the other end of the line as he got her text. “I’ll be there in twenty.” And with that, he ended the call.
She tossed the phone down and sprang out of bed. Twenty minutes. Thank God she’d shaved her legs this morning. She rifled through her nightstand drawer, making sure she had condoms—she did—and then scurried back into the bathroom to do…something to get ready. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Hair in a messy bun, no makeup, wearing an old, ratty over-sized Dallas Cowboys T-shirt.
“Crap,” she squeaked out, nerves zapping through her like an electrical storm. Quickly, she pulled out her hair tie and flipped her head upside down, shaking it out. Then she applied a couple coats of mascara, a touch of blush, and a little concealer. She misted her perfume in the air and walked through it. Glancing down at the T-shirt, she dashed back into her bedroom, opening one of her dresser drawers and rifling through, trying to figure out what to put on. She wanted to look effortlessly sexy. She wanted him to want her as much as she wanted him.
For closure. Not for any other reason.
She tossed the T-shirt into her hamper and pulled on a soft black cotton tank top and a pair of simple black panties. She knotted the tank top just above her hip, leaving a sliver of her stomach exposed. And then she waited, her entire body buzzing with anticipation and nervous excitement. Because she was finally going to get some. Not because it was Dylan, or because he had any effect on her other than sexually.
But as she waited, doubts started to creep in. She’d felt so sure of her idea to hook up with him—until he’d rejected her. She’d been hurt. Embarrassed. If this hook-up was just about closure, why had he been able to make her feel so small? And why was she ready to jump out of her skin knowing he was on his way over here now? But she didn’t have time to dig deeper into those questions because her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at her door. She took a breath and forced herself to walk slowly, giving her hair a final toss before opening her door.
Dylan stood in the doorway, wearing a white-and-blue plaid button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and jeans. He looked her up and down, his eyes traveling slowly over her body.
“Goddamn,” he said, his voice gruff with a masculine appreciation that made her feel as though she were glowing from the inside out. His jaw tightened, and he shook his head, then braced his arms against the doorway, making the muscles in his arms pop beneath his shirt. “I shouldn’t be here.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Yet here you are.” She turned and walked down the hallway, giving him a view of her ass, knowing he’d follow. “I gotta admit, I was surprised to hear from you after you turned me down this morning.” Sure enough, she heard the door close, and she smiled, her confidence settling back into place.
“You caught me off guard.” His strong fingers curled around her arm and he spun her around, then backed her into the wall, caging her in with his arms. She shivered as a tingling heat worked its way down her spine. “For the record, I still think this is a bad fucking idea.”
“Why?” She arched her back, her breasts skimming against his chest. He made a low growling sound and dipped his head, brushing his lips over hers, a tease of a kiss.
“Because I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m a big girl, now. I can take care of myself. This is just a hookup. An itch we both need to scratch. I’m over you, Dylan.”
“Like a one-time thing?”
She smiled coyly. “Or more than one time. I’m pretty itchy.”
He sighed, his nostrils flaring. “I
know I should stay away from you, but fuck…I don’t think I can.”
“Then don’t. We both know what this is.”
“Friends with benefits,” he said, wrapping a lock of her hair around one of his fingers. Something tender inside her tried to blossom at the memory of how he’d done that same thing ten years ago, but she shoved it away.
She bit her lip and looked up at him. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say we’re friends. I’m really only interested in the benefits.” It seemed to be the green light he needed because he lowered his head and kissed a path up her neck. She let out a gasping little moan at the sensation of his hot mouth on her skin.
“If we’re doing this, we better set some ground rules,” he murmured against her throat. She rolled her hips against him and started undoing the buttons of his shirt, excitement snapping through her.
“Okay, ground rules.” Her voice came out a little breathless. “Like what?”
His teeth tugged at her earlobe, sending sparks dancing over her skin and making her clit throb. “Rule number one: this is just sex, and this is a temporary arrangement.”
She nodded, letting out an appreciative hum as she exposed the muscles of his chest one button at a time. “Rule number two: we only hook up at night, and no advance planning. Booty calls only.” Anything planned or in the daytime would feel too much like a date as far as she was concerned, and she was definitely not dating Dylan McCormick.
He dragged his knuckles over her beaded nipple, making her arch into his touch. He lifted his head from her neck, a sexy smile turning up the corner of his mouth. “Rule number three: no sleepovers, no cuddling.”
She moaned and pushed his shirt down over his shoulders. “Rule number four: No romance whatsoever.”
He backed away just long enough to fling his shirt to the floor. She traced her fingers over his pecs and down his abs, appreciating the hell out of the way he’d filled out over the past ten years. She trailed her fingertips down over his arms, over the hills and valleys created by his gorgeously masculine physique. His forearms were even more impressive than she remembered. They’d always turned her on, especially watching them flex as he swung a bat.