Forced Play for Libby (Men of Baseball #3)

by Hayley Faiman

  Forced Play for Libby

  Copyright ©2015 Hayley Faiman

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editor: RC Martin, Another Pair

  Cover: Cassy Roop, Pink Ink Designs

  Formatting by Champagne Formats

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books

  Dedication

  Force Play definition

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Pitching for Amalie

  Also by Hayley Faiman

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by Hayley Faiman

  Book 1: Pitching for Amalie

  Book 2: Catching Maggie

  Book 3: Forced Play for Libby

  To all of those who have felt forced. May you all find your best play in life.

  May you all cross over home plate feeling victorious.

  Cassandra – My Boo

  You inspire me to be a better person.

  Thank you for always being you.

  Never change.

  A Force Play, in regards to the game of baseball, is a play in which a runner legally loses his right to occupy a base by reason of the batter becoming a runner.

  Seven Years Ago

  Elizabeth Lillian Montgomery was the second daughter to Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Montgomery.

  Mrs. Montgomery is the heiress to the largest chain of Chevrolet car dealerships in the United States.

  Mr. Joseph Montgomery is the CEO of said dealership enterprise.

  MY FAMILY IS STUCK UP and self-righteous, is what they are. My eldest sister married the son of a wealthy—old money—heiress, and I am expected to do the same. I am to go to college, be perfect, join a sorority, be perfect, marry a wealthy heir of something, be perfect, make his children, be perfect, join millions of committees and clubs, be perfect, raise perfect children, and then die.

  My husband will probably cheat on me more often than not. I will secretly go to doctors to have procedures done to keep my youthfulness; but in actuality, they will make me look like a clown. Then I will screw around with the pool boy and give him extra “tip” money.

  The thought of my future makes me sick.

  Surrounded by my sorority sisters, I look around at the fraternity boys doing keg stands and shots. A couple of the girls giggle, but most just turn their noses up. I am in an elite sorority with girls who are just like me—privileged bitches who will turn into their mothers and grandmothers; girls who are judging everybody else around them and will continue to do so until the day they die.

  Suddenly, my eyes clash with a pair of light green ones from across the room. They are gorgeous, the color of moss. I slowly skim the rest of the boy, noticing a few tattoos on his arms and piercings in his ears. His hair is fashioned into a dark messy mop, and my breath whooshes out of me at the sight of him. He looks like trouble, and I can’t keep my stomach from flip-flopping at the sight of him. He is taller than some of the other boys—wider in the chest, but extremely fit looking beneath his clothes.

  “I see you looking at him. He’s trash and a man-whore,” Sara-Elizabeth sneers into my ear, but I don’t care. I want him. There is just something about him. I have never actually wanted a man before, but this one I want with everything inside of me.

  It is terrifying.

  “Pete,” he booms after walking up to me. His voice is deep and my stomach clenches at the sound.

  “Elizabeth,” I counter. He runs his tongue along the bottom of his lip, making me shiver as the thought of that tongue running along any part of my body invades my brain.

  “Sounds like a bitch name,” he grunts, making me giggle. Most men would call me just that. It isn’t that I am a bitch, I am just trying to be perfect. I hate it.

  “How about I call you Libby?” He suggests, his hand wrapping around mine. He pulls me close to him and his breath, smelling of beer, washes over me. I don’t mind, though. His nose runs along the side of my own and he rests his forehead against mine, causing my pussy and my belly to clench with want, simultaneously.

  “O-Okay,” I whisper, my voice shaky.

  “I’m gonna marry you one day, Libby,” he murmurs. My breath catches as his lips touch the tip of my nose.

  “You’re crazy,” I say back. He just smiles as he stands up straight and tugs on my hand.

  Fingers locked, we walk upstairs to his room. It is stupid, I know it, but I follow anyway. I am going to give him something I have never given anybody else, and I don't even know his last name. I really don’t care right now.

  I am such a slut.

  Just the touch of his hand in mine makes my body hum with some foreign jolt of electricity and excitement. Typically, I stay away from boys. They don’t like me much and I refuse to bat my eyelashes at them in order to feed their egos. They are all stuck up, entitled, assholes who remind me of my father.

  Pete is absolutely nothing like them.

  He is bad.

  He is different.

  He is sexy as sin.

  “You’re so fucking gorgeous, sweetheart,” he mutters as he cups my cheeks in his palms. His eyes are focused solely on mine and, though I can feel the bass from the party downstairs, I can’t hear anything but his voice.

  “I’ve never…” I try to admit the extent of my inexperience, letting the words trail off as I wrap my hands around Pete’s tanned wrists, looking him straight in the eyes. I am a twenty-year-old virgin. It is fairly pathetic, I’m sure.

  “I’ll take care of you, Libby. I’ll always take care of you.”

  I want to believe him; but they are just words to get into my panties, and my brain knows that. Though, it doesn’t stop my heart from skipping a beat. It doesn’t silence my moan when his lips lightly brush mine.

  Pete’s mouth leaves mine and trails down the column of my neck as his tongue snakes out and tastes my collarbone. My breasts feel heavy and confined inside of my bra. I need him to touch me. I need his lips all over me, but I am so afraid to tell him. I don’t want to sound slutty. His hands leave my
cheeks and drift down my stomach to the hem of my shirt. He slowly peels the tank top from my body and, a little too expertly, removes my bra, leaving me in only my skirt and strappy sandals.

  “Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he groans, his finger tracing the flesh around my aching nipple in small circles.

  “Pete, please,” I beg.

  “Yeah, sweetheart, what do you need?”

  I don’t know what to say. I need the ache between my legs and in my breasts to go away. I need his mouth everywhere, but I don’t know how to say the words.

  “You,” I whisper as my whole body turns red from a deep blush of embarrassment.

  “Yeah, baby, you fuckin’ got me,” he growls, grabbing me by the waist and carrying me over to his bed. Lowering me down, his body hovering over mine.

  Quickly, Pete sheds his clothing before pulling my skirt and panties down my legs, leaving me completely bare for him. Bared to him. I have never had another person look at me like this before. I feel vulnerable, watching his green eyes darken as they slowly glide over my body. I can feel them heating me as each second passes.

  My eyes widen when he slowly drops his boxer briefs to the floor. I have never seen a penis in person. It’s much bigger than I anticipated. I start to breathe heavily at the thought of him sliding it inside of me. It’s going to tear me apart, I just know it.

  “Sweetheart, calm down. I’ll try my hardest not to let it hurt too badly. Hell, we don’t even have to if you don’t want to,” he says. The words are thrown out there as a courtesy. I can tell, because his eyes are screaming something else entirely. He wants me. He’s devouring me with his gaze and it makes me feel beautiful. I suddenly understand why girls act easy. I have never felt so wanted or so gorgeous in my entire life.

  “I want to, Pete,” I say, my words hoarse. Pete grins, his lips tipping up on one side as he delivers a wink before grabbing a condom and rolling it over himself. Jesus, he’s even sexy when he does that.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  “Show me,” he groans. I widen my legs a little more as he stares at my center. Heat washes over me in embarrassment.

  “So, so pretty, Libby,” he whispers, sliding one of his fingers inside of me. I squirm beneath him and he chuckles, making the heat creep into my cheeks again.

  Slowly, Pete pumps his finger in and out of my body. My hips rise and fall involuntarily with his rhythm. It feels so damn good, I almost forget that I’m lying here naked and completely exposed to him. He groans and then adds a second finger, making me hiss as he stretches my pussy.

  “Libby, Christ, you’re so fucking tight. Have you not fooled around at all?” He asks gritting his teeth, his face above mine, and I shake my head as my body lights on fire.

  “I need to be inside this pussy, baby,” he whispers, placing a kiss on my temple. Then, before I realize what’s happening, he removes his hand and he's rolling his body between my thighs. He enters me swiftly, in one hard thrust.

  I scream out in pain. My body feels like its being ripped at the seams. I grab onto Pete’s strong biceps, digging my freshly manicured nails into his skin. He’s completely inside of me and completely stone still, his green eyes focused on my face.

  This fucking asshole.

  “The pain’s over now, sweetheart. Relax, let me in.”

  I want to scream at him that he’s already fucking in. He’s so far in that his cock must be embedded inside of my fucking womb. It might even be inside of my damn esophagus at this point. I will my body to relax as much as I can, which isn’t much, because it hurts so damn badly.

  Pete slowly slides out and then pushes back inside of me a few times, one of his hands cradling the back of my head. At the third slow thrust, I notice it doesn’t feel like his cock is lined with razor blades anymore. I start to enjoy it a little. I even lift my hips to meet his as I slide my hands around his shoulders to hold on.

  “Libby. So tight, so goddamned tight, baby,” he growls right before he stills. I feel it as he twitches inside of me.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his face buried in my neck.

  “For what?” I ask, my voice sounds breathless and weak.

  “I didn’t get you there. I should have made you come before, but I just wanted to be inside of you so damn badly,” he admits. I laugh underneath his body and his head rises, his eyes meeting mine.

  “It’s fine, Pete. How about next time? You know, when you aren’t tearing a hole inside of my vagina,” I offer with a smile. Pete lets out an indescribable noise and slowly slides out of me. I hold my breath as, now that it’s all over, my pussy aches like it’s been punched repeatedly.

  “Oh, fuck. You bled a lot.”

  I roll off of the bed and my eyes start to water, my face heating with yet another blush. Only, this time, I’m completely and totally mortified.

  There is my blood, staining the sheets. I look over to Pete’s condom-wrapped cock, humiliated to see my blood is all over it as well.

  “Let’s get us cleaned up, sweetheart.”

  I shake my head and try to reach for my clothes; but Pete comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my stomach, pressing his lips to my ear.

  “I expected it. Don’t be embarrassed, Libby. It’s a part of life. Let’s get cleaned up and we can crash at your place, ‘cause I only got the one set of sheets.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I apologize—horrified—still staring at the sheets.

  “I’m not. Not at all. Fuck, I hope they stain permanently so that every time I get into bed, I’ll see you on them and I can remember how good you felt.”

  “You’re disgusting, Pete.” I pretend to gag but he just laughs.

  “Yeah, baby. I’m a total fuckin’ pig, but you better get used to me, ‘cause I ain’t goin’ no-fuckin-where.”

  I WATCHED AS JARROD HARRISON, the New York Yankees starting pitcher, found love in his beautiful Amalie and created the most gorgeous, tall, blonde family on earth. Then Maggie Rogers found a love in the new catcher, Jackson Lexington, that I didn’t even know was possible. Victoria and Carlos have loved each other since they were kids; they show it often and have two children to prove it. However, I am living a lie. I have a husband who hates me and a life so sad that I have contemplated my own demise on more than one occasion.

  None of my friends know the truth. Pete plays the loving husband role in public. At events, he is spectacularly affectionate. With our friends, he behaves so comfortably around me that I have caught myself believing his gentle touches and sweet kisses on more than one occasion. That is, until we get home and he turns into a cold, heartless, hateful man with no qualms about reminding me how much he can’t stand me.

  “Hey, girl, we’re doing dinner tonight at Maggie and Jackson’s. They’re insisting their place. Can you and Pete make it?” Victoria rambles from the other end of the phone.

  I chew on my bottom lip. I don’t know where Pete is, not that I ever do, and I have to tell Victoria that I’ll call her back. I pull out my cell phone and send a text to Pete; it is our only form of communication. We text our schedules to each other so that we are always available for events when needed. I tried talking to him in the beginning, getting to know him better, but he ignored me at every attempt. Eventually, I stopped.

  We live in uncomfortable silence.

  Pete and I were married in a whirlwind and, even after all of these years, I don’t quite understand the whole thing. My parents pushed us into the marriage with a short engagement and a big ceremony— everybody they had ever known was in attendance. My wedding made TMZ, it was that big of a deal.

  The engagement and wedding were crazy and Pete changed. Suddenly, he wasn’t the same boy from the fraternity party to whom I willingly handed over my virginity. It was as if saying our vows switched off all of his lust and compassion for me. For whatever reason, I still love—or maybe I just still lust—the bastard. I guess I am a masochist.

  Victoria called me. Jackson and Maggie are having dinner t
onight at their house. Are you available?

  A tear escapes my eye. I hate crying during the day. I try to hold back all of my tears until the evening, when I am alone in my room—the one space I have to call my own, away from everybody.

  Can’t. Busy. Go alone.

  The tears fall and, after sending one more message, I clutch my phone to my chest.

  All right, Pete.

  I cry until it is time to go, and then I take a hot shower and dress in a loose fitting sweater and a pair of leggings. I slide my feet into high heels and pull my dark hair into a top knot before applying my makeup to perfection. Being perfect is what’s most important anyway; or at least appearing so. Perfection has been ingrained in me since birth. It is how I survive in my chaotic life.

  I take a long look at my five carat, platinum, princess cut wedding ring and scowl. I have literally tried everything to attract my husband. I work out constantly, so I am the thinnest I can be without being labeled anorexic. I had breast augmentation after I found a dirty magazine in his dresser drawer with large chested women. I took cooking classes by the best chefs I could find when we were first married and I cook nightly when he is in town—meals he hardly eats. I clean our own apartment each week, from top to bottom, and I do all of his laundry. I want to be the perfect wife—and yet, I am nothing but a failure.

  Thinking back to when Pete and I met, I knew my parents wanted me married. Once they found out that Pete had defiled their daughter, they were livid and adamant about marriage. Originally, my father wanted me to marry an heir, someone with money; but when rumors started circulating that I was sleeping with Pete, he was irate. He screamed that no good man would ever want me after I let trash inside my body. I remember thinking that I had never met a good man before Pete, so I wasn’t sure who he was referring to.

  My father insured that he wouldn’t allow Pete to use me, like some common street whore, and that he would make an honest woman out of me. Like we were living in the days of Sir Lancelot, where a woman’s worth was solely placed between her thighs. I fought it. I told him that I wouldn’t just marry Pete because we had sex. My father conceded but wanted to at least meet him.