Pitching for Amalie

by Hayley Faiman

  Is he jealous?

  Certainly, he’s not jealous of some losers looking at my photos online. That’s silliness.

  “People are going to talk. It wouldn’t matter if I was just a regular girl walking down the street,” I inform him with a smile.

  He does not return the smile. He just looks at me like I am insane.

  “I thought you were a regular girl. Fuck me, Amalie. Do you understand the shit I’m going to get about this? When you said you were a pinup model for clothes, I had no idea you were the top pinup model in the fucking country, that you were in this magazine constantly, and that people stand in line for hours for your autograph at that Las Vegas thing because that is your only appearance ever.”

  All right, so me being quasi-famous pisses him off.

  Really? Oh, hell no. Pot calling the kettle black much?

  I’m also not sure what he is talking about with me being the top model in the country. I am pretty sure if I were that, then somebody would have informed me of it a long-ass time ago.

  “Excuse me? What right do you have to be pissed off that I am semi-famous? I didn’t tell you because it’s honestly not that big of a deal to me. It’s a hobby. It isn’t my fulltime profession, and I only do it for fun. I do it because I’m built for it, and I’m more than tall enough for the gig. I do it because when I’m an old lady, I’ll be able to say, ‘Look at me. I was a hot bitch back in the day.’ And who the fuck do you think you are? You kept your whole career a secret from me for weeks, and not once did I get upset or pissed off about it. I should have. I should have just not returned your calls once you refused to divulge your career like it was some big fucking secret.”

  Jarrod tries to grab my hands to stop me, but I just push him away.

  “I’ve been treated like shit in my past enough times to count, Jarrod. I don’t have to be treated that way anymore, and I won’t allow myself to be either. You can get mad all you want about some losers sitting around their houses, making lewd comments about me, but I am not going to be around, so you can use me as your emotional punching bag over it. Besides, you don’t think I hear what other women say about you?” With that, I stand and walk away toward the bedroom to pack.

  I am halted just inside the door when Jarrod grabs my waist and pulls me back into his chest. His face goes to my ear, and I can feel his hot breath on my neck, sending devious chills up and down my body, making me involuntarily shiver.

  Damn him.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  I could hardly hear the words because his breath is deliciously warm on my ear.

  “Don’t,” I warn.

  He spins me around to face him, walking, until my back hits the wall.

  “Don’t what? I said I was sorry. I meant it, Amalie. I’m sorry. I was an ass,” he admits.

  He unbuttons my shorts and pushes them along with my panties down my legs. Before I can protest, he lifts my legs wide and wraps one around his hip as his other hand dives into my sex, cupping me with his large hand. His fingers begin to play with me, long, slow caresses, causing my eyes to roll to the back of my head. My breathing quickly turns into panting.

  Damn this man.

  Suddenly, two fingers are roughly pushed inside me while his thumb finds its purchase on my clit. I moan and arch my back as my nails dig into his shoulders.

  “I’m sorry,” he simply states as his fingers pump in and out of me.

  A moan escapes my lips, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling myself even closer into his big, hard body. I can feel myself building, and I start to rock my hips with the torturous rhythm of his fingers. When he stops, my eyes fly open to meet his cocky-ass grin.

  “Do you accept my apology?” he asks his fingers still buried deep inside me.

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “Do. You. Accept?” he asks again.

  “No, I’m pissed,” I say with a huff. I’m not really that mad. I’m actually over it. As soon as his fingers slid inside me, I was over it.

  “Hmm…maybe I’m finished then,” he says slowly.

  “Maybe I’ll forgive you if you let me come,” I say with a glint of mischievousness.

  I rock my hips, and his fingers dig into the flesh, bruising my skin.

  “You aren’t in control, baby. Don’t even try it,” he warns.

  “Well, I guess I’ll go to the bathroom then and finish what you started.” I’m baiting him. I totally am.

  “I don’t think so. I can read you like a book, darlin’. Now, do you accept my apology?”

  He kisses my neck, making me so hot for him that I can’t even think straight.

  “Yes,” I hiss in his ear.

  He pushes his fingers in and out of me one last time, and I whimper, but I am rewarded when he pushes himself to the hilt inside me, replacing his fingers with his perfect cock. I cry out at his sheer size. It hurts I don’t know if I will ever get used to the size of him, but I crave him.

  “I don’t want you to come on my fingers. I only want you to come on my cock or my tongue,” he explains.

  He starts to pound into me, hard and fast. My back and head are hitting the wall, but I don’t care because, within moments, I am coming all around him, pulsing and calling out his name. If he notices that I’ve already come, he doesn’t care because he keeps thrusting in and out of me at lightning speed, rough and hard. It feels so fucking good. Jarrod stills, and then he calls out my name in a strangled cry with his release. He picks me up and carries me to the bed, sliding himself out of me, and then he sits down next to me.

  “I am sorry,” he states, looking down on me.

  “I know, but you can’t issue double standards like that, not about what other people say about us. That is completely out of our control,” I explain.

  He nods his head with understanding. “I hurt you,” he says, a statement not a question.

  But I chose to answer him as if he’s asked me a question, “No, Jarrod. I’m all right.” I cup his cheeks and force him to look at me. “You wouldn’t hurt me—maybe irritate me. But hurt me? No, you couldn’t, and you wouldn’t,” I explain as if I’m trying not only to convince myself but also him at the same time.

  “I don’t want to hurt you—at least, not in a bad way. In a good way? Yeah.” He smiles wickedly at me and places a sweet kiss on my forehead.

  His lips are soft yet firm. They will be my undoing—along with his abs.

  “I’m always down for a good hurt.” I laugh.

  “I’m off next week, and I was going to go home to visit with my family. Come with me?” he asks, his thumb massaging delicious circles on my naked hip.

  I should say no. Isn’t it too soon to meet the family?

  I look into his eyes, and I see him pleading, a crack in his macho-man mask. He looks like a boy, and it is a beautiful sight to behold.

  “I should go shopping for some more family meeting–appropriate clothing,” I explain.

  He throws his head back with laughter. “Get dressed. We’ll shop now,” still chuckling, standing before walking to the bathroom.

  Jarrod and I spend the day shopping in the city. I buy sundresses, shorts, jeans, tops, and cardigans. I don’t know what to expect weather-wise, and he is being evasive. In other words, he is being a typical man. I just make sure I buy something for any situation in Kentucky. It is a beautiful day. I have bags in one hand and coffee in the other, and Jarrod’s arm is wrapped around my middle. I am happy, finally truly happy.

  Then, it happens.

  We are walking out of a great little baby boutique. When Jarrod informed me earlier in the day that his brother’s wife was newly pregnant, I wanted to buy them a small baby gift. I end up purchasing a plush stuffed animal along with a Yankees onesie. I also get a very nice blanket. Since she doesn’t know the sex of the baby yet, I pick something neutral, gray-and-white chevron print. I love it. It’s so soft and sweet-looking.

  I am almost knocked on my ass when the first flash of bright l
ights shines in my eyes.

  “Shit,” Jarrod curses under his breath.

  “Jarrod, who’s this?”

  “Jarrod, is this the girl who was at your game?”

  “Is this your girlfriend?”

  “Is she pregnant?”

  The questions keep flying all around us. I feel like I am swimming in a fishbowl. Jarrod spreads his arms wide, so I can walk through the photographers. It is like nothing I have ever experienced before. Jarrod hails a cab while the photographers continue to yell questions and snap photos in our faces. I can only imagine how many of them are completely unflattering.

  “Are you all right, Amalie? Shit, baby, I’m so sorry,” he says once we are in the cab, his hand running through his messy hair.

  “I’m all right. Jesus, does that happen a lot?” I take a few more calming breaths.

  “Here, yeah. Other cities, not really.” Then, he explains how baseball players are truly celebrities in New York, and since he’s been single for so long and plays a starting position, he is often the center of gossip. He apologizes over and over as we ride toward his apartment.

  Once we are inside his apartment, he pulls me into his chest, and I dump my bags onto the floor. I want to talk to him about how I am feeling, which is shocked and uncomfortable with the celebrity status, but I don’t care, not really. I only care about him and me. I only care about how wonderful he makes me feel. Once his arms are around me, all I can think about is having him inside me. I have never, ever felt this way about anyone before in my life.

  I jump up and wrap my legs around his waist. My fingers dive into his hair at the nape of his neck, and my lips are on his. His large hands go directly to my ass, holding me to him, his fingers digging into the fabric of my shorts. I moan as my tongue dives into his mouth.

  “Fuck,” he hisses, walking me over to his sofa.

  He sets me down on the arm. I don’t want to let go, but he takes his finger and taps my knee, so I release my legs from around his torso. He takes two steps away from me, and I whimper at the loss of his hot, hard body.

  “Take your clothes off, all of them,” he instructs.

  I stand and slip out of my sandals, and I grab the hem of my shirt and lift it over my head. Then, I unbutton my shorts and let them slide down my legs before kicking them to the side. I slowly slide my hands behind my back to unhook my bra and let it fall down my arms. Then, I hook my thumbs into the waist of my panties and shimmy them down my legs, leaving me completely nude.

  “Perfect,” he says with a nod. Then, he quickly divests himself of his own clothing.

  When I see his cock, my mouth goes dry. God, I want to take him in my mouth. I want to make him come. Then, he starts slowly stroking himself, and I feel a pool of heat in my belly. My pussy clenches at the sight. I can’t look away from his thick length, the way his big hand strokes up and down on himself. I lick my lips at the sight of him, and when our eyes connect, I see something I’m not prepared for—his hunger, almost animalistic. It’s slightly frightening but mostly exhilarating.

  “Turn around, bend over the arm, and stick that beautiful ass up, baby,” he says in a low growl.

  I comply, maybe too excitedly. I hear him groan behind me, and a wry smile appears on my face even though he can’t see it.

  I feel his heat against my back, and his arm slides around my waist. He kicks my legs open further, and with his other hand, he wraps his fist in my hair and pulls it taut. Then, before I realize it, he impales me. The air escapes my body, my voice completely gone. He slowly pulls out of me, leaving only the head of his cock inside, and then impales me again. He continues this pleasured torture until I’m whining and whimpering like a fool.

  “Quiet,” he whispers in my ear, pulling my neck back by my hair.

  He twists my head, so I look behind me as the hand that was at my waist slips down to my clit. He just presses two fingers there and pulls out to thrust into me again. I want to move against his fingers so badly. I need my release. I want him to make me come.

  “Are you mine?” he asks.

  I moan in response as he nips my earlobe, my neck still craned to look at him.

  “Is your pussy mine?”

  He’s so filthy, and I love it. It makes me even wetter. I know I’m drenched. I can feel the liquid sliding down my thighs.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Do you want to come?” he asks as he presses a little harder against my clit.

  I groan in response. He starts to slide in and out of my body with ease, still never moving the fingers pressed against my clit. As his rhythm starts to build, he eventually begins to rub firm circles against my clit, and I start to buck my hips in response, my body searching for its release.

  Then, he stops.

  “Don’t you move. I’ll make you come, baby. I’ll take care of it all,” he growls.

  I still my hips and am rewarded with his fingers moving against my clit again.

  “I want all of you, Amalie. I want your heart, your soul, your sweet, sweet cunt…” he pauses, bringing me closer to the brink of release, and he leans down to whisper in my ear, “And your sweet ass. I’ll take that, too, Amalie. I’ll take it because you…are…mine.” The last three words send him toward his release and mine.

  We come simultaneously. I don’t know if it was the clit play, his thrusting hard cock, his dirty words, or a combination of all three, but I come so hard that I literally black out.

  When I finally awake, I am lying in Jarrod’s bed, naked under the covers. It is dark, and I am alone. I feel fantastic. What that man can do with his cock is unbelievable. I never thought I would like dominating sex as much as I do, especially with my past with Eric, but with Jarrod, I love it. He doesn’t hurt me, not the way that Eric did. No, Jarrod hurts me to give pleasure, and Jesus save me, but I like it.

  I slide out from under the covers and open my suitcase to find something to put on. I decide on a pair of boy short cotton panties and a camisole. No one is here but us, so I don’t bother with pants or a bra. Then, I go on a hunt for Jarrod.

  I see him standing at his beautiful floor-to-ceiling windows, bare-chested in only a pair of athletic shorts, his hands at his hips. He’s just looking out.

  Thinking maybe?

  I tiptoe behind him and wrap my arms around his waist through his arms. He jumps a little and turns to kiss my cheek. My chin is resting on his shoulder as I look out his window, wondering what he’s focusing on.

  “Thinking hard over here?”

  “Not really. Just letting you sleep, baby,” he says in his low baritone sending shivers down my spine.

  This is his gentle voice. I love it.

  “You hungry for dinner? It’s dark,” I observe.

  “Yeah, I’ll order us something.”

  “No, I’ll cook something.”

  He turns to look at me with a small smile on his lips. “Yeah?”

  I smile back and nod. I place a kiss on his shoulder blade and walk toward the kitchen when I feel a strong arm wrap around my waist and pull my back into his hard chest.

  “What are you wearing?” he whispers.

  His breath is warm in my ear, causing me to shiver.

  “Just a tank and boy shorts,” I explain, my voice huskier than normal.

  “You can’t wear that shit, Amalie,” he states.

  I cock my head to the side with question.

  “You look like the girl next door, so fucking sweet. I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off of you.”

  My stomach churns and twists with excitement.

  “But they’re just cotton, nothing sexy,” I explain, feigning innocent and ignorance.

  “Sexier than you know, baby. So sexy,” he groans, pushing his hips into my ass, proving his point.

  “Mmm,” I moan, letting my head fall back onto his shoulder.

  “Go. We need food.”

  He releases me and then slaps my ass, causing me to yelp and jump.

  I stand in his k
itchen. It’s absolutely beautiful with black granite countertops and gray cabinets. I am so excited to cook in this space. I open the fridge and grab a package of lean ground beef and lean ground pork, an onion, egg, and low-fat cheese. I search the pantry for a box of breadcrumbs. He has everything I need to make Frikadeller. I am so excited to show off my Danish cooking for him. I begin to mix all the ingredients in a bowl when Jarrod takes a seat across from me at the bar. He has a bottle of beer in his hand and offers me a glass of wine.

  “What are you making?” he asks, pointing to the bowl of meat.

  “Frikadeller,” I say as I mix the ingredients together with my hands.

  “Frika-what?” He looks horrified.

  I giggle. “Meatballs,” I explain.

  “Shit, that sounded like a fuckin’ disease. It scared the shit outta me just now.” He lets out a breath.

  “It’s traditional Danish meatballs—no sauce, just pork and beef. I’m using low-fat cheese, so it’s going to be fairly healthy, considering you have very lean meats.”

  “Do you always cook Danish foods?” he asks.

  We don’t know each other that well, and I am enjoying some much-needed conversation.

  “Not particularly. I don’t have time to cook often, but this was always my mother’s quick and easy go-to meal. I’ll make a green salad, too. You’ll like it,” I say with a smile.

  “What other things do you cook?”

  “Ableskivers. They are like round pancakes dusted with powdered sugar and then you spread raspberry jam on them. A lot of people make them strictly for the holidays, but I like to have them when I am feeling homesick sometimes. Also, crepes are good, too, but those were my father’s specialty. I hardly ever make them. Niklas is good at them though. For dessert, I like to make fruit puddings sometimes. A lot of our traditional foods have some kind of fruit jam in them,” I explain.

  He just nods and smiles. “Do you ever think about going back to Denmark and visiting family?”

  I roll my lips around with my teeth. I have thought about it. I would like to see my aunts and uncles and cousins. I can remember bits and pieces of my life in Denmark. I had an aunt with hair the exact color as mine. She was always so nice, so much nicer than my mother.