Even as she stepped wider, allowing him access to her core, she said, “You think that needs attention?”
“Hell yes.” He slipped one finger inside her and then a second. She was ready.
But when he reached for the condom, she grabbed his wrist. “Ah-ah-ah. You’re still dirty.”
Alex’s sultry smile nearly melted his brain. She lathered up his chest and back before dropping her hands to his butt. Then her hands danced down his stomach and—everywhere but his cock. He grunted a protest.
“All clean.”
“Hardly.”
“If you insist.” She wrapped her fingers around him and began to stroke.
When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he wrenched away and suited up. In one swift, sure stroke, he impaled her.
She wrapped her legs around his waist her arms around his neck. He braced her against the wall, slamming into her again and again until she melted in his arms and he exploded like a steam engine.
Water sluiced off their shoulders, the splats on the tub floor louder than their breath.
It took Sam a few minutes to realize Alex was crying.
“Hey now. What’s wrong?”
Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, but she didn’t reply. Sam started to worry. “Did I…hurt you?”
She raised her head to look at him. “No!”
“Then again I ask, why are you crying?”
“Never mind. It’s stupid.”
Alex was far from a stupid woman, so he doubted that. “Try again.”
“That was our last condom.”
Damn. She was right. The thought of them being through poleaxed him—but that had been the deal. It was only fair he gave her the same out she’d offered him. “So we’re done?”
She unwrapped herself from him. “Guess so.”
Her absence left him cold despite the needles of warm water raining down on his chest. He watched as she wound a fluffy white towel around her body and headed for the bedroom, hips swaying suggestively.
Shit. He snapped off the faucet and bolted after her. “Alex, wait.”
She turned back to face him. Her face was blotchy, and the red-rimmed eyes clashed with her hair. Still she was beautiful.
“Maybe we should try dating.”
“You and me?” Her eyes were wide.
“Yeah. You. Me. Dinner and a movie. Drinks and dancing.” He swallowed against the lump rising in his throat. “Whatever you want.”
Alex’s sunny smile was back. “I like that idea.”
“Me, too.”
Chapter Six
Alex dressed slowly, trying to figure out what, exactly had just transpired. Had she really gotten the Sam Sloane to agree to date her?
Sure, dinner and a movie wasn’t a lifetime commitment. It was, however, more of a commitment than Sam usually made. Her head whirled with the knowledge and with just as many questions of what to do with it. When she threw herself at him, she’d assumed he’d give her one hot, sexy night—and that would have been enough to get him out of her system.
But now the tantalizing promise of more glimmered on the horizon. She’d accept whatever Sam was willing to offer.
That didn’t make her pathetic, did it?
She poked her tongue out at her reflection and picked up her comb. She combed her hair and half-dried it using the hotel hair dryer. Then she put it up in a messy bun. There was no help for it. She’d have to wear yesterday’s shorts. She didn’t want to put Caro’s tight black T-shirt back on, though.
“You have a shirt I can borrow?”
Alex was shaving. “Couple of spare Condors Ts in my bag. Help yourself.”
She found the shirts—white with burgundy sleeves and the Condors logo—and pulled one over her head. Unlike yesterday’s borrowed shirt, this one was plenty big. It fell halfway to her knees.
One of the benefits of dating a good-sized guy.
She couldn’t argue with that logic. Even though she was far from a waif, Sam made her feel positively dainty.
When they were both ready, they grabbed their gear and headed to the lobby. The elevator doors slid open and flashes started going off.
What the hell? Alex blinked and tried to make sense of it all.
More flashes went off and a rumble rippled through the crowd. One voice raised above the confusion. “Sam, who is she?”
“Yeah, Sloane. Who’s the bimbo?”
Bimbo? Before she had time to protest, Sam pushed her back onto the elevator and stabbed a button. The doors closed, and the elevator whooshed upward.
She gave him a wobbly smile. “What the hell was that?”
His face was stony. “Clearly, someone tipped off the press.”
“You don’t think it was me, do you?”
Silence.
Well, hell. “You do.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, and when he met her eyes, his confusion was plain. “Not really.”
The half-hearted denial wedged between them and churned her stomach. She took a step back, riding the indignation that flowed in her veins. How dare he assume the worst of her, especially after the night they’d just shared? Theirs was more than a ten-minute fling in the shower—he’d admitted as much less than an hour ago. “If I’d made any calls to the press, you’d better believe they’d know I’m no bimbo.”
More silence, broken only by the dings as the elevator continued its climb. But then Sam threw back his head and laughed. He chortled until he gasped for breath and wrapped his arms around his midsection…until Alex started having serious doubts about his sanity.
“I bet they would,” he finally gasped out.
“Believe it.”
He chuckled as he folded her into a hug. “Alex, you have a unique flair.”
She buried her face in his chest, breathing in his clean, slightly floral scent. “And you smell like a bouquet of flowers.”
“That’s because you doused me with flowery shower gel,” he grumbled, dropping a kiss on top of her head.
The elevator glided to a stop and then started dropping. In a few minutes, they’d be back on the ground floor, where the tabloid vultures waited. Since the whole point of their sneaking away to the hotel had been to keep him out of the news, their presence was an unsettling development. She took a shaky breath. “Sam? How are we going to get to your car?”
“Easy. We take the stairs.” He pressed the button for the next floor. When the doors opened, he pulled her into a deserted hall.
“So far, so good,” she murmured, letting him drag her down the hall to the fire escape.
As they dashed down twelve flights of stairs, Alex congratulated herself on being able to keep up with him. All those morning runs on her apartment complex’s dreadmill weren’t wasted after all. When they reached the ground floor, Sam pressed his finger to his lips and peered through the slit in the door. “Looks like they’re all still waiting at the elevators.”
“And they call me the bimbo.”
He chuckled and squeezed her hand. When he pushed open the door, they started toward Sam’s car at race-walk speed. As they neared the red Toyota Prius, conversation again began buzzing and flashes exploded.
Alex’s footsteps slowed even as her heart pounded faster. “They’re not as dumb as we hoped.”
“Dammit.” He stopped.
She bumped into him before she could react, and reeled backward just a bit. The man was solid. “What now?”
He grabbed her elbow to steady her and then tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Now we face the vultures.”
Before she could protest this was hardly the time or place for a press conference, he propelled her forward. She curled her lips into what she hoped would pass for a smile as cameras flashed and clicked on all sides.
“So who is she, Sam?”
“Sam,” she hissed, fake smile firmly in place. “What do I say?”
“Nothing. I’ll do the talking.”
Like that was reassuring. Alex tried to relax.
The guy who’d just asked her to dinner and a movie would protect her, right?
“Rumor at the clubhouse is you left with Alexa Brandon, front office intern.”
Sam whipped off his baseball cap and dropped it on her head. Then he stepped in front of her, shielding her from the cameras. It didn’t stop them from whirring away, though. “You know better than to print unsubstantiated rumors, don’t you, Ken?”
“Well—” The guy pursed fleshy lips and blew out an exasperated breath. Alex caught a whiff of onion and tried not to retch. “If it’s not the intern, who is it?”
“My personal life is none of your business.”
Someone cackled. “Nice try, Sloane. Your sex life is big news around here.”
The muscles in Sam’s back bunched. “Why don’t you talk about the Condors’ winning streak? The fact that we’ve won five straight and have a good shot at the playoffs not newsy enough for you?”
“Sex sells, man. Scandal sells.”
“There’s no scandal here,” Sam insisted, his voice strong and loud.
“Then why are you so keen to hide the chick? Is she underage or something?”
If he got any more tense, something inside him would snap. Her gut churning, Alex peered around his arm at the throng of reporters, photographers and videographers. It wasn’t fair to make him face these creeps alone, no matter how much she wished a hole would open up in the concrete so she could drop through it to escape.
She stepped beside Sam and slipped her hand into his. His face remained immobile, but his fingers curled around hers, sending a jolt of warmth up her arm. Her cheeks warmed, but she stood with Sam—against the curious crowd.
She tried to smile despite their scrutiny making her itchy. “As you can see, I’m neither underage nor a bimbo, chick, nor any other derogatory term you can come up with.”
“Looks legal to me,” someone piped up from the back of the throng, near Sam’s car.
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. But the pushy one—Ken, Sam had called him—tapped his notepad. “Legal or not, we need an ID. You know we’ll find out eventually. Why not save everyone a lot of work and give us her name?”
The muscle in Sam’s locked jaw ticked. “You want me to make your muckraking easier?”
“It’d save us all time.”
With an icy glare at the jerk journalist but without further comment, Sam began pulling her through the throng. Some of them cleared a path, and he plowed past the ones who didn’t. When they reached the car, he unlocked it with one click. Alex wasted no time scrambling into the driver’s side door and across the seat.
Sam settled into the driver’s seat, and the car purred to life. He cracked the window just enough to be heard. “Let me spell it for you. F-U.”
He threw it into gear and backed out of the space, scattering the journalists knotted around the car. The car roared away with a squeal of tires, and Alex collapsed against the seat.
“That was…intense.”
He stared straight ahead, jaw still tight. “Just wait until they do figure out who you are—because they will, you know.”
Dread knotted her gut. Sam had a certain reputation. It didn’t bother her, but her straitlaced father would definitely object. If the press got hold of her name, she’d have to come up with a reason for being photographed leaving a hotel with Sam. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”
“Not a chance.” His eyes flicked to her face, only for a second, before his attention returned to the road.
“It sucks to be famous, doesn’t it?”
“Not so much famous as infamous.” His grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Alex, I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“Except for the part where you thought I tipped them off, it wasn’t that harrowing.” Yet. When her identity came out, it might be different. For now, though, she was more concerned with teasing out the relaxed Sam that made her feel happy.
“No clue what I could have been thinking,” he murmured.
“You were probably in shock that we’d been discovered.” She shrugged. “I’ll forgive you—this time.”
She heard him gulp. “That implies there’ll still be a next time.”
“I thought you wanted one.” Oh God. Had he changed his mind? Her…whatever this was… with Sam couldn’t end before it got properly started.
“I do. Just thought that run-in with Phoenix’s finest journalists might have changed your mind.”
“Not a chance.” She laid her hand over his. “It’ll take more than a few nosy journalists to make me forfeit our dinner date.”
****
“Sloane, our presence has been requested in the front office.”
Shit. Jerry’s grimace made it plain the “request” was an order. Sam gritted his teeth and followed his manager down the hall.
Every step nearer to the front office piled on his apprehension. Visits to the inner sanctum were rarely positive—and after the headlines in this morning’s sports pages, he had no doubt he was in for a verbal flogging.
Sure enough, a red-faced Dan Schmidt greeted them at the secretary’s desk.
Jerry cast a nervous glance at Sam and then back at one of the Condors’ owners. “Where’s Sheila?”
“Sent her out for an early lunch.” Schmidt’s lip curled as he waved that morning’s newspaper at them. “This…trash…is not fit for ladies.”
Back straight, Schmidt jerked open the door to his office and swept inside. Sam and Jerry had no choice but to follow him.
Alex, practically dwarfed by one of the massive leather chairs in front of Dan’s desk, was the first thing Sam noticed. Her posture was stiff—very proper—and her eyes were dry, though red-rimmed.
Sam scowled at Schmidt. “Thought you said this conversation wasn’t fit for ladies.”
“I think we can all agree that Alexa”—he thrust the paper out again, its damned headline screaming CONDORS’ SLOAN ROMPS WITH INTERN— “is no lady.” The pompous ass had the nerve to chuckle.
Almost imperceptibly, Alex shrank back in her seat. A red veil of rage hazed Sam’s vision. No one had a right to make her—or any consenting adult—ashamed of having a little fun in the sack. He stalked over to Alex’s chair and stood behind it, putting his hands on her shoulders. “I believe the lady deserves an apology.”
“Sit down, Sloane,” Dan snapped. “You’re in no position to be making demands.”
Uh-oh. He’d encountered that bark before. It meant business. His anger drowned in the wave of helplessness that rolled over him. No matter how much Sam wanted to defend Alexa, all he could do was sink into the chair beside Alex’s and wait for whatever punishment Schmidt and his brother, Paul, had decided to lay down.
Dan’s lips curved into something that was more bared teeth than a genuine smile. “Good. I’m glad you’re finally starting to appreciate the predicament you’ve created—again.”
Schmidt glanced at Jerry, who hovered near the bookcase, steps from the door, as if he were ready to make a quick getaway. “You should take a seat too, Jerry.”
“Think I’d rather stand,” the manager muttered. But he sat anyway.
“Now that we’re all comfortable, let’s have a discussion.” Dan tented his fingers below his chin. “As you’re well aware, Paul and I have worked hard to make the Condors family-friendly.”
He tapped on the newspaper, now folded and lying on the desk blotter. “Sloane’s sexual exploits continue to jeopardize the Condors’ reputation. And the fact that he seduced one of our interns only intensifies the damage.”
Sam pressed his lips together. The Schmidts’ narrow-minded view of propriety was legendary, and no amount of protests would change Dan’s mind.
Alex must not have received the memo, though, because she leapt out of her chair. “Sam didn’t seduce me.”
He shot her a glance and mouthed the words “not helping.” With any luck, she’d get the message.
She either didn’t notice or didn’t care
. “If anything, I seduced him.”
Dan’s eyes bulged and he coughed. “That is nothing to be proud of, young lady.”
“Why not? If I were a man, you’d slap my back and congratulate me on bagging a hottie.”
“Alex,” Sam murmured. “Shut up.”
Jerry piped up from his chair by the bookcase. “That’s enough from all of you. Sam, Alexa, your tryst was…unfortunate, but it’s not the end of the world. Dan, if they agree to stay away from one another, can we agree this all goes away?”
Dan’s mouth flopped open and closed like a fish gasping for air. Finally, he said, “I think that can be arranged.”
Alex flopped back into her seat, drained of all her fight. She resembled a used-up old dishrag, dirty and gray—and Sam didn’t like it. He stood up for her the only way he could.
“No.”
Dan’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say, Sloane?”
“I said ‘no.’ I will not stay away from Alex. God help me, I like her—a lot, and if it’s a choice between playing for the Condors and dating Alex, I can find another team.”
Chapter Seven
Blood rushed into Alexa’s ears. Sam was ready to choose her over baseball? She couldn’t possibly have heard correctly. She liked him, sure—and the sex was out of this world. They didn’t know each other well enough for him to sacrifice his career for her, though.
Did they?
She didn’t have time to ponder the answer to that question. Sam grabbed her hand and twined his fingers through hers. Their joined hands rested on the arm of his chair, a clear challenge to the Condors’ owner.
Behind his giant, designed-to-intimidate oak desk, Dan Schmidt grabbed the newspaper and shoved it under a sheaf of paper, hiding the headline that had enraged him. “Let’s not be hasty, Sloane. That won’t be necessary.”
“Good, because Alex and I are about to become a thing.”
“I’m afraid that ship already sailed,” the owner said, his voice slightly strangled. He cleared his throat and tried again. “But I’m glad you said that.”
Ogling the Outfielder (All's Fair in Love & Baseball Book 4) Page 4