Winterball

by Holley Trent

  Winterball

  A Den of Sin Novella

  By Holley Trent

  THE DEN OF SIN SERIES

  The Den of Sin is a multi-author shared world series. That is to say although each story is unique and the author voices are different, the rules are the same, so the fictional Hotel Beaudelaire is always familiar.

  Each story stands alone, though there may be some character overlap and recurring themes. The stories need not be read in order, but they may reference past events and previous guests of the Hotel Beaudelaire. To learn which stories are connected, please visit the Den of Sin website at http://www.denofsinseries.com, click on a story title in the menu, and scroll down to the section titled “Related.”

  Story List

  Season I – New Year's Eve Party

  Forbidden Rendezvous by Mel Blue

  Ménage à Troys by Holley Trent

  Redeeming the Amazon by L. V. Lewis

  Wicked Surrender by Ambrielle Kirk

  Shamelessly Taken by Mel Blue (free short story)

  Two Strikes by Holley Trent (free short story)

  * * *

  Season II – The Beaudelaire Bacchanal

  Debauching the Virgin by Mel Blue

  Illicit Passions by Ambrielle Kirk

  O for Two by Holley Trent

  * * *

  Valentines Day (Special)

  As Sweet by Holley Trent (free short story)

  * * *

  Season III – Winterball Masquerade

  Melt Into Me by Renee Luke

  Reckless Attraction by Ambrielle Kirk

  Three Strikes by Holley Trent

  Unbidden Desires by Melissa Blue

  Winterball by Holley Trent

  WINTERBALL SUMMARY

  When teammates Barton Lock and Evan Boswell arrive separately at the Hotel Beaudelaire’s exclusive Den of Sin Winterball, neither expects the staff matchmaker to pair them with the other. Evan is minor league baseball’s biggest ladies’ man, and Bart has spent way too many nights bearing witness to Evan’s conquests.

  Evan came to the Den to play, but knowing Bart is the other party in his secret weekend rendezvous changes the game. Evan’s used to Bart calling the shots on the field, and wouldn’t mind so much if Bart did the same in his personal life, too. Unfortunately, Bart thinks Evan’s attempted seduction has more to do with changing his mind about retiring from their sport than hitting a relationship home run.

  ILoveDPG

  CHAPTER ONE

  Barton Lock would have recognized that tight, muscular ass anywhere he saw it. It didn’t matter if was beneath baseball pinstripes or well-pressed slacks. Every arc, dip, and plane of it had been seared into his impeccable memory. Should have been. After all, he’d lost track of just how many times he’d seen it without the clothes. Nudity was expected in locker room showers, and not so uncommon in the motel rooms they’d shared during away games, either.

  Yep. That was undoubtedly Evan Boswell’s ass.

  Fuck discretion.

  Bart nudged his white domino mask to the top of his head. Nobody gave a shit about him, anyway, even if they recognized him. What would they say? That they saw a semi-arthritic catcher who got bunted to the minor leagues two years ago looking for a thrill at the Den of Sin?

  He didn’t care if they did. Once he would have, but not anymore.

  He picked his way through the writhing mass of exhibitionists on the Hotel Beaudelaire ballroom’s crowded dance floor. They couldn’t have been checked in for more than a few hours, but already, folks were hooking up and checking out…from reality, it seemed.

  He edged through them, pushing up a brow at the bodies twining in contortions that seemed like half choreography and half fornication.

  “God damn, if that don’t beat all,” he muttered, passing a woman who grabbed her ankles while her dance partner shimmied behind her.

  They could probably fuck right there and nobody would care. It was the Den of Sin, after all.

  From what Bart had heard from Clint—his old teammate from the Strikes who’d referred him to this sinful soiree—folks expected a bit of public groping. It was sort of a getting-to-know-you gesture—a test of compatibility. According to Clint, when he and his partner Ken latched onto their girl, Olivia at the last Den event, Ken damn near fucked her on the patio before they’d even exchanged last names.

  Some chick grabbed his junk as he moved through the crowd.

  He gently moved her hand away.

  “Gonna kill Clint,” he muttered as he made his way to the bar and toward Evan’s familiar, young ass.

  At least, young compared to Bart. Clint had blown out a knee and shoulder and retired years ago, and Bart was damn close to tossing in the towel himself. It was a wonder his own knees hadn’t given out yet. Up and down. Up and fucking down, all game long. Why the hell did he pick catcher for his position as a kid?

  Hindsight. Smartest player on the field, his ass.

  As he approached the bar, he clasped his hand onto Evan’s shoulder and leaned in to whisper, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Evan turned, and there was recognition in the dark eyes behind that mask. Definitely Evan Boswell.

  “Put your fucking mask back on,” he said and brought his beer bottle to his full lips. Sinful lips that always had Bart rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and praying for distraction. Lust and Evan Boswell didn’t belong anywhere near each other in his brain.

  “The mystery is part of the deal,” Evan added.

  Bart brought his gaze back down and rested his forearms on the bar top. “I thought you were playing winter ball in the Dominican Republic.” He pointed to Evan’s beer when the bartender approached and held up two fingers.

  Evan grunted. “I am. Off this week. Got the invitation last minute.”

  “From whom?”

  “I should ask you the same thing.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Den of Sin events were open only to invited guests. Most attendees were referred by past guests. All were thoroughly screened before being allowed to attend. Bart had seriously considered backing out. He understood the need for the STD test panel, but given that he hadn’t gotten laid since he and his last partner broke up, it was highly unlikely he’d picked up anything transmittable.

  Clint had thought his serial monogamist friend could use a no-strings-attached lay, and Bart didn’t argue. He didn’t have to fall in love with every person he fucked. Evan proved that several times per week, it seemed.

  “You know Clint Morstad, right?” Bart asked. “He’s an old teammate of mine. He referred me.”

  “Come on, man. Of course I know him. He talked Henri Beaudelaire into the hotel becoming a team sponsor. Shit, he wasn’t a bad pitcher in his day, either.” He took a long draw of his beer.

  Bart watched the muscles in Evan’s long, tanned neck work as he swallowed. His gaze caught the end of the draught when Evan’s lips loosened their suction from the longneck bottle, and his cock stirred in his pants.

  So many nights when the man wouldn’t stop talking shit, Bart had fantasized about cramming his dick into Evan’s mouth and making him take it deep. Evan Boswell was a goddamned nuisance, and the cause of recurring pain in his balls.

  “Maybe you can talk him into giving me some pointers,” Evan said. He set the bottle down and dragged his tongue across his lips.

  Bart pulled one of the beers the bartender brought over closer. “Ask him your own damn self. He’s approachable enough. So, now you know who invited me. Who invited you?”

  Evan put the bottle back to his mouth, but that didn’t suppress the amused upward tilt of his lips.

  Bart shook his head. “Never mind. I don’t even want to know.”

  Evan put down the bottle and turne
d his hand over in a waffling gesture. His overlong blond curls danced over his ears.

  Bart itched to touch them. Pull them, and put Evan’s head exactly where he wanted it.

  Bart rolled his eyes toward the ceiling again and sent chilly thoughts down to his crotch.

  Evan never grew his hair out that long during the regular season. Said he had to work too hard to keep it under his hat. It made him look fucking young, and Bart already felt like Evan was jailbait as it was.

  He was legal, though. Twenty-four and some change.

  “You didn’t hear it from me,” Evan said. “The team manager’s daughter has been riding my dick,“ he put his hands up preemptively when Bart cocked up an eyebrow, “figuratively, for two seasons. I let her down gently because I’m just not into redheads. She keeps trying, though.” He shrugged as if that shit was normal for him.

  Probably fucking was.

  “Anyhow, we were shooting the shit over email a few weeks ago, and somehow it came up that she had an invitation to this place she couldn’t use because she was going out of the country. She transferred it to me. I guess she thought I’d repay the favor somehow later.”

  If what Bart had heard was true, that favor would leave Evan with deep nail gouges all the way down his back and a dick a little more bent than it was before. Redhead or not, he could have sworn that was Evan’s type.

  “And you knew what you were getting in coming here?” Bart asked.

  Evan dropped his chin to his chest and managed to cast a look of incredulity through his mask. “Did you?”

  “Touché.”

  They drank silently and watched their co-heathens on the dance floor getting it on in the best they possibly could while vertical. They looked like one writhing, white mass with only their skin, mask, hair, and the occasional colorful scarf breaking up the tonal monotony. It had been on the invitation: Wear your finest white attire.

  Bart looked down at his black slacks and brushed off a bit of lint. That was the only white he had on besides the mask and the ring the matchmaker had assigned both him and the partner he hadn’t found yet.

  Evan reached over and pushed Bart’s mask back down. “There you go. Fixed that for you.” He drew back his arm, but left a pocket of his sweet and musky scent in front of Bart’s nose. It was that damn cologne he wore.

  His gaze fell to Evan’s open collar. The scent would probably be strongest right there, at the bend between his neck and shoulder. If he bit him there, would Evan supplicate for another or bite back?

  He had no intention of finding out. He’d fucked teammates before, but he didn’t make a habit of coming on to guys who were obviously straight.

  “I don’t care who fucking sees me,” Bart said, looking down at his beer. Anywhere but at Evan. “I’m on my way out, anyway. Next year is probably going to be the last season, if I decide to go back at all.”

  “The fuck are you talking about?”

  Bart turned and put his elbows on the bar again. He watched the reflections of Winterball revelers in the mirror. They were so carefree, so anticipatory. They knew what they were going upstairs to do.

  Bart didn’t feel that. In fact, he was totally blasé about the whole damned scenario. He’d requested a match-up from the staff’s facilitator, and was supposed to meet that person at the ball. He was supposed to recognize whoever it was by the matching ring he wore, but because of an oversight, the hotel had run out of them. So, while some people like Bart had disposable rings, others had colorful scarves tied around their necks or wrists. He hadn’t seen any unattached person with the right colored ring or scarf yet. Maybe they weren’t there.

  The live band switched from sensual jazz to a bluesy, grimy, bump-and-grind sort of tune, and the dancers altered their movements accordingly. Foreplay. It was goddamned public foreplay.

  Evan nudged him. “Come on, man. Why wouldn’t you go back?”

  “Why do you think, kid? I’m on the downward slope. I had a good career in the Majors. I got shipped down. The money in farm league is pretty good if baseball is just a hobby for you, but baseball is my job, and therefore, the pay sucks. And, hey, I’d much rather go out on a high note instead of a swan song.”

  “Don’t call me kid, motherfucker.” Evan set his bottle down with more force than was necessary. “Don’t fucking do this to me. I don’t want to play with another catcher.”

  “All about you, huh?”

  “Shut up, Bart. For fuck’s sake, the catcher on the team I’m playing with this winter can’t call a damn thing, and I think he’s got untreated nearsightedness. I can’t get into a rhythm with him.”

  “Damn. Well, the good news is you don’t have to. It’s just winter ball. It’s there to keep you in shape in the off-season. Besides, you’re going to get pulled up to the Majors soon, and you’ll end up with new catchers, anyway. You need to learn to adapt.”

  “Bullshit. Nobody from the Majors is looking at me, and they definitely won’t be if you go. Me and you, we’re good together. I trust you. Your calls always make sense, and I never think twice. I just do what you tell me to.”

  He was right; he did. It made Bart’s job easier, knowing that Evan didn’t second-guess the signals he sent him on the field. But, he had to grow up. Move on.

  “You’ll learn to trust someone else. Substitutions are part of the game.”

  “But what you’re talking about is a permanent substitution, and it sounds to me like you’ve already talked yourself into quitting. You weren’t going to say shit to me? Give me a warning? That’s fucked up, Bart.”

  What Bart could see of Evan’s sun-bronzed cheeks beneath his mask had taken on a red tint. He’d always gotten a chuckle out of Evan’s passion—his high-spiritedness. But in the past, he hadn’t been the person sparking the other man’s indignation.

  Bart exhaled and pushed his empty beer bottle away. “I haven’t decided for sure. I just don’t see the point of sticking around when I could settle down somewhere and wait for real life to catch up to me.”

  He’d always wanted to buy an old house someplace, like Savannah or Charleston, and fix it up. He could listen to baseball on the radio while he sanded and painted. Maybe he’d coach Little League or something to pass the time.

  “I’m just tired, Evan,” he said.

  “You don’t care about ball anymore?”

  “Yeah, I care. I’ll never stop caring about ball. That doesn’t mean I’m going to be able to play forever, though.”

  “Just give me one more season, Bart. Come on,” Evan said in a cajoling tone that Bart had never heard from the man in two years. Evan Boswell didn’t beg for shit, so the fact he was doing it now felt like splinters to the heart.

  Back in the day, Bart and Clint had had a great run together, but Bart didn’t become starting catcher until Clint’s second-to-last season. They were great friends and had a strong on-field dynamic, but good as they were, they weren’t in sync the same way Bart was with Evan. Clint and Bart were both too dominant to cede much to each other, whereas Evan just trusted him unflinchingly.

  Yeah, that was something special.

  Bart let out a ragged exhale. “Hey, all I can promise is that I’ll think about it.” He waved the bartender away and pushed his second beer to Evan. He just knew Evan was going to needle him all night about baseball, so he should probably just leave him to his evening. Once Evan found a nice curvy brunette to simulate sex with on the dance floor, the only balls and bat that would matter would be the ones in his fitted white pants.

  Fuck.

  Bart looked his friend up and down through the corners of his eyes and groaned inwardly. A man shouldn’t look that good in white, especially when there wasn’t red clay from the baseball diamond ground into it.

  “You waiting on someone?” Evan asked. “You used the matchmaker, or are you just looking to see what looks good?”

  Bart turned his ring around and rubbed the white stone.

  No one looked good except Evan.

 
; “Yeah. Used the matchmaker. When I checked in, the girl told me I’d probably meet my date at the bar. Haven’t seen ’em. Maybe one look at me was just too much to take.”

  “Big motherfucker like you, yeah, I could see how that could happen.” Evan laughed. “Maybe you should keep the mask off so everyone can see your pretty face.”

  “Ha ha, asshole.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think I got stood up, too. First time in my life.”

  “That’s lousy. But, hey—c’est la vie. Don’t have to share a room, huh? I’m actually looking forward to a good night’s sleep. I must really be getting old. I can’t even blame the time zone change. New Orleans is only one hour different from my usual.”

  Evan chugged the lonely beer and dragged his crisp, white sleeve across his moist lips. “I think I’ll turn in, too.” He stretched his arms over his head and his long, lean torso flexed under his starched shirt.

  Bart had every muscle memorized—knew that there wasn’t a spare ounce of fat anywhere on him, and that the shoulders in that fancy shirt were sculpted to make the perfect hangers for powerful arms. Pitcher’s shoulders.

  “Got a fucking burn in my shoulder blade,” Evan said. He rolled his shoulders and his forehead furrowed with pain. “I think I overextended something yesterday. Being crammed in that tiny plane seat didn’t help a bit.”

  Bart grunted. “I think there’s a masseuse in the hotel spa who could probably take care of that for you. He or she probably knows jack-all about sports, but a kink is a kink.”

  “No pun intended given the environment, huh?”

  They started across the ballroom toward the main exit. Evan gave the hem of a chatting woman’s short, flirty skirt a flick.

  She turned, looked at him, and with a smile, called after him, “You want to play, cutie?”

  “Maybe later, sweetheart.”