No, he said. I didn’t.
Well, let’s . . .
She made as though to pull away and Mark gripped her about the waist with a forearm which felt like solid rock against her abdomen.
Too late for that, he breathed.
And that was when she felt him, hard and pressing between her legs. With his free hand he continued to rub and stroke her as he pushed into her, exhaling deeply once he did. He was still for a long while, and she could feel his heartbeat against her back, and pulsating deep inside her. She had never been more aware of her body and the marvel of how it was made as she was in that moment, feeling as she began to soften about him, accommodating him, encouraging him, making way for him.
Mark moved his hips back and forth and in circles, and she groaned and pushed backward, no longer caring who might come barging in. Within moments, Mark doubled the speed of his movements, stimulating her with his fingers, moving in and out of her and gripping her tightly about the waist all at once. It didn’t take long before Dylan was whimpering with the pleasure that was its own pain. Even with her release, he didn’t stop so she rode the wave of feeling until with a deep moan, muffled by her hair, Mark emptied himself inside her.
He rested against her for a minute, kissing the back of her neck then slowly pulling out. Dylan was still recovering when she heard him close the zipper of his jeans. Crouching, he pulled her shorts back up and with unsteady hands refastened her halter top. She had barely caught her breath before he had her completely dressed again, as though nothing had happened. But when he turned her to face him again, his eyes were warm, like melted dark chocolate. He cupped her face in his hands and leaned in to kiss her. The sweet gentleness of his kiss was a stark contrast to the raw and excitingly animalistic way in which he had just taken her.
Don’t wash up, he said against her ear. I like knowing some of me is still inside you.
And then he was gone. Dylan was still pulling herself together, feeling the slickness and savoring the pleasant throb between her thighs, when she heard him rejoin his brothers and cousins by the pool, ordering Peter out of his seat.
The entire time in the DR had been that way—sex always furtively, urgently whether because they had to sneak to Mark’s room while everyone was asleep or because his family was somewhere just feet away. Dylan walked around swollen and with a sweet soreness that was like a secret between them. One evening at dinner, when she’d winced slightly as she sat, Dylan saw out of the corner of her eye a slight amused upturning at the corners of Mark’s mouth.
On the day Dylan moved into the condo, one of the Mets players was having a party at his house out on Long Island so she spent the morning moving boxes with Mark, the afternoon shopping with Ava and the evening getting dressed to go meet Mark’s teammates for the first time. She tried five outfits before finally picking an orange Nicole Miller ruffled dress and gold sandals.
Ava hung around to help her with the hair, so that she had defined curls rather than her usual blowsy, frizzy mess, and to do her make-up. Dylan sat at the mirror while her friend fussed with her eyelids and cheeks and tried to calm her nerves.
“Relax, would you? It’s just a party,” Ava said picking up on her nervousness. “Like a million other parties you’ve been to in your life.”
“Not quite,” Dylan said. “This party is probably going to be a little different from the one where I met Mark. About to smoke a joint on the fire-escape.”
“He was about to smoke a joint when you met him? I thought professional athletes couldn’t do that shit.”
“No, stupid. I was about to smoke the joint.”
“Oh. Well that’s alright then, I guess.”
“You could come with me, y’know?” Dylan suggested.
“Maybe some other time,” Ava said. “You guys just barely moved in. I don’t want to be a freeloader. At least not yet.” She looked up and grinned.
So far Ava seemed to be taking it in stride how fast things were moving with Mark but Dylan knew her well enough to know that she was probably holding a lot in. It was hard to explain to people on the outside, but with her and Ava, there was always the underlying understanding that they were in it together. Whatever “it” was—crappy family lives, crappy boyfriends, jobs that didn’t quite fulfill them.
Except now, for Dylan things appeared to be turning around. Moving in with Mark was only part of it. She’d gotten her LSAT score back and it was much higher than she’d expected, or hoped for, and would get her into almost any school she wanted; it would almost certainly get her into NYU. And meanwhile, Ava had broken up with Jake for what was now the fourth time.
“Not getting any younger out here!” Mark called from the living room.
Ava laughed. “Okay, let’s speed it up.”
Dylan took one last look at her reflection and grabbed her clutch from the bed, heading out to the living room with Ava following. Mark was sitting on the edge of the sofa, fidgeting with the remote control for the fireplace, which they hadn’t figured out yet. He was wearing a snug grey vest with a crisp white shirt and dark grey pants, and looked incredible considering he’d pulled the whole thing together like an afterthought. He looked up when Dylan walked in and smiled, standing and tossing the remote control aside.
“Well?” she asked, exasperated. “How do I look?”
“Beautiful. Always,” he said. “Let’s go.”
He extended a hand and Dylan took it, turning to roll her eyes at Ava. Clearly he was going to be no future help in the what-to-wear department.
They drove out to the Island in Mark’s Jeep and Dylan wondered whether it was a little premature for her to suggest that he consider buying something new. After all, he’d bought his brother a new car; why would it be wrong for him to get himself something as well? But knowing Mark, he hadn’t even thought of it. He probably wouldn’t even begin to even think of a new car until this one stopped on the side of the road and didn’t start again.
“Whose house are we going to again?”
“Pedro Lima. Our pitcher. He gets all the Dominicans on the team together once a month,” Mark said.
Dylan laughed. “That’s just about everybody, isn’t it?”
“Almost.” And then, after a pause, “you’ll get to meet Ray Hernandez.”
Ray Hernandez was the Mets’ marquee player. Mr. Mets himself, though he had gone on to transcend the team and even the game of baseball. His movie star good looks, complete with chiseled features and greenish-grey eyes made him an endorsement gold-mine for the franchise and individually. Dylan had always thought he was good-looking but in an impossible to stand kind of way, almost too good-looking. Making eye contact with him would be like looking directly into the noonday sun. She wondered vaguely whether she would manage it without making a complete idiot out of herself.
“You like him?” Mark asked after a moment.
Dylan laughed. “Oh my god. I knew there was a reason you brought him up. Are you going to be jealous if I start drooling all over Ray Hernandez?”
Mark put a hand on her leg and laughed along with her. “Yes. Definitely. So don’t do it.”
“I’m not sure that’s something I can control,” Dylan teased. “I am a heterosexual female after all. And have you seen his Nike commercial? The one where he’s comes out of the dug-out and takes off his shirt?” She groaned.
Stop it,” Mark said, lowering his voice. “If I see you look at him for more than five seconds I’m going to drag you to the bathroom and have my way with you so you remember who your man is.”
“If that’s supposed to be a deterrent, it’s not working,” Dylan said.
Pedro Lima’s house was an old Victorian on a cul-de-sac, beautiful, imposing and stately. Out front, several luxury cars were parked and the front door was open, revealing a foyer lit by a chandelier that twinkled and welcomed you in. As Mark helped Dylan out of the car, she took a deep breath, already intimidated by her surroundings. The grounds were pristine, the hedges trimmed with surgica
l precision, and the flagstone path leading to the front door lit on either side by gaslight torches.
Dylan gripped Mark’s hand tightly as they entered and almost immediately, a large man emerged from another room, and clapped Mark on the back. He had a booming voice and a spoke in entirely in Spanish. Dylan smiled even though she didn’t understand a word.
“Pedro, this is Dylan.”
“This is your girlfriend?” Pedro said in heavily-accented English, looking incredulous. “No. She is too beautiful for you.” Then he kissed Dylan on the cheek and looked her over once again. “Way too beautiful.”
Dylan blushed.
“Come with me,” Pedro took her by the hand. “I have to show you to everyone. They won’t believe it either.”
Dylan allowed herself to be pulled away from Mark and into a sitting room where about a dozen people were already having drinks. Pedro, announced her to the room, an arm firmly about her shoulders. And then he turned and looked over his shoulder.
“Oh yes. And there’s this ugly guy here,” he said pointing at Mark. “Passing himself off as her boyfriend.”
Dylan was relieved that she’d had Christmas with the Acostas to prepare her for the boisterousness of Dominican gatherings. Everyone seemed to be talking to her and to Mark at once, and she was just short of overwhelmed when a woman with auburn hair, wearing a winter white chiffon dress came and took her hand.
“Hello Dylan,” she said, smiling. “I’m Vanessa Lima. Welcome to my home. Let me get you something to drink.”
“Thank you,” Dylan said, relieved to be rescued from the men. Over her shoulder she watched as they all greeted Mark, clearly having great time ribbing and teasing him. He was a rookie after all.
“They’re like big kids,” Vanessa said dismissively as she led her over to the bar. “I try to stay clear of them when they’re in groups like that. You would do well to do the same.”
Dylan nodded, not knowing what to say.
“What would you like?” Vanessa asked.
“A white wine for now, thank you,” Dylan said. Her voice sounded like a squeak.
Vanessa poured her drink and handed it to her, indicating the rear of the house. “Come meet some of the other wives,” she said.
“Mark and I aren’t married,” Dylan said.
“Oh,” Vanessa said.
Dylan thought she detected the tiniest of hesitations, as though Vanessa wanted to say more but decided not to. She followed her out to the rear of the house where a dinner table had been set up under the terrace and nearby groups of women stood, nursing drinks in clusters of two or three.
“Everyone, this is Dylan,” Vanessa announced, in a voice loud enough to be heard but thankfully, less amplified than her husband’s. “Dylan is Mark Acosta’s . . . girlfriend.”
There it was again; the hesitation.
The women turned, almost in unison and Dylan could feel them sizing her up. As a group, they were rather imposing, in their designer dresses and large jewelry. They seemed to favor vivid colors and jewel tones, and hair that was either pin straight of very big, nothing in between. Even ten feet away, their diamonds were apparent, enormous rings twinkling in the dim light.
Dylan took a deep breath and stepped forward, pretending to be more at ease than she felt. One of the women, the only blonde, the only one who didn’t appear to be Latina came to meet her.
“Dylan,” she said. “I’m Lauren Morales. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you as well,” Dylan took her hand.
Following Lauren, the other women came over one by one and introduced themselves, but none of them other than Lauren stayed to chat. And the hostess seemed to have left to see about dinner.
“Are you Dominican?” Lauren asked when they were alone. She had wide cornflower blue eyes, and the palest of pale skin, and was pretty in a Nordic kind of way.
“No,” Dylan shook her head.
“Oh. Well hang on then, honey. They do not like it when women who are not Dominican swoop in and take men as eligible as your boyfriend,” Lauren said taking a sip of her wine. “But at least you’re not a white girl. Then they’d really let you have it.”
Dylan sipped her own wine, not knowing what to say. But Lauren didn’t seem to need much encouragement to go on.
“When I married my husband, it took them about a year to speak to me. And now they do, it’s just barely. A vicious bunch, let me tell you.”
Dylan swallowed, and realizing that she couldn’t very well say nothing the entire evening, finally thought of something neutral to say.
“Which is Ray Hernandez’ wife?”
“Oh Cindy never comes to these things,” Lauren said, lowering her voice. “Ray will show up just in time to eat. But Cindy never comes. I can’t figure out whether it’s because her husband is such a horndog and hits on all the other wives, or because she’s above it all. He likes his Dominican roots, but from what I hear, she’s pushing him to be less . . . ethnic so he can have broader appeal.”
“So Dylan,” one of the other women said from a few feet away. “What do you do?”
Dylan tried to remember the woman’s name bout couldn’t.
“I’m a legal assistant,” Dylan said, clearing her throat. “Hopefully I’ll be a law student in the fall.”
“Oh, interesting,” she said, coming to join her and Lauren. “How did you and Mark meet, if I may ask?”
Her manicure was a disturbing dark purple that made her long nails look like talons. And she had blood-red lips. Dylan tried not to dislike her based on her appearance alone. She flipped her long dark hair over her shoulder while she waited for Dylan’s response.
“We met at a party,” Dylan said.
“How very nice. And how long have you been together?” her inquisitor continued.
Next to Dylan, Lauren shifted uncomfortably.
“A couple months. A little more than a couple months,” Dylan said, cursing herself that she sounded so timid.
“And you met José like three weeks after he signed with the Mets, didn’t you Yoselin?” Lauren broke in. “Like at some fan event or something?”
Yoselin Cruz. That was who she was. Her husband was the third baseman, if Dylan remembered correctly. Yoselin shot Lauren a cold stare.
“My mother knew his family for years,” Yoselin said. “We were hardly complete strangers.”
Dylan looked desperately in the direction of the house, wishing there were some way that Mark could come and rescue her. Something told her she’d been caught in the crossfire of some internecine warfare among the wives, and it appeared Lauren was a bomb-thrower.
“Ladies, our last guest has arrived,” Vanessa Lima re-emerged, and with her in the flesh was Ray Hernandez.
He was wearing a white, long-sleeved t-shirt, faded jeans and stark white tennis shoes. Apparently he did not feel bound by anything as pedestrian as a dress-code. Smiling at no one in particular, he entered, clearly used to commanding attention when he walked into a room.
Dylan had to make herself keep her jaw from dropping, because Ray Hernandez was everything she had feared he would be—drop-dead fucking gorgeous in a way that was almost not humanly possible. From the perfectly-proportioned body, complete with V-shaped torso and amazing ass, to the creamy milk-and-coffee complexion and mesmerizing eyes. He was the kind of specimen that made you believe with all your heart that there had to be a God, because something like Ray Hernandez did not happen by accident, and could only be the product of divine intervention.
“Good evening, ladies. Apologies for delaying our meal. I didn’t know we were doing a sit-down thing.”
Even his voice was delectable. Dylan took a strong gulp of her wine, and when she looked up again, Ray Hernandez was coming directly toward her. She only hoped she wouldn’t swoon.
“Hi,” he said, holding out a hand. “You’re the only face I don’t recognize, so you must be Dylan.”
She took his hand, and dropped it after a very brief shake because sh
e wasn’t sure she could be trusted not to raise it to her lips and lick it.
“Yes. Nice to meet you.”
For the first time all evening, her voice sounded like her own. Weird. It must be her female animal instinct kicking in, wanting to show herself off in her best light to the virile male of the species.
Ray smiled. “We’re excited to have Mark on board,” he said. “He’s going to help us win that pennant, I can feel it.”
“That’s certainly his plan,” Dylan nodded.
Ray grinned at her. “Vanessa, I want Dylan to sit by me,” he said. “I like it when I have someone new to impress. And by now everyone else has heard all my stories.”
He didn’t take his eyes off her as he spoke and if Dylan hadn’t heard Lauren’s description of him as a “horn-dog” she would have flattered herself that he actually found her particularly attractive.
“Of course, you can have whoever you like sit next to you,” Vanessa said. “Let me get the rest of the men so we can start.”
Ray Hernandez did sit next to Dylan and true to his word, spoke almost exclusively to her throughout the entire meal. Feeling herself the center of his attention was heady stuff; there was no getting around that. Though she wasn’t flirting with him, and made sure to keep her conversation balanced between him and Manny Morales, Lauren’s husband who was sitting on her other side, Dylan noticed that Ray seemed to be trying especially hard to retain her interest. He regaled her with stories of interesting places he’d been to, spending particular time describing his visits with the President, as well as the hero’s welcome he received whenever he went to the Dominican Republic.
The truth, Dylan had to admit after the entrée was served, was that Ray Hernandez was spectacularly good-looking but a fraction less attractive once you talked to him at length. He had been famous for too long, fawned over too often, and now seemed to have fully bought into his own PR— that he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. But still, Dylan smiled and maintained friendly conversation with him, noting that across the table, catty-corner from her seat, Mark was becoming increasingly restless.
The Seduction of Dylan Acosta Page 10