Back in the Game

by Lori Wilde

  “Sorry about that,” she apologized. “Go on.”

  “I took drugs to boost my performance. Warwick and Price did too. We rolled the dice, took a chance the way only stupid teenagers can. It worked. We impressed the scout and suddenly, everything we dreamed was coming true . . .” His eyes were tortured. “Because we cheated.”

  “You don’t know it was because of the steroids. You could just have easily impressed the scout without the drugs,” she said.

  “I’ll never know. It’s tainted.” He swept a hand at the Escalade, a symbol of his success. “All of it.”

  “But that was the only time you took performance enhancing drugs, right?”

  “I never touched them,” he said. “Price and I got away with the doping. Back then the drug testing was random, not mandatory. But Warwick, because he was so big, and older than the other kids, he got tapped for testing. His baseball career was over before it ever started. He ended up going into the marines, while Price and I skipped off to the Mariners farm team.”

  “It’s why you hired Warwick as your bodyguard. You feel guilty.”

  “He’s loyal to a fault. Never ratted out Price and me. We had our careers because of him. I owe him more than I can ever repay.”

  “Okay.” She pressed both palms downward. “Let me get this straight. Potts found out that you and Price used steroids to jumpstart your baseball careers and that was how he planned on getting you to go along with his doping scheme?”

  “Yes.”

  “He thought because you’d done it once, you were corruptible.”

  “Yeah.” Rowdy folded his lips inward. “When we refused to play ball, Potts threatened to doctor our clean lab results to look dirty.”

  “The reverse of what he was doing with dirty players.”

  “You got it. He said, ‘You cross me, Blanton, and I’ll make sure your pee will light up like a Christmas tree. When people find out you used steroids in high school, it won’t be an isolated incident. It’ll be a pattern.’ How could I fight that?”

  “He had you in a straitjacket.”

  “Not completely. I had one move. Walk out of the Gunslingers in protest over Price’s being let go.”

  “Which got you suspended.”

  “But that ended up backfiring on him because the suspension caused more media attention than my walking out.”

  “So he hired someone to get rid of you permanently.”

  “Not completely, I’m still here, but that’s why he acquired Zach. To stop me from uncovering his cesspool in my autobiography.”

  “There’s something I can’t figure out. If no one ever knew you and Price took steroids, how did Potts find out?”

  Rowdy shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s got uncanny ways of digging up dirt.”

  “I wish you’d trusted me enough to tell me this sooner,” she whispered.

  “I didn’t want to know the bad things I’d done,” he said. “You’re so pure and—”

  “Not that pure,” she said. “And I’ve always tried not to judge people. It’s easy to draw conclusions about people’s behavior but until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes you have no way of knowing what they’ve been through.”

  “Ah, Breezy,” he said huskily, “I don’t deserve you.”

  “Rowdy,” she said. “You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

  Was that a mist of tears glimmering in his eyes? He blinked and it was gone, but he took her in his arms and lifted her off her feet.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist, rested her chin on his shoulder, whispered in his ear everything she felt in her heart. “To hell with third base, take me home, slugger, and make love to me with all you’ve got.”

  CHAPTER 25

  This is a game to be savored, not gulped.

  There’s time to discuss everything

  between pitches or between innings.

  —BILL VEECK

  The minute they were inside his house, Rowdy dropped his keys on the foyer table, held out his arms, and said, “C’mere.”

  Breeanne hopped into Rowdy’s arms as if she’d been doing it her entire life, and would continue to do so for the next seventy years or so. It was that easy.

  He held her close, and nuzzled her neck.

  She locked her legs around his waist, hanging on for all she was worth. A level five tornado couldn’t have sucked her loose from his embrace. Her breasts were smashed flat against his chest, and she could feel the strong, steady pounding of his heart.

  He plucked at the scarf around her neck—the incredible softness of the scarf that only the two of them could detect—loosening the knot, sliding it around the nape of her neck where it flowed like water, before letting it fall off his fingertips and drift to the ground.

  A sigh popped from her lips, dreamy and poetic.

  He slipped her glasses off her face, settled them onto the table with his keys. He kissed her neck, while one hand slipped up her shirt to stroke the small of her back. “Sweetheart, are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

  “I don’t want to lead you on. I can’t promise to tell you what you want to hear. My life’s a mess. I’m a mess—”

  “Shh.” She pressed a finger to his lips. “I know that. I don’t care. I just want to live in the moment, to be happy right this minute. For today, tonight, I can be happy with you. We can be happy together now. Nothing further required.”

  “I could—”

  She pretended to button up his lip. “I don’t want to hear another word about it. All your secrets are safe with me.”

  He tilted his head back, looked up at her, his eyes gleaming with sexual hunger.

  For her. This glorious, flawed man wanted her. It was enough. Tonight, he was all hers and she was going to enjoy every second without worrying about tomorrow.

  “After this, will we still be friends?” he asked.

  She smiled at him, her heart wobbly with a bittersweet joy. “We will always be friends.”

  His eyes darkened and the muscles at his mouth tightened and he looked as if he wanted to believe that as much as she did. As if he wanted not only friendship but a whole lot more.

  A flicker of hope caught fire. He was changing, and so was she. Could they find a way to each other?

  Don’t, Breeanne. Don’t sugarcoat reality. He’s vulnerable now because he told you his secrets. It doesn’t mean he sees this as a permanent thing.

  And yet she had all this hope, and nowhere to place it except on him.

  “Let’s make this a night for the record books,” he said, and carried her upstairs to his bedroom.

  When they got through the door, she dropped her legs and slid down the length of his hard body. He gazed deeply into her eyes, tilted her jaw up with three fingers, and lowered his head.

  The pressure of his warm, moist mouth kindled a blistering heat that ravaged her nerve endings, and it felt as if every quivering cell in her body had been preparing for this moment, with this man. How she loved him!

  His lips were firm, but gentle, and she parted her teeth, and let him in.

  He slipped the tip of his tongue between lips, slow and easy, sending her pulse into a heady gallop. She went up on tiptoes to thread her fingers through his silky hair, tugging his head lower, and meeting his tongue with her own.

  The hem of her blouse rode up, the cool of his air-conditioned bedroom sent goose bumps over her skin. Or maybe it had nothing to do with the air-conditioning, and everything to do with the man teasing her with hot kisses.

  Tonight’s the night. And the Rod Stewart song of the same name played inside her head.

  Everything was going to be all right. No matter what happened. She’d chosen the right partner to have her first sexual experience with. Of that, she had no doubt. It was not a hastily made choice. She was one-hundred-percent committed.

  His tongue slid in deeper, and she reached up to cradle either side of his face b
etween her palms. His heavy beard, already growing stubble again, was scratchy against her skin. She pressed her body as close to his as she could get, eliminating any last bit of space separating them.

  She savored every detail, every breath—his taste, his heat, his touch. Her hands roamed to his shoulders, her fingertips dug into the rippled muscles there. They could have been in the middle of a six-lane freeway and she wouldn’t have noticed traffic whizzing past. They might as well have been on the moon.

  Her head spun. She’d been so engrossed in cataloging every sensory detail that she’d forgotten to breathe. Gasping, she broke their connection, whimpering because she’d been forced to do so.

  He inhaled simultaneously with her, chuckled. “I forgot to breathe too.”

  “Old hand like you?” she teased. “I thought breathing while you kiss was second nature.”

  He growled low in his throat and nibbled the outside of her ear.

  She gasped again.

  “Exhale,” he murmured.

  “I can’t.” She squeaked, her lungs seizing up, holding on to the stale air. “Not as long as you’re doing that.”

  “You don’t like having your ear nibbled?”

  “No. I love it so much that I can’t breathe.”

  He pulled back. “Now there’s a dilemma. Loving something so much that it’s bad for you.”

  Oh, she already knew that. Breanne let out a desperate exhale.

  “How about this?” He migrated from the top of her ear to the lobe.

  “Rowdy.” She panted.

  “What is it, Breezy?”

  “I’m ready for the good part.”

  “Patience,” he said. “Relax and enjoy the journey.”

  “I’m going to rip your clothes right off your body if you don’t stop that.”

  He nibbled some more.

  “Oh, so that’s how you want to play it?” She grabbed the hem of his Western shirt and pulled her hands in opposite direction. The snaps popped open as easy as shelling peas.

  “Whoa.” He laughed.

  His glorious, naked chest was in front of her, just waiting to be touched. She ran her palms along his sculpted pecs. Trembled.

  He shrugged out of the shirt, letting it float to the ground. Snatching her wrist, he tugged her to the denim love seat beside the huge bay window. He sank onto the plush cushion, pulled her into his lap so that she was straddling him. He’d slouched and they were almost eye to eye, and her crotch was level to his. His rigid erection strained against his blue jeans, poking against the thin cotton material of her shorts.

  He was so big. Was this going to hurt? She hadn’t considered that.

  “See what you do to me?” His voice came out heavy, and husky.

  She dipped her head to hide her pleased smile. She, mousy Breeanne Carlyle who’d never had a boyfriend, had caused Rowdy B’s ginormous boner.

  “You’re gloating.”

  She wriggled her hips. “A little.”

  He got harder. “Now that’s just mean.”

  “Relax and enjoy the journey.” She tossed his words back at him.

  “You can be a smartass. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  No. Because this sassy side had cropped up since she’d met him. She ground her hips against his.

  He groaned.

  “Is this what they call a lap dance?” she asked, keeping up the bump and grind.

  “If you play with fire, sweetheart, you’re gonna get burned,” he warned.

  “Promises, pro—” She didn’t get the rest of the word out of her mouth.

  He grabbed the bottom of her blouse with both hands. Whipped it, along with her camisole, over her head as slick as if he were an accomplished magician performing the classic yank-the-tablecloth-out-from-under-a-perfectly-set-table-without-ruining-the-meal parlor trick.

  She supposed he was a magician of sorts. Making women’s clothes disappear like that.

  “God,” he said. “I love when you wear camisoles instead of a bra.”

  “It’s about the only benefit of being the president of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. I can go braless.”

  He snorted. “Stop selling yourself short. These beauties might not be huge, but they are perfect. And those delicious pink nipples are just begging me to come play with them.”

  His hands spanned her waist, and he pushed her down against his crotch, holding her firmly in place. Her breath shot out in hot little pants. She could not take her eyes off him. What was he going to do next?

  Rowdy leaned forward.

  Breeanne tensed.

  Still keeping his hands around her waist, he lowered his head and took one of her pert nipples, which sat up hard and high, into his mouth.

  A strangled cry escaped her lips.

  She plunged her fingers into his hair, held on to him as securely as he was holding on to her. Drawing her knees up, she rocked forward into him. He opened his mouth wide around her breast, sucked her inside him.

  Her body was doing strange things, growing moist and hot, writhing and squirming as if it belonged to someone else. A heavy pressure weighed her pelvis, aching and urgent. The throbbing between her legs was almost unbearable.

  He left one achy breast and went for the other, the cool air touching where his hot mouth had been.

  She shivered, violently sweet.

  His left hand trailed from her waist, and slipped between her legs. His knuckles raked along the tender skin of her inner thigh. He drew his knees up on the edge of the love seat, creating a place for her to rest her back as he repositioned her for easier access. She took off her shorts and settled back into place.

  The wandering hand traveled from her inner thigh to her outer leg, sliding up into the leg of her panties, his thumb expertly snagging the waistband from the inside, and as he turned his hand, the panties rolled down as far as they could while she was still straddling him. The waistband stretched across her butt.

  She drew her knees up, making sure her feet were firmly planted into the cushion on either side of him. She rested her arms on his shoulder and stood up, balancing there while he slid her panties to her knees.

  She raised her left leg and he stretched the panties to capacity. They would never fit the same again, and she smiled at that. He managed to slide the panties over her heel, and they dropped to her right ankle. But she didn’t bother kicking them off.

  Whimpering, she sank back down as fast as she could. Game on. She wanted more. Now.

  Breeanne attacked his jeans with unbridled glee, fumbling for the button closure, finally getting it undone. Ah. She struck gold. A patch of masculine skin dusted with dark brown hair.

  “You’re not wearing any underwear!” she exclaimed, delighted.

  “Commando all the way, sweetheart. Don’t you remember from the day at the pond?”

  “I was trying not to look.” She covered her face with her hands. Giggled. She felt as if she’d chugged ten glasses of Prosecco in a row—fizzy, effervescent, love drunk.

  “Feast your eyes now. I’m all yours.”

  She clapped her hands, and beamed so bright she could pass for a lantern. “Goody.”

  Her bare crotch rubbed against the denim, sent hot electrical pulses throbbing through her groin. They were both breathing so hard they sounded like phone sex workers. She’d gotten the button undone, but there was still the matter of the zipper strained so tight by his erection that her fingers kept slipping on the tongue of the metal.

  She wrestled with it. “I can’t get it down, dammit.”

  “I got it, I got it,” he said, brushing her hands away so he could attack the uncooperative zipper.

  “Hurry, hurry.” She pounded her fists against her knees.

  “Dammit, I can’t get it open either.”

  “Scissors. Where do you keep the scissors? I’ll cut those jeans off you.”

  “I got it.” He jerked the zipper down.

  She leaned over and pressed her lips to his exposed flesh, felt his erection grow h
arder still. How was that possible?

  Soon, very soon, that thing was going to be inside her. Whoa!

  She felt as if she’d unwittingly been standing on a trapdoor and someone had just pulled a secret lever that sent her tumbling down a dark unknowable rabbit hole.

  Well, you got yourself into this fix. Hang on for the ride. You’re about to enter a whole new world.

  Thrill mixed with terror shot through her. Rowdy Blanton was going to be inside her. He’d been with scores of beautiful women. How on earth had she ever believed she could satisfy a man like him?

  She gulped, a guppy sucking air. Her legs turned to rubber. A wave of heat rushed over her, followed by an equally strong rush of cold. Her ears rang. Her vision tunneled, and she saw Rowdy disappear into dark stone catacombs. Her brain looped back on itself.

  You’re not prepared. You can’t handle this. You’re in over your head.

  “Want to back out?” he asked, brushing her hair from her forehead. “There’s still time.”

  “No!”

  “Good,” he said vehemently, and kissed her hard. Pulled back, assessing to see if she meant it.

  Their eyes met.

  He smiled that Rowdy smile she’d come to cherish, and her fears blended into the masculine wallpaper, leaving her with nothing but love for him. She loved him. It was going to be okay. He didn’t have to love her back. That was okay too. She loved him, and he couldn’t stop her. She would love him every day of her life.

  “We’re going to hit this out of the ballpark.” His eyes made promises. Big promises.

  “Yes.” She bobbed her head, agreement filling every corner of her heart, mind, and body. “We are.”

  He framed her face in his hands, and kissed her more sweetly, more gently than he’d ever kissed her before.

  She melted into a gooey chocolate puddle.

  His fingers curled around her arm, solid and encouraging. He waltzed her to the bed and stretched her out on the mattress. He stepped back and looked down at her as if she was the Mona Lisa and he, Leonardo da Vinci.

  Special.

  She felt special in a good way, a great way, the best way of all—cherished, treasured, cared for. It might not be love on his part, but he sure knew how to make her feel it. The man had a gift. No denying.