“Have I told you lately you’re a lucky bitch?” Sofia, the wife of Tyler—captain of the team—asks.
“Often,” I answer with a smile. “Tyler isn’t so hard on the eyes, though, girl.”
Tyler is six-feet tall with sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, and a short beard that makes me swoon a bit. I want to touch it, just once. He’s built with bulky muscle, where Pete is more long and lean.
Sofia and Tyler are the perfect couple—high school sweethearts with three gorgeous children and a golden retriever puppy name Rocco. It’s sickening how sweet they are, but they’re good genuine people and I’ve found comfort in Sofia’s friendship since moving here two years ago. She’s even met Amalie, Maggie, and Victoria. It’s nice to be able to bring my New York life and mix it with my Boston life. It feels good, and my family is only growing.
“No, he’s not. But Pete has that bad-boy thing down to a science.” She shivers dramatically and I just roll my eyes at her.
“Yeah, only because he was a very bad-boy for a very long time.”
Sofia knows my real story, the one nobody but my girls in New York know. She knows the good, the bad, and the ugly of Pete’s and my marriage. It was difficult to tell her, but she didn’t judge me, and for that I’m grateful. She said that Tyler hadn’t been a saint throughout their entire relationship, and sometimes the fame makes good guys do really stupid shit. I have a feeling there’s a deep seeded story there, but the hurt in her eyes when she told me was a sign that she wasn’t ready to talk about it, yet. I’ll be here for her with a shoulder to cry on when she is ready, though.
“Have you picked a name?” She asks, looking down at my growing belly.
“We’re naming her Lillian, after my Grammy who passed.”
Grammy Lillian died six-months after our move to Boston. She went out in style, as was her way. She was playing tennis with her new, hard-bodied instructor, even after her doctor told her to keep away from physical activities because her blood pressure was a little high. He wanted to get her medication regulated. She didn’t give a shit about what anybody told her. Grammy Lillian was going to do whatever the hell she wanted to do, and nobody was going to stop her.
Pete and I went back to the city for her funeral. My family was there and my mother was the only person who talked to me. I thought it would be difficult to see my father and sister, but it wasn’t. I felt zero connection to them. Honestly, they looked like strangers.
“That’s sweet,” Sofia says softly. She didn’t know Grammy Lillian and doesn't know there wasn’t a sweet bone in the woman’s body. Grammy was all about strength and sass, and I want my daughter to be just like her. I’ll never allow her to be the weak woman I once was.
“I found my birth-father,” I confess while watching Pete warm up to take the plate.
“And?” Sofia asks, practically bouncing in her seat.
“He seems nice. Lives in Texas and works in construction. I guess my father tried to pay him off when the affair was outed, but he didn’t take the money. He just went back home when my mother refused to leave with him. He wanted to be an actor and tried to make it, but failed. He’s married with three other children. He said he wanted to contact me but didn’t know how. Says he’s kept all of the newspaper articles and online photos he could on me.”
“Wow. Are you going to meet him?” she asks.
Sofia thought our story, my birth-father’s and mine, would be like the movies. I wasn’t so sure, but he seems like a nice man. Maybe we could be friends one day.
“We’re going during the next short break and I’m going to see where it goes from there.”
Sofia smiles and then she screams when Pete hits a homerun. I jump up and watch as my beautiful man runs the bases like the cocky-fucking-rooster he is. All cock and no walk and I know why. I was stupid last night. During an extra heated bout of down and dirty fucking, I promised him I would let him have me in the locker room during the seventh inning stretch if he made a run. Overachiever.
I slowly make my way to the locker rooms, my fate being a screaming orgasm for the whole team to hear, and I can’t deny that I am a bit excited over the whole thing.
My husband, the dirty, kinky bastard.
I watch in anticipation as the men shuffle toward the door. A few give me a knowing wink before entering as they pass me. My husband can’t keep his trap shut.
“There’s my sweet baby,” he says gruffly. He wraps his hands around my ass and hauls me as close to his body as he can without smashing my belly.
“Overachiever,” I grumble. He chuckles before his lips lightly brush mine.
“I won’t make you scream in the lockers, baby. We’ll go in the bathroom over there.” He tips his head to the side and I roll my eyes with a smile.
“You’re going soft on me in your old age.”
“Brat,” he mumbles with a rough slap to my ass that has my core clenching with need.
Jesus, I have been horny for months, and it isn’t slowing down at all.
We make our way into the bathroom and, once the door is locked, we both strip out of our clothes as quickly as we can. Pete turns me around and places my hands on the sink before his fingers softly caressed my center.
“Pete,” I moan when his finger circles my clit before it dips inside of me, making me groan with each soft thrust.
“You’re so wet,” he murmurs against the back of my neck. Without pausing, his hand disappears and his cock is nudging my core.
“Fuck me, baby, please,” I cry—and he does.
Fuck, does he ever.
Pete thrusts deep inside of me, making me gasp, then cry out as his thick cock fills my body. His hands wrap around my hips and he pulls them back, changing the angle as he pulls out and then smoothly thrusts back inside of me.
My eyes are open, staring at him in the mirror, unable to break my gaze as he looks down at where he is sliding in and out of me. His tongue is poking out and his teeth are biting it as he concentrates on giving me all of himself, every perfect inch.
“I want you to play with that pretty little clit, baby. Make it sing for me,” he breathes. I shiver beneath him.
Pete’s hands grip me harder and I do as he orders. I play with my clit for him, making myself come around him, and when I scream with my release—only then does he lose control and fuck me hard, so hard I almost cry. It feels so good, so raw, and so fucking primal. I love it. He roars as he comes deep inside me, and I know there is no mistaking our sounds. If anybody has been within twenty feet of this bathroom, they will have heard it all. The thought makes me smile. My husband and his little kink, it is cute.
“You all right, Libby Baby?” He whispers as his chest presses against my bare back. His lips touch my shoulder sweetly.
“Uh, hell yeah, I am,” I laugh as he slowly pulls out of me.
“I’m always afraid I’ll hurt you now,” he admits with a shrug as he helps me get dressed before dressing himself.
“I’ll tell you, baby,” I say softly. Its sweet he is worries about me, and I like that he does.
“I know, but you’re everything to me. If something happened to you or to Lillian, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself,” he whispers harshly.
“I’m not going anywhere and neither is Lillian.” I cup his cheek and place a soft kiss to his lips. Pete’s fingers grip my ass and he nips my bottom lip before I pull away.
“Fucking right you aren’t. You two are my world,” he grunts, and he means it.
Pete has no family, at all, and unless he is at practice or a game, he is with me. We are with each other, because I am his world and he was mine. Our lives could have turned out so differently, had I not given him another chance or had he not wanted one. We wouldn’t be where we are today.
Happy—blissfully fucking happy.
I understand how fate and decisions can change a person’s life, for the better or for the worse. I am glad that I listened to everybody who suggested I give him another chance. Most of all, I am grateful that I lis
tened to my heart when Pete wanted to really try, when he wanted to have a real marriage.
I didn’t think I was strong enough to go through more heartache, but I have never had to. Not one second have I regretted the moment I decided to move back to the home I shared with Pete, solidifying our unity when I moved into his bedroom. Pete has more than made up for the sham of a marriage we had for all of those years.
Our love now is real, it’s powerful, it’s all consuming, and above everything else—it is fucking beautiful.
If you haven’t read book 1 in the Men of Baseball Series—Pitching for Amalie—I have included the first chapter as a preview:
PITCHING FOR AMALIE
MEN OF BASEBALL BOOK 1
Chapter One
THE AROMA OF LIQUOR AND cigarette smoke with a hint of desperation surrounds me. It’s palpable. Seedy little bars in the middle of the downtown area always smell like this to me. If it were anyone else but Jo, I would have told the damn girl to screw off. Jo is my best friend. I moved to Boston with her when we were eighteen and stupid. Now that we are twenty-five, I would like to say we are much smarter, but that would be a lie. At this exact moment, I am about to step into a seedy bar, looking for my best friend. She is trying to get out of a blind date with some overbearing, pushy guy.
All the trouble we’ve ever endured has been over some guy. I don’t remember half their names because they are all inconsequential. Tall, short, built, chubby, blond, brunette, or redhead—it doesn’t matter. All that matters is, between the two of us, we have managed to find every single asshole in the city.
Tonight, I decided to go for something a little different, out of the ordinary. Instead of just rolling off my couch in my yoga pants, I decided to dress up to drag her away from another asshole. I slipped on my royal-blue jersey fabric dress that is too short for my own good and too low cut for words. I’m curvy, and when I say curvy, I mean, curvy. I consider it a curse most of the time because of the men who try to pick me up, but I like pasta and cheesecake too much to give much thought to losing the curves.
When I start to walk into the bar and scan the place for my friend, I notice every single man’s eyes dart straight toward my cleavage. Pigs.
Drink first, friend in a minute. I know it sounds selfish, but Jo is not a selfless person. Although she is my best friend, we have our differences, and tonight, I need a little pick-me-up. I travel up to the bartender, a nice-looking guy. He’s shorter than I prefer as I am six feet tall myself. He’s slim with dark hair and dark eyes and a wedding ring. Perfect.
“Hey there. What can I do ya for?” he asks with a thick Southie inflection.
Good Lord I will never get used to this Boston accent.
“Vodka and cranberry, light on the cranberry,” I answer, handing the guy a ten.
He gives me a hard nod and turns to make my drink. I hate it when bartenders try to water down my cocktails. I don’t drink often, but when I want a drink, I want to taste the freaking liquor.
Looking around the bar, I spot her teased-out long auburn hair, skimpy red dress on her sleek little body with six-inch high heels. Together, we are the perfect man-catching team. My hair is so blonde that it’s essentially white, my eyes are so light blue they border on white, and I’m overly curvy. I hated that trait about myself until I learned that I could definitely capitalize on it, and I do. Jo is short with her auburn hair and dark mocha-colored eyes, plus she’s remarkably fit, so she has virtually no curves at all.
The bartender hands me the drink, and I decide to sit down and watch my friend for a few minutes. She looks absolutely miserable, trying to play pool with this jackass. Her date is short with a slight belly hanging over his pants. He has a receding hairline and glasses that are too small for his face. He probably bought them twenty pounds ago. I wonder who in the hell had set up my ultra-athletic friend with this joker. It was probably a jealous coworker. I have been duped a time or two by a jealous friend.
“What’s up, doll,” a voice whispers next to me.
I turn my head to see Jo’s date’s freaking twin.
Thanks, but no thanks.
“I’m here with someone,” I state rudely.
“I don’t see no one,” he says, inching his potbelly my way.
“Well, he keeps pretty good tabs on me, and he typically doesn’t like guys hitting on me, so you should back off.”
I always like to pretend I have some possessive, jealous, badass boyfriend who watches over me. It’s silly, I know, but it’s my complete fantasy. Since I moved to Boston, I haven’t dated a guy long enough for him to give two shits about what I do or where I go, so this is my man fantasy. I have steered clear of men in general for a reason that stemmed from my only long-term boyfriend, a controlling asshole who took possessiveness to the extreme. That was not a fantasy, in fact it was nothing like my fantasy. It was more like a nightmare.
“Huh,” he says, trying to touch my leg.
Oh no, he doesn’t. I grab on to his fingers and pull them back.
“Listen, asshat. If I wanted you to touch me, I would’ve asked you to. Leave me the fuck alone.” Assertiveness is my downfall.
This can go down one of two ways. One, he will call me a bitch and back the hell off. Or two, he will get turned on and try to attack me in the parking lot to show me a lesson. I’ve had both options happen several times. Usually, I try to ignore people who are being rude or annoying, but every now and then, my temper flares without warning. It probably has something to do with PMS.
“Fuckin’ cunt,” he says before walking away.
Well, let’s hope he doesn’t get a hard-on while thinking about that scene later.
Now, it’s time to save my friend.
“Jo,” I call out as I arrive at the pool tables, acting winded and wildly darting my eyes around.
“Oh my gosh, Amalie. Is everything all right?” she pleads, desperate to get away from this guy.
“No. I just got a phone call, and Niklas has been in an accident. I hate to interrupt your date, but I don’t think I can be alone right now.” I try to look panicked.
This guy is only looking at my boobs, so I’m hoping he can’t tell that I’m lying.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she coos at me, all smiles. Then, she turns to her date. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t just let her go home alone. I need to be with her. Niklas is her brother, and he’s a cop in Florida.” She pats her date’s hand and then grabs her purse.
We run out of that craptastic bar as fast as our six-inch heels will carry us.
We always use my brother, Niklas, as our excuse to get out of horrible dates. It’s not all a lie. Niklas is a police officer in Florida. I haven’t seen him in a few years, but he could be hurt. Who really knows? When I abandoned my life in Florida, I also left my twin brother and parents behind. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly, but I needed to leave for my own sanity.
“Thank you so much, Lee. That guy was a freaking joke,” Jo says.
We sit our asses down in a cab.
“He was gross. Why did you go out with him anyway? Cabbie, take us to a club or something, somewhere fun. We need it after the night we’ve had.”
Jo delivers an evil glare in my direction. She so obviously wants to go home and eat ice cream. Well, forget that. I didn’t tease out my blonde locks to go into some shitty bar. I’m going to have some fun.
When we pull up in front of a club, I recognize the name, and it’s one of those clubs that turns into an after-hours all-out dance party. Jo shoots me another glare. She’s evidently heard of it, too. Well, we are twenty-five-year-old single women. So, why the hell not? It’s only ten o’clock. It’s still early enough to get a good buzz and dance until six in the morning or until one of us dies, whichever comes first.
I throw the cabbie some money and readjust the girls hopefully we won’t have to stand in the long-as-hell line to get in. I have this way of getting into clubs without paying the cover or standing in line. I would like to think that it
’s because of my winning personality, but in actuality, it’s because of my natural double Ds.
“I can’t believe I let you bring me to one of these clubs. I hate these places,” Jo complains as we walk up to the entrance.
She is my best friend, but she can be a serious buzzkill. I often find myself wondering if she will turn into a crazy cat lady.
“Shut up. We are going to have fun tonight,” I scold her.
I catch the bouncer’s eyes. He smiles toward me, and I plaster on my fakest smile in hopes that he’ll let us slither on in.
“Ladies,” he says as we approach.
“Any way we can get in without killing our feet in that line?” I purr.
“Got IDs?” he asks, narrow-eyed.
Seriously, I’m not some kid. I’m on the downward slope towards thirty but if he thinks I’m younger who am I to argue? I fish out my ID and hand it to him.
“You girls be safe in there. C’mon back,” he says.
He opens the rope just enough for me to squeeze by. I make sure to press my assets to his chest, and he smiles.
“If you get a break, come find me, and I’ll buy you a beer,” I say, smiling up at him, as I pass.
“Got a girl,” he snorts.
“Good. You can tell me all about her. I always need a new friend.”
He smiles down at me, as Jo and I run off. He was cute in a big, beefy kind of way, but he wasn’t my type. I don’t know exactly what my type is, but he just isn’t it. Plus, he has a girl.
“I can’t believe I let you drag me in here,” Jo whines, looking up at me.
She’s such a cute little fairy girl. I could squash her like a bug if I really wanted to.
“Come now. Maybe we will find some nice boys.” I smile, walking toward the busy bar.
“Yeah, boys. I need a damn man,” she hollers.
“You wouldn’t know what to do with one once you had him!” I yell back at her earning a few swiveling heads in our direction.
I catch the eye of a strikingly handsome cute but very gay bartender. He’s wearing a sparkling hot-pink mesh tank top and tight white skinny jeans with a studded black belt. His hair is in a bright green fauxhawk, and his ears are pierced with diamond studs. I love everything about his look.
Forced Play for Libby (Men of Baseball #3) Page 25