From Left Field: A Hot Baseball Romance (Diamond Brides Book 7)

by Mindy Klasky

  Her mouth sealed over his, drinking deeply. His tongue met hers, clever, teasing, setting off a line of sparks that cascaded down her spine. Her entire body shuddered, and she shifted her lips, finding an even more perfect angle, a more thorough connection.

  Bound like that, mouth to mouth, she pinned him against the back of the couch. She could hold him immobile with her thighs; she could keep him still with her chest against his. She cupped one hand against his nape, and she steadied herself against the wall with the other.

  That position left her vulnerable in a way she hadn’t intended. His hands were free. One palm spread across the small of her back, urging her still closer, grinding her against him even harder. Other fingers, clever fingers, slipped inside the waist band of her sweats. He caught his breath as he found that she was not, in fact, wearing panties, that there was nothing blocking his access to the rest of her.

  His palm was hot against her bare ass, sweet and soft as he cupped her, as he pulled her higher onto his lap. She rose up on her knees just a little, driving deeper into his mouth with her tongue, needing to show him that she was the one leading, she was the one guiding them forward.

  His hand flattened against her ass, holding steady, only the faintest ripple in his fingertips demonstrating what he was ready to give her, as soon as she let him. But even that hint, even that promise was enough to make her break off her pursuit. She freed his lips and rocked back on his thighs, arching her back enough to stare into his eyes.

  “Adam,” she said, because she had to speak his name. She had to confirm that she knew him, knew everything about him.

  She knew when he’d lost his virginity with Mary Martel, in the back seat of his father’s Lincoln Town Car. She knew because he’d thrown pebbles against Billy’s window until her brother had sneaked downstairs and let him into the house, let him into the boys’ bedroom, where Haley had eavesdropped, her ear pressed against the wall with a water glass.

  She knew when Adam had worked his way through the better part of the cheerleading squad in high school, the choice female selections in his freshman class at college. She knew his wild games when he came home for summers, when he scheduled afternoon hours lifeguarding at the local pool, because he was far too busy at night to report for opening shifts in the morning.

  She knew about the women who basked in his fame on the Rockets, the girls she’d heard about through Spring Swaps, the ones who harried him after home games, the ones who ghosted through bars on the road. She knew the handful of hookups that had lasted past a few raucous nights, the occasional relationships that were doomed the second Adam felt like he was being tied down in any way.

  She knew all that. And she knew that tonight, right now, she wanted him. She wanted him despite everything they’d ever told each other about failed relationships, about fast and furtive sex. She wanted him because of everything they’d told each other, because she understood him, because she knew exactly who he was, what he wanted, what he could give, what he would take.

  ~~~

  Adam flexed his abs, sitting up enough that he could brush his lips against Haley’s collarbone. In the dim light, he could see her shudder, could see the ripple that spread down her spine. He didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want to make her pull away, but he had to whisper, “This is a bad idea.”

  She shook her head. “No. Not tonight. Tonight this is exactly what I want.”

  As if to prove her point, she slipped her hands down his chest. Her fingers found his zipper without any problem. She slipped it free, fighting only a moment to ease past his hard-on. His breath stuttered in his throat when her fingers edged inside his fly, when she squeezed his cock hard at the base.

  Still, he put a stifling hand on top of hers. On top of fabric at least—his pants, his briefs. “Haley,” he said, warning her again.

  But she shook her head and said, “Come upstairs.” And then she made it impossible for him to refuse, because she traced one long, throbbing vein with her fingernail, ending with her thumb pressed hard against the narrow ridge of flesh at the tip of his cock.

  He could swear. He could shake his head until he summoned enough blood to his brain to tell her why she was wrong, why they’d both be sorry in the morning. He could take her hand out of his pants, pin her wrist against her side so she couldn’t distract him, couldn’t make him forget everything he had to say.

  Or he could steady her as she stood in front of him. He could lace his fingers between hers as soon as they were free from his dick. He could pause when she did, watch as she ordered three eager dogs back to their bed beneath the piano.

  He could follow her up the stairs, hypnotized by the ladder of her spine, by the sway of her hips in those soft cotton sweats. He could step into the master bedroom, the one room of this house he’d never been in, not once, in all the years he’d lived next door. He could close the door behind them, locking out the dogs, the cat, the real world that had no place between them that night.

  And he could watch as Haley stripped before him, shimmying out of those sweatpants like a seal slipping free in the water.

  Her hands were steady as she worked the button of his trousers, as she pulled down his pants, his briefs. She placed her palms on his shoulders, ordering him to sit on the edge of the bed, and she stripped off his shoes and socks, the crumpled cloth around his ankles. He watched the satisfied smile bloom on her face when he was as naked as she was.

  He closed his palms against the backs of her thighs, urging her closer. When she gave in, he breathed in sharply, filling his nose with the scent of hot, excited girl.

  He wanted to tug her forward a full step, wanted to lick a line from her breasts down her belly. His fingers itched to shove her thighs apart, to make her stand wide, to cup her ass with both greedy hands as he plunged his tongue deep inside her and drank until she screamed his name in pleasure.

  But he didn’t do any of those things. He couldn’t. Because he knew Haley. He knew this woman who could wrestle as well as he could, this woman who could beat him at pool, this woman who understood exactly how to ask, how to demand, how to give and get what she needed.

  She twisted away from him, stretching as far as she could to reach the narrow drawer in her nightstand. She shoved her fingers toward the back, emerging only a heartbeat later with a crisp foil packet. She ripped it open in one motion, pulled out the rubber with easy confidence.

  He watched her roll it over him, feeling the steady knowledge in her fingers. He let those fingers track along his jaw, let them hover over his throat as he swallowed. And then he let her push him back on the bed.

  His cock saluted her as she climbed on top of him. Clenching the muscles of her thighs, she lowered herself onto him, smoothly, steadily. She was slick and hot and tight enough that he wondered how long he could last.

  She set a rhythm for them, fast and needy. Her breath came faster, matching his. She reached for his hand, cradled it between her thighs, and it only took him a single stroke to find the hot button of her clit. He circled it as she rose, pressed hard as she came down on him again. Another stroke, another, one more, and he was hollering her name, crying out with the force of his release. One more twist of his wrist, one more circle against her throbbing skin, and she matched him, pulsing, pounding, collapsing into endless release.

  She fell against his chest, laughing. He pulled her close enough to find her lips, to kiss her one more time. And then they lay there, hearts racing, bodies trembling in the aftermath.

  He waited until she shivered before he edged up on the bed. He let her pull the covers around them. And when she tucked his arm around her belly, he spooned against her spine and slipped into perfect, dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER 6

  Slowly, Haley became aware of the pillow beneath her cheek. She snuggled deeper in the sheets, pulling the bed linens high against her shoulder. Only then did she realize Emma was tucked in close against her side; the grey cat started purring with enough energy that the entire mattr
ess shook.

  The entire mattress shook.

  Haley’s eyes flew open. The sheets on the far side of the bed were tangled, and the pillow was dented. Adam had slept there. At least, he’d fallen asleep there. After she’d accosted him in the living room. After she’d dragooned him upstairs. After she’d had her wicked way with him, not once, not twice, but three separate times during the night.

  But no matter how good it had felt, how right everything had seemed when they were in the middle of making love, she’d obviously screwed everything up between them. He’d high-tailed it out of her room before she’d even woken up. She glanced at her nightstand. Nope. No note. Despite Emma’s protest, Haley forced herself to sit up and survey the clothes strewn across the bedroom floor. Her strewn clothes. Not a hint of Adam’s formal dress anywhere to be found.

  Crap.

  Shoving down a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, Haley forced herself to stand, to walk to the bathroom. She turned on the shower, full force. As she waited for the water to warm, she stared at herself in the mirror.

  Her lips were swollen, tender to her light touch. That motion brought her arm near her nose, close enough that she could smell Adam, his soap, his piney aftershave.

  What the hell had she done?

  Thirty-two years of friendship out the window, because she couldn’t keep her hands to herself. Thirty-two years of easy camaraderie, of joking, of being just one of the guys—all gone because she’d felt horny. Because she’d felt sorry for herself, for Paws, for the future.

  She knew better than to make a play for Adam Sartain. She’d known better when he sat behind her in fifth grade. She’d known better every day of high school. She’d known better for the past ten years, when she’d heard about every one of his exploits with the women who hung around training camp, who pushed their way into the bars when he had away games.

  Shaking her head, she stepped beneath the needle spray of the shower.

  Maybe it wasn’t a disaster. Maybe she and Adam could go back to the way things had always been. Sure, he hadn’t nudged her awake to repeat last night’s mistakes in the full light of day. He hadn’t left her a sonnet on the nightstand, not even a note. But they could pretend, couldn’t they? They could wind back the clock and make it be 24 hours ago, before she’d made an idiot out of herself.

  As she scrubbed shampoo into her hair, though, Haley had to admit she didn’t want to wind back any stupid clock. She didn’t want to forget the rush of power she’d felt as she kissed Adam, as she stripped off his clothes. Every second they’d been together, she’d known that he had the physical ability to overpower her, to refuse to do what she wanted him to do. But he hadn’t stopped her. He’d let her take the lead. He’d let her set the pace, and she’d been more turned on with him than she’d ever been in her life.

  Like that would do her any good now.

  Yep—her best bet was to pull on her jeans, wrangle the dogs into the back yard—what havoc had the dogs wrought, with her oversleeping? Then she could head down to the office and put the finishing touches on the remaining promotion plans for Paws, on her other efforts to win the Reeves farm.

  By the time she turned off the shower, she’d talked herself into believing she’d be fine. After all, she’d spent a lifetime mastering the fine art of overlooking the disgusting things her brothers did, the stupid mistakes they made. By the time she’d graduated high school, she could have written a treatise about ignoring gross jokes and pretending not to hear countless noises and stepping over sopping towels left in the corner of the bathroom.

  She’d just go back to treating Adam like a brother. No muss. No fuss.

  Wrapped in her towel, she scooted back into the bedroom. She started to scoop up her sweatpants, to tug them on and go about her day, but she caught another whiff of Adam’s aftershave. She refused to spend the rest of her Sunday trying to figure out if the scent was real or imagined. Instead, she shoved the sweats into the hamper that lurked at the back of her closet, adding her plaid shirt for good measure.

  She selected clean clothes with an eye toward professionalism, a stern reminder to herself that she had a charity to run. A clean silk tee, the forest green one that she knew set off her eyes. Khakis, washed and folded so that the clean cotton was crisp. Clean panties and a matching bra, the armor of a working woman who didn’t have time to worry about stupid romances, about idiotic missteps in the bedroom.

  Rubbing a towel through her hair, Haley actually considered putting on makeup. But that was a bridge too far. She settled for slipping on her Keds and heading downstairs to the kitchen. Along the way, she started adding items on her to-do list: Double-check the list of supplies for next weekend’s car wash, verify the number of all animals in residence at Paws prior to the weekly staff meeting, confirm with Kate that—

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Haley croaked, skidding to a stop on the kitchen floor.

  “Good morning to you, too,” Adam said, and then he prompted in a dry voice, “You were amazing last night. We were amazing together. I’ve never been with someone who could—”

  “I thought you were gone!”

  He glanced at the clock built into the stove. “I will be, in about fifteen minutes. I have to get to the park. But I was hoping to at least share a cup of coffee with you before I locked the door behind me. I just made a second pot.”

  She glanced at the kitchen table, at the half-filled coffee mug that sat beside a box of corn flakes, testimony to Adam’s ability to forage for breakfast. The coffee-maker ticked on the counter, hissing a little as it finished its brewing cycle.

  Haley busied herself at the cupboard to the right of the sink. “I thought…” She told the neat rows of coffee cups, “I just…”

  That was stupid, her throat closing up like that. She shouldn’t have to blink just to choose a mug. There was no reason she should need to swallow hard, just to catch her breath.

  Adam’s arms folded around her from behind. Without planning to, she leaned back against his chest. His breath was warm beside her ear as he whispered, “Let’s try this again.” His hands were firm on her hips as he turned her to face him. “Good morning.” His kiss was sweet, gentle, his lips soft as they brushed against hers.

  She leaned her forehead against his. “Good morning,” she whispered.

  “That’s better,” he said matter-of-factly, and then he reached past her to select a mug.

  As he poured coffee for her, adding just the right amount of cream, she caught herself thinking, This is how he does it. This is how he gets women in every town the team visits. This is how he makes friends, how he keeps them. He’s like a puppy, happy and sweet and easy to play with.

  But she took the cup of coffee. She dug an apple out of the fridge. She tossed a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster. And she told her rioting heart to stop pounding, her lungs to breathe, her mind to stop racing. And by the time Adam left for Rockets Field, she could almost believe everything was going to be okay.

  ~~~

  Three nights later, Adam pulled into his driveway, shifting into first and pulling up the handbrake before he switched off the headlights. As he extracted his key from the ignition, the radio strangled itself to silence.

  It was late. The game had gone into extra innings—twelve before the Rockets lost in a heartbreaker they could ill afford before they hit the road in the morning. He glanced across the lawn to Haley’s house. The porch light was off. In fact, the entire house was dark.

  He could still go over there. Twenty years ago, he’d mastered hoisting himself onto the roof of the porch, step-sliding his way over to the boys’ bedroom. If the window lock had ever worked, it had long since been jimmied out of commission. Hell, he could take the key out of the mailbox and let himself in the front door, just like he belonged there.

  But that wasn’t going to work, long term. Not with Haley.

  He’d brought over dinner on Sunday night, chasing away a miserable shut-out with greasy hamburg
ers and mountains of fries, all washed down by the beer she kept in her refrigerator. That had been the plan, anyway. They’d made it through three bites each before they were ripping the clothes off each other. The dogs got to the burgers long before he and Haley made it back to the kitchen. The humans had needed to settle for late-night bowls of pasta with olive oil and Parmesan, while the dogs barked their unhappiness at being banished to the backyard until their guts caught up with their pin-size excuses for brains.

  On Monday, Haley had begged off from an afternoon visit—she said she had a board meeting she couldn’t miss. Tuesday, he’d been the one making excuses; he was too pissed off after three consecutive losses to be decent company. He’d talked to the press after the game; that was his job, and he wasn’t going to start shirking now. But if one more person reminded him of Marty Benson, if one more reporter asked about how the old man was doing, if the players could see the owner from the on-deck circle, if they knew the guy was celebrating his eighty-second birthday at the end of the month…

  Yeah, the Rockets were pretty damn sure this was the last season they had to get Marty Benson the championship ring he deserved. Every single one of them thought about it every time he stepped to the plate. And every single one of them knew the chances were getting slimmer with every game that slipped to the loss column.

  And so it was Wednesday, and Adam was set to hit the road in the morning. Tomorrow was a travel day to Kansas City, then Cleveland: a week before he’d be back home.

  He wanted to see Haley before he left. But if she’d wanted to see him, wouldn’t she have left a light on? Wouldn’t she have sent him a text, an email, left a voicemail sometime during the hours his phone had been locked up at the park?

  Why was he standing here in the dark, like a pimple-faced teenager, holding his dick and wondering if the cute girl next door would give him the time of day?