Forced Play for Libby (Men of Baseball #3)

by Hayley Faiman

  “Thank you. Though, I could hurt you for only giving me thirty minutes,” I scold as we walk through the empty garage toward Pete’s black Ferrari.

  “Yeah. I figured you’d take at least an hour, anyway. I’m pretty fuckin’ impressed. Now that I know you can do it…”

  “Shut your mouth,” I cry, fear slicing through me at the thought of making this thirty minute rush job a normal part of my life.

  “Okay, okay. Last time I rush you out of the house,” he concedes. I sigh as we arrive at the car.

  I am thankful there isn’t press surrounding his car. While our building and garage are both secure, the paparazzi can break through even the tightest security if they are truly hungry for a story. Since baseball season is just gearing up to start again, this is a huge story for them.

  The ride over to the Bronx is just as nerve wracking as it was yesterday, except this time it is for a completely different reason. I don’t say anything; I just stare out the window. I have no clue what all of the publicists are going to say, or what the team managers are going to say, either. I wish I could guess, but this is all new to me.

  My parents have been in and out of the gossip columns, but there has never been a Montgomery in a real scandal. That would be distasteful, and my father wouldn’t have it. He expects all of us to be absolutely perfect in every single way.

  “Ready to face the firing squad?” Thankfully, Pete interrupts my thoughts of my father and my childhood. I free a sigh of relief. I hate getting lost in thoughts of the past.

  “Let’s do this.”

  I wish we had been early instead of the last to arrive. Walking into a conference room full of people whose eyes are directed right at you is unnerving. I smile at Pete’s personal publicist, but she doesn’t return the gesture. That’s when I know this shit is going to be bad.

  “Please, sit,” somebody directs. My vision is hazy and I can’t seem to focus on any of them.

  “So, let me start off by saying that you aren’t the first pro-athlete to fuck around on your wife,” Nick Savoy, the owner, states. My stomach lurches, threatening to empty all over the table. Instead, I square my shoulders. I need to be brave. I need to woman-up. This shit will get worse before it gets better, and my skin needs to get a bit thicker anyway.

  “Pete didn’t cheat. We were separated at the time. I knew about her,” I lie, ignoring the sound of Pete’s intake of air from next to me.

  “Are you sure that’s how you want to spin it, honey?” Jolene, Pete’s polished publicist, asks me—her eyes narrow and all-knowing.

  I ignore her assessment. She knows the truth, but I don’t care. This mess belongs to both Pete and me. If I hadn’t just ignored our problems and focused on what I thought I was doing wrong. If I had just talked to my husband. I could have possibly found out why Pete was behaving the way he was. Then maybe, just maybe, we could have worked all this shit out years ago.

  Not that Pete is blameless. I mean, he did stick his dick in other women, after all.

  “I’m not spinning it any way. Pete and I were having marital problems, stemming from our own issues, and we separated. I knew he was with other people. I was lost in myself and I was depressed, which didn’t help matters. Who knows what kind of lies this bitch is going to spew, and for how much money. I want this interview with her squashed. I’ll go on in her place,” I offer. The room erupts with surprised murmurs.

  “Absolutely not. No fucking way in hell,” Pete booms from beside me. I straighten my spine and turn to him, ready to unleash my uppity bitch persona. Before I get a chance, an even bigger bitch speaks.

  “This could work,” Kathy, the head of PR for the team, says. I turn to her, remembering that she slept with Sammy, Maggie’s deceased husband, while they were still married. As much as I want to yank her hair out, I refrain—barely.

  “It will work because it’s the truth,” I state, watching as Kathy and Jolene both roll their eyes. I don’t care. Bitches.

  If I tell myself the lie enough, then maybe I’ll believe it myself.

  “I’m going to contact that stupid gossip show and start making deals. Be ready to go in early tomorrow morning for the taping. I’ll contact you.” Kathy practically runs out of the room and my eyes flit around to the other people still seated.

  “You doing this, it saves the team bad press and puts the sympathy card on you and your marriage. It makes you two real, and people love that shit. Thank you,” Nick states quietly before leaving. The other suits follow behind. Now it is just Pete, Jolene, and me, alone in the conference room.

  “You sure you want to do it this way, Libby? It opens you up, makes you vulnerable, and other things about Pete and your marriage could come to light,” she says softly. I don’t need to ask her what she means, exactly. I know she means other women. I doubt she even knows about the contract.

  “I’m doing it. Nick’s right, it makes us look real. I want people to look at me as Libby McGrath, just a struggling wife. Not the heiress—Elizabeth Montgomery-McGrath,” I admit with a shrug. Pursing her lips together, she nods and leaves the room, leaving Pete and me alone.

  “Pete?” I question, noticing how stiff his body is. The air in the room has shifted and it now feels as though I am being suffocated.

  “I should throttle your skinny ass,” he growls. His jaw is clenched and he looks livid.

  I don’t think I have ever seen him this outright angry before; but instead of being scared, I’m a little turned on. I squirm in my seat and shift my legs, clenching my thighs together as I stare into his angry green eyes.

  “Sit on the table,” he orders. My eyes widen.

  “Pete…”

  “Sit in front of me on the God. Damned. Fucking. Table. Libby,” he commands.

  I shiver at his words, the infliction in his voice making me squirm even more. I do exactly as he says, sliding by his legs and slowly placing my ass on the table.

  “Lift your dress and spread your thighs.” His voice has dropped and is gruff and husky. I lick my lips, doing as he commands. I pull the skirt of my dress up and over my hips before I spread my legs wide.

  Right.

  In.

  Front.

  Of.

  His.

  Face.

  Silently, he slides his hands up the outsides of my thighs. I can feel every callous from the hours he’s spent at batting practice and lifting weights in the gym. I shiver when they curl in my lace thong. I lift my hips, hoping he’s going to drag them down my thighs; but instead, he shreds them in his hands.

  I am speechless—completely shocked at his bold move, and so fucking turned on I can’t stand it. I want to shed a tear for my brand new La Perla panties, but I can’t. I am too keyed up by his aggressive action to do anything but stare slack jawed at him.

  “This beautiful cunt is mine, and I’m going to have to teach you a little lesson in speaking out and making plans without consulting me,” he admonishes. I open my mouth to respond but Pete roughly thrusts two fingers deep inside of me, causing me to moan instead.

  “This situation is just as much mine as it is yours,” I say, widening my legs further for him as I tilt my hips.

  “This wouldn’t be a situation if it wasn’t for my fuck up.”

  I try to respond, I really do, but when his lips close around my clit, it’s all I can do to stay upright, let alone talk.

  I whimper as his fingers curl inside of me, his lips sucking my clit in deep. Just when I think I am going to come, his lips wrench away from me and his hands leave my body. I reach out and grab his shirt, gripping the soft material in my hands as I pull him into me. My lips crash on his and my teeth bite his bottom lip, harder than they probably should, but I can’t help myself. I slide my tongue over his plump lip, caressing the place I just caused pain.

  Pete’s hands wrap around my waist as his hard cock dives deep inside of me. Long, thick, and so hard it has me seeing stars. I didn’t even realize he had his pants open; or maybe I was in such a l
ust-drugged haze, I didn’t hear the clink of his belt and the teeth of the zipper going down. Honestly, I doubt I could hear anything past the roaring of pleasure in my ears.

  “You go on that fucking show, but I’ll be right next to you.” His words are on a growl and one of his hands leaves my waist and wraps around the base of my head. With my hair in a bun, he has little to grasp hold of, but he manages to pull a few strands tightly.

  “Move, Pete, please move,” I cry.

  “I’m serious, Libby. I’m going with you,” he announces. I search his eyes and the vulnerability, the need for control, sparks in his gaze. I concede, nodding in agreement. I’ll do just about anything for this man. It is a dangerous place I’m in, being completely vulnerable to another person; but I think, I hope, that he is just as vulnerable to me.

  “Yeah, okay. I want you next to me,” I say softly, wrapping my hands around his biceps and rolling my hips against him. The movement causes him to groan, and he drops his head back.

  “Now fuck me, Pete,” I try to order.

  Pete’s growl is my only response and I close my eyes in pure bliss when he pulls out of me and slams back so hard, the table moves at least five inches beneath us.

  “Yes, Libby. Open your eyes and watch as your tight cunt takes my cock, sweet girl,” he rasps.

  My entire body shivers at his words and then I follow his directions. I watch him pull out and then slam back inside of me, noticing how his cock glistens with my arousal. I feel my cheeks pink with embarrassment.

  “So goddamned perfect. You’re sweet pussy is so perfect and all mine,” he moans. I feel myself inching closer toward my climax with each stroke of him, in and out of me.

  Dirty.

  Filthy.

  Fucking perfect.

  “Touch your clit, Libby. Make yourself come all over me.”

  I bite my bottom lip with a second of hesitation and then I do as he commands. I slowly slide my hand from his bicep, to my stomach, and down to my clit.

  “Yes, sweet baby. I need to see you touch yourself, touch us, feel us, then I want you to come for me,” he moans.

  Separating two of my fingers, they drift down and around our connection. We’re both soaking wet and he fits snugly inside of me, not a millimeter to spare. I keep my fingers in place as he slowly pulls out of me and slides back inside, my fingers touching his cock with the long stroke.

  “You need to make yourself come, Libby, because I’m on the fucking edge. That shit you just did, did not fucking help,” he grinds out. I notice that his forehead has a light sheen of sweat, so I move my hand and start to rub my clit with two of my fingers.

  The sensations are too much, his slow hard thrusts mixed with my fingers’ touch brings me barreling toward my release in what feels like seconds. I feel my pussy, along with my entire body, clench tightly, and then I scream with my climax, knowing for sure that anybody left in the offices surrounding us can surely hear me. I’m practically in tears when Pete stills above me and pulls my hair even tighter. He comes deep inside of my body, his cock twitching with his release.

  “My sweet Libby, so fucking sweet,” he whispers. His lips land softly on mine and I melt into his kiss as his tongue traces my lips and slowly slips inside of my mouth. Long strokes of his tongue cause me to sigh in his mouth as my legs tighten around his hips.

  “We should probably go,” I whisper. He chuckles before he slowly pulls out of me and helps me stand, his eyes focused on my dress as it automatically falls over my hips. Without a word one of his hands slips between my legs and two fingers gently slide inside of me.

  “Pete, what are you doing?” I gasp in surprise.

  “I’m pushing my come deeper inside of you. I want as much in that cunt as possible. You’re mine, all of you, and I like that you’re filled with me right now. Makes me hard knowing that you’re going to walk out of here and in public, filled with my come.”

  “Pete, you’re gross. It’ll probably leak onto my thighs.” I step away from him as he slowly pulls up his jeans and rights his own clothes.

  “Good. I hope it does leak down your thighs. It'll remind you that I was just inside of there. Maybe we’ll go home and I’ll fill you up again,” he smirks. I roll my eyes and grab my purse off of the table.

  “You’re terrible,” I say with my own smile. Pete grabs my waist and presses his lips just below my ear before he speaks softly.

  “I’m also yours, and you’re mine. You’ll get used to this side of me, sweet baby,” he whispers against my skin. His voice soft and sweet, his words anything but. I melt a little and press closer into his side. Dirty man.

  THE STUDIO FOR THE GOSSIP show interview is much smaller than I imagined it would be. Pete is at ease, as this isn’t his first interview, and he plants himself in front of the breakfast food table. I sit quietly as a makeup artist applies a thick layer of clown makeup for the cameras. I realize stage makeup is thicker, but I feel as though I am wearing ten pounds of crap on my face. Another person is doing my hair and, thankfully, he’s keeping it fairly simple with just large thick curls.

  “Your hair is so healthy and long. I am fucking envious as hell, girl,” he says as his fingers comb through my styled hair.

  “I’m jealous of her in general. That husband is hot as hell. Fuck her hair,” the makeup artist says. I know she’s kidding, because she has a huge smile plastered on her face, though she probably is jealous of me having Pete all to myself. I know I would be.

  “How do you think she got a man like that? It all starts with the hair, bitch,” he points out. I giggle at their little squabble as Pete slowly walks over to us, unaware of the conversation between my hair and makeup artists.

  “Hey, sweetheart, you look gorgeous. Are you ready?” I nod once as the makeup artist finishes dusting my face with a finishing powder and then I stand, brushing my hands down my tight pencil skirt.

  I’m wearing a navy pencil skirt with navy Jimmy Choo high heel shoes. A soft light blue, low cut, tank that is tucked in and billows a bit around the waist, giving me the illusion of an hourglass figure. My hair is in big soft curls and my makeup thick but pretty, the smoky eye is divine. I decided to keep my jewelry to a minimum and just wear my wedding ring, to make it stand out.

  “Well, aren’t you two just adorable,” says the woman I quickly recognize as the gossip anchor, Patricia Sable. She grins at us with fake interest.

  “Thanks,” Pete quickly responds, wrapping his arm around me.

  “Now, Patricia, keep the questions civil. If this interview gets dirty, I’ll pull them out faster than you can blink those big fake eye lashes. They are not here to be on trial. They want to clear the air, explain the accusations and claims that were brought forward,” Jolene, Pete’s publicist, calmly and efficiently explains.

  It eases my nerves a bit to know that Jolene will be behind the camera and will not hesitate to squash this interview the minute this gossip queen starts leading the interview in an undesirable direction. There are contracts in place, but these power hungry bitches walk a thin line when it comes to shit like this.

  “Of course. I would never overstep my bounds.”

  I almost snort as Patricia pouts her bright red lips in feigned innocence. This is the kind of woman who would sell her first born to the devil to finally get her “big” break.

  Silently, Pete and I walk toward the loveseat, where we will be giving our interview. Luckily, this isn’t a show where there is a viewing audience, or I might pass out from sheer nerves. As loud and in your face as my personality can be, I use that as a defense mechanism. I am actually quite shy.

  “Everything will be okay, Libby Baby,” Pete whispers as his lips brush across my temple. His hand wraps around mine in a show of support and comfort.

  I love it.

  I relax immediately.

  I guide my brave wife over to the loveseat the studio brought in for our interview. Originally, there were two chairs set side-by-side, but Jolene is a bulldog and she told t
hem to get those the hell outta the studio. A love seat is more intimate. We’re here showing a united front, showing that we aren’t perfect, but we’re working on our relationship. She also said that the public would want to see me show my wife affection.

  A changed man.

  I am that.

  Changed.

  Maybe I’ve just grown the fuck up.

  Whatever it is, I don’t want it to fade away. This new beginning between Libby and me feels right. Feels real. Feels like heaven. I look over to her as I sit down, so close that I’m pressing the entire length of my body against hers. She’s nervous, looking down at our joined hands; but when her blue eye catch mine, she smiles. She looks happy, too. I’ve never smiled so much in my life, and I’ve never seen her smile as much, either.

  These past few days have been better than I could have imagined.

  I adjust my cock, remembering how I had her spread out on that conference room table yesterday. A fucking delicious buffet right before my eyes. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of my Libby Baby. Christ, I hope that I don’t. I have so many years to make up for, so much love and affection to shower her with. This is only the beginning.

  Now, I just have to make it through this media shit storm.

  I don’t hear the beginning of the show, or Patricia talking about the upcoming events; I just stare at my hand wrapped in Pete’s and enjoy the feeling of his simple touch. I close my eyes for a second and just relish in the fact that, finally, Pete is my rock.

  I want to shout from the rooftops that he is mine and I am his. This public moment solidifies everything I have wanted from our marriage. Behind closed doors, we burn hotter than I could have ever imagined; and right now, he’s affectionately by my side as we deal with this hurdle.

  “Today, I was planning on speaking to the mistress of Pete McGrath, Yankees’ shortstop and homerun champion; but when the star and his heiress wife heard about the interview, they decided to contact me and clear the air themselves. Hello, Pete and Elizabeth.” She’s all sugar sweet and all I want to do is pour water over her and watch her melt.