Caught by You

by Jennifer Bernard

  He filled another glass with water for himself and took a long swallow. “Joey is used to this kind of thing. He’d probably just laugh it off. He has bigger things to worry about, like whether or not his kidneys will hold up. But it drives me crazy. Joey is Joey. He’s my brother, and one of the best ­people on this planet, and when I think about Yazmer having a problem with him coming into the locker room, it makes my blood boil. That hypocritical, self-­serving, ambitious little snot. He’s not fit to breathe the same air as my brother.”

  His voice vibrated with anger, his eyes blazed deep green, like the sun lighting up a quarry pool. As if embarrassed by his own intensity, he lifted a shoulder, then turned back toward the sink for more water. Donna dragged her gaze away from the sight of the muscles flexing under his tan skin. This man had a knack for taking her breath away.

  Which was trouble, big trouble.

  She gathered her sheets around her and climbed onto one of the stools at the kitchen island. “So why don’t you do something about it?”

  “Like what?” He propped his towel-­covered rear against the edge of the counter. “Yazmer is the way he is. I’ve tried to get close to him. They wanted me to help settle him down, show him the ropes. I tried, but all he got from it was a selfie. ‘Me and the Kilby catcher. Can he handle the Yaz?’ He’s like the Kim Kardashian of Triple A.”

  Donna propped her elbows on the counter and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. “So you can’t change Yazmer. There’s no point in trying. But there’s got to be something else you can do.”

  He snapped his fingers, eyes gleaming. “I know. I could get up on the bar at the Kilby Roadhouse and give him a piece of my mind. Maybe get another brawl going, since the last one was such a hit.”

  “Ha ha. I’m serious. He’s a baseball player. You’re a baseball player. Maybe you should go on TV. Do a PSA or something. Why should he get all the attention?”

  “Because he wants it. He’s a camera hound. Some ­people can’t get enough of the camera, but I’m not one of them.”

  “Well, I think you’re very photogenic.” She picked up his phone and pretended to snap a photo, aiming at his groin, where the towel clung to the bulge of his privates.

  “You’d better delete that,” he growled, advancing around the island toward her. “I don’t need my junk ending up on Facebook.”

  She hopped off the stool and backed away from him, still pretending to take snapshots of his body. “How about Twitter, then? Hashtag OMG.”

  “Hand over my phone or there’s going to be trouble, girl.” He was only a few strides away from her now. She tripped over the sheet, which had gotten tangled between her feet, and let out a shriek as he lunged for her. Abandoning her covering, she skipped away, so he was left with a handful of bed sheet and a frustrated expression, and she was left completely nude.

  He still wore his towel, which was now expanding over a quickly growing hard-­on. Spinning around, she aimed his phone at his groin. “Looks like someone loves the camera.”

  “That has nothing to do with the camera,” he informed her, wrestling the sheet into a ball, then casting it aside. “That’s all you, baby. Might as well sign your name on it.”

  “With what, my tongue?” She tossed the saucy words over her shoulder just before she slipped into the bedroom and flung her weight against the door. She shouldn’t be teasing him like this. She had to get to work soon.

  But the door didn’t close. Somehow, he managed to get his chest between the door and the jamb, which meant he was able to snake one arm through and tickle her ribs.

  She was insanely ticklish, always had been, and immediately shrieked in hysterical reaction.

  “My girl’s a little ticklish, is she?” He wriggled his fingers under her armpit. She squirmed madly, then gave up and jumped out of reach. The door fell open and he burst into the room, all bulging muscles and black curls. He advanced toward her. “Now I know how to get you back. Tie you up and tickle you until you scream.”

  “Tickle? Really? Is that the best you can come up with?” She danced across the room, hopscotching around boxes, evading his pursuing hand by inches.

  “You little tease.” He laughed, low and rich as fresh-­brewed coffee. “Are you trying to get me going again?”

  “I’m just trying to find my clothes,” she said virtuously, having just tripped over a little pile that included her top and torn panties. “What’s left of them.” Quickly she pulled the top over her head so she was half dressed. The filmy double layer of fabric settled across her chest with a soft prickling of her nipples. The shirt only reached to just below her belly button; she saw his eyes flare with heat. She spotted her jeans on the other side of the bed and took a step in that direction.

  “Don’t even think about it, Donna. Stop where you are and don’t put on another piece of clothing.” The deep rumble of his voice, desire percolating through it like black tar, rooted her to the floor. She let him prowl closer while his gaze consumed her body. Excitement blossomed in her belly, liquid heat between her legs.

  He stopped about two feet from her. His towel had disappeared during their little chase; he was now entirely nude and completely aroused. His erection jutted toward her, nearly perpendicular to the floor, impressively thick and dusky rose. She swallowed through the sudden extreme tightness in her throat.

  You could hang a towel on that thing, she thought with an edge of hysteria.

  “Pull your shirt tighter,” he ordered.

  “What?”

  “Pull it tighter across your breasts.” His burning gaze was now fastened on her chest. “Your nipples look beautiful like that, poking through that material. I want to see what it looks like tighter.”

  She put her hands behind her back and bunched the fabric in one hand; the other still held his phone. It pulled tight across her chest, a silky abrasion that made her breath catch. She knew her nipples were swelling larger, she could feel it. Wanting more of the sensation, she arched her back, pressing her breasts against the filmy layers.

  “Oh sweet Jesus, you have no idea how hot you look right now. Keep your hands like that.” He closed the distance between them and buried one hand between her thighs. The other went to her breasts, somehow managing to span the distance between them.

  A spasm shook her. Shocked—­was she coming, just like that?—­she flinched backward, but he didn’t let her get far. He abandoned her breasts and clamped his arm around her back, pressing her against him. His phone slipped out of her fingers, falling to the floor. The heat of his bare chest burned through her top to her nipples. She gasped as he sank two fingers deep within her, grinding against her clit with the palm of his hand. “Oh . . . oh oh ooh,” she cried out in a rising wail. She was coming, huge paroxysms pulling her this way and that, flinging her into a world of pure sensation.

  She might have even blacked out for a moment, because then she was on her back, the edge of the mattress pressing against her thighs, which were spread wide. Mike stood between them, pulling on another condom. How many was that? And then she gave up thinking as he thrust that powerful spear of flesh right where she wanted it most. Deep inside her, as close to her core as he could get.

  She abandoned herself to the wild pleasure. No sense fighting it. She was in deep with Mike, all the way. So deep she had no clue where the exit was.

  Chapter 16

  LIFE BEFORE MIKE faded into a distant, dull sort of dream. All the elements of her previous reality still existed. She still showed up every morning for work at Dental Miracles. She still made appointments for root canals, showed patients into examination rooms, and took quick trips to the break room to swallow down burnt coffee. She picked Zack up for outings twice a week, and an overnight once a week; Mike came with them as often as he could.

  But everything was glazed with the misty sheen of magic that went along with being engaged to a baseball player. The oth
er staff members ate up every line of her interview in the Kilby Press-­Herald. Someone cut out the article and posted it on the bulletin board in the break room. She kept getting peppered with questions, especially from her young, single coworkers.

  “How did you meet him, really? . . . The only guy I ever met at the Roadhouse lived in his van and shot roadkill for breakfast . . . If you ever want to go on a double date, you call me, girl. I’d take Trevor Stark, Dwight Conner, or even that crazy Yazmer. Hell, they’re all cute. . . . What do Mike Solo’s thighs look like when he ain’t wearing that uniform? Mind taking a picture sometime?”

  She deflected all the questions with good humor, because she was too happy to be irritated. Not even when she was called in to assist one of the dentists, and instead of handing him dental instruments, she wound up reenacting Mike’s proposal, using a box of tissues as a stand-­in for the bouquet of lilacs.

  She gave some thought to Mike’s suggestion that she quit her job, but decided she’d wait until Judge Quinn made his decision. She didn’t want to look unreliable or flaky. Given the new timeframe for the wedding, Crush had hired a professional planner who only called Donna for token consultations. The whole thing felt like a dream, with Mike the solid, irresistible anchor to reality.

  One day Mike announced that it was time for him to meet her father and stepmother.

  “You know, I’d rather get three root canals than have a conversation with my stepmother,” Donna told him.

  “I have to meet them,” Mike insisted. “It’s important to me.”

  “Do you have to be such a boy scout?”

  “Take back the ‘boy’ part,” he growled, shifting the conversation from verbal to physical. “And I’m not letting this go, just so you know.”

  Donna had no wish to take him to the home where she’d been nothing but miserable after her mother left. From the moment Carrie had moved in, they’d clashed. A former army sergeant, Carrie had no patience for a confused, high-­energy kid who didn’t understand why her mom had moved out, and Donna had done her best to piss Carrie off. She wasn’t proud of it, but she couldn’t change it now. She still hadn’t found a way to get along with Carrie—­not that the other woman seemed interested in family harmony. Sometimes Donna thought she got a kick out of their battles.

  No, her best chance of getting along with Carrie was in small doses, on neutral territory. So Mike took them all out to dinner at Mama Cat’s, generally regarded as the best steakhouse in town.

  She’d warned Mike that Carrie had high standards when it came to wardrobe choices (as she’d spent her teen years learning), so he took care to dress in a nice jacket and a white shirt that set off the dark shade of his skin. Donna wanted to wear her own infamous blue blazer, but Mike threatened to throw it in the trash compactor, so she settled for a knee-­length cargo skirt and an olive-­green blouse with puffy sleeves and a bow at the neck.

  He looked her up and down with a horrified expression. “You look like a frickin’ boy scout.”

  “Look, this is your idea. Do you want it to go well, or do you want a re-­creation of every morning of my life between the ages of eleven and seventeen?”

  “Fine. But as soon as we get back, I’m ripping those clothes off you.”

  “Deal. You know, sometimes when I see Carrie I play a little drinking game. Every time she insults me I do a shot. But I want to go easy on your kidney, One-­K. So we’ll skip that little entertainment.”

  “How about this: For every time she insults you I owe you an orgasm.”

  “Solo, you don’t know what you’re promising. It could take weeks for me to collect.”

  “We’ve got time, right?” His wicked smile set her aflame, and he wasn’t even really trying.

  At Mama Cat’s, Carrie and Donna’s father, known around town as Mac, were already seated at a table by the stone barbecue pit. They each sipped from a Scotch on the rocks, which made Donna’s stomach tighten anxiously. Carrie rarely drank, and when she did, nothing held her back from expressing her true feelings about Donna and everything wrong with her.

  As soon as their steaks had arrived, Carrie started in on Donna. “Where are the two of you planning to live? There’s no chance the Hannigan family will sign off on you leaving Kilby, Donna.”

  Carrie was a genius at searching out vulnerabilities and an artist when it came to slicing and dicing Donna’s self-­esteem. How did the woman know that she and Mike hadn’t even talked about where to live? Before she could answer, he spoke up.

  “Very few ballplayers live permanently in the city where they play. Even if—­when—­I get called up to San Diego, I’ll still need a home base. I don’t see why it can’t be Kilby.”

  Donna stared at him. This was news to her. Why had he never mentioned it? He must have seen the shock on her face, because he leaned down and whispered, “I was planning a surprise. A house-­hunting surprise.”

  “What?”

  “What’s that? What’s going on?” Carrie blotted her mouth with her napkin, leaving splotches of bright orange lipstick. “Are you two whispering secrets over there?”

  “They aren’t causing any harm,” said Donna’s father uncomfortably. In the early days of Carrie, Mac had tried to intervene when things got ugly, but he’d quickly realized he’d rather be working on a transmission.

  “That remains to be seen.” Carrie cut into her rib-­eye. “I heard the Wades are on the warpath. You didn’t make any friends with your disgraceful behavior last summer, Donna.”

  “The Wades are always going to be the Wades.” Donna slathered butter on her baked potato. Comfort food was key in this situation. “What do they have to do with us?”

  “They have everything to do with you. To start with, both of you are on their radar ever since that Roadhouse fiasco. Dean’s running for mayor, and Roy wants to buy the Catfish. And of course, Bonita is Dean’s second cousin by marriage. A real sharp cookie too.” The approval in Carrie’s voice felt like a complete betrayal. “You figure it out, Donna.”

  “I’m not worried about the Wades,” Mike said calmly, with an air of complete confidence. “We’ll take care of our business, they’ll take care of theirs. First thing on our list, look for a house.”

  Carrie’s mouth drew tight as she chewed, so thin lines appeared all around it, like shatter lines around a bullet hole. “A house?”

  “Yes. A house. Something to live in. I’m tired of short-­term leases and cats who belong to someone else and saying good-­bye to neighbors I might never see again. I need a home base.”

  “Don’t you have a family somewhere else?”

  “Sure. Chicago. But I like it down here. Nice weather. Better for keeping in shape in the off-­season. We need a house with a big yard where I can hit some grounders with Zack.” He flashed a smile. “Maybe get a cat. You like cats, don’t you, sweetie? You’re not allergic, are you?” With a wink, he squeezed her hand under the table. He loved reminding her of the allergies she’d faked.

  Donna shook her head, marveling at how smoothly he handled Carrie. How did he do it? How did he play the part of eager husband-­to-­be with such enthusiasm? To watch him, you’d never guess that his sense of duty was driving him into their marriage. Or some weird flash of intuition behind home plate.

  “Well, I just hope you’re ready for a big reality check. I wish someone had warned me before I became a parent to someone else’s child.” Carrie put down her fork and slung the words like little poison darts. “I could write a whole manual on the subject. I’d call it Pretty Little Liars.”

  Donna gripped her fork tightly, that familiar lost feeling stealing over her. If only her father would say something. She’d spent seven years getting slammed by insults like that and waiting for Mac to stand up for her. Never happened.

  Well, she’d just have to stand up for herself, as always. “Did you just call me pretty? That’s the nice
st thing you ever said to me.”

  “Now, you know that’s not true. Are you trying to prove my point for me?”

  Donna opened her mouth to sling back another jab, but nothing came out. Blank. Nada. Not that she couldn’t think of something nasty—­but, for the first time, she didn’t want to. Life was good right now. She had Mike now, his solid presence right there at her shoulder, offering silent support. The pain that had fueled her battles with Carrie . . . poof. Nothing more than a distant echo of it remained. Carrie didn’t matter. Zack did, and a fight with Carrie wouldn’t help her get Zack back.

  Instead of continuing the war of words, she fixed her gaze on her plate. Her steak no longer appealed to her; she just wanted this evening to end. The moment stretched onward, agonizing and endless. Someone guffawed from across the room, someone else dropped silverware on the floor. A warm hand settled into the small of her back.

  Mike balled up his napkin and rose to his feet. “Funny thing, I’ve always heard how friendly and welcoming Texas is. Mostly, it’s true. Mostly.”

  Mike couldn’t have picked a better way to get under Carrie’s skin. She was a fifth-­generation Texan, obsessed with genealogy and pride in her roots. “I didn’t mean it to be rude,” she said stiffly. “I’m just trying to warn you.”

  “I think Donna deserves an apology, honey,” said Mac softly. “In fact, I’m pretty sure she does. If you won’t give it, I will.”

  Donna’s head snapped up. What had gotten into her father? He never defended her. When Carrie didn’t say anything—­probably still in shock herself—­he turned to Donna. “She’s sorry, even if she can’t say it.”

  Clearly, no one at the table believed that. Mike pulled out his wallet and extracted some money. It looked like two hundred-­dollar bills, but Donna couldn’t believe one dinner could cost that much. “This should cover it.” After putting the money on the table, he put an arm around Donna and spoke to Mac. “It was nice to meet you, sir.” He nodded to Carrie, then steered Donna toward the exit.