Make Me Yours (Top Shelf Romance Book 4)

by Devney Perry

  “Nothing.” He shakes his head as if he’s trying to rid it of a thought, and links his fingers with mine. We smile like goofy teenagers for a moment, like there isn’t a care in the world and this is the only thing that matters.

  “I just thought, with how hard you’ve been working to get me back on the field, and everything with your dad, that you could use some extra loving.”

  “It’s perfect.” I feel like I’ve used that word a million times while we’ve been here, and I’m not sure if I have, or if I’ve just thought it, but it’s true. The trees. The sun. The clear sky. The furry flurry. And Easton. How much better could it get?

  “I guess Melinda typically has some high school kids come out and volunteer to help her here at Pet Haven. They give the dogs some extra attention or give them baths when people are coming out to possibly adopt them, but there’s some big school function this week, so they’re not available . . . and so I volunteered us.”

  “How long have you been involved with the organization?”

  “Since about two days ago.” He laughs and goes to lean back on his elbows, quickly realizing what a huge mistake that is as he’s smothered in canine tongues and pawing paws. His laughter carries over the landscape and sounds so carefree, so relaxed, it makes me smile. When he can finally sit back up, after giving equal loving to the dogs around him, it hits me what he just said.

  “Wait. Just two days ago?”

  He nods. “The night I had to head out to take care of my mom? Melinda was there to help rescue a dog who broke free one street down. I ended up helping her get him back, and we started talking. I told her about you and how you were missing puppy love.”

  “But wait . . . didn’t she just say something about a donation that would help feed the animals for . . .” I narrow my eyes as I put two and two together, and he nods slowly, trying to figure out where I’m going with this. “Easton Wylder, how much money did you donate so I could pet dogs?”

  “I love when you get all Easton Wylder on me.” He laughs at the same time I realize how ungrateful I sound. I begin to backpedal and explain that I don’t need to be impressed, because I already am—with everything about him—but he just shakes his head, takes my hand in his, and brings it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the backside of it, which cuts me off before I can get the words out. “First of all, Kitty, I never donate to charity to impress a girl. I donate because I want to. Because I’ve been blessed beyond measure in my life. It didn’t hurt that I know you love dogs. And it definitely doesn’t hurt that bringing you here might get me extra brownie points I can cash in for my benefit.” He lifts his eyebrows and one corner of his mouth curls up. “But I did it because I wanted to and because they need more love than most to prove that not everyone is going to hurt them or leave them behind.”

  I look at him for a split second, hear the subtle parallel he’s drawing to my life, and wonder what man does this. What man would pay enough attention to what I need and then go out and find a way to reassure me the one way he knows I’ll hear?

  I scoot next to him, the grass cool beneath my skirt and the sun heating my skin, but it’s the man whose shoulder I just put my head on that keeps on warming my heart. And so we sit there for a bit and just enjoy our canine company and the fact that we don’t have to speak to fill the silence. We can just sit here in a field of grass with the breeze on our cheeks and let the idea of there being an us settle between us.

  “You brought me to see doggies,” I finally say, and there’s no other way to describe my voice other than completely enamored with him and what he did for me.

  “I figured it would tide you over until you can get one for yourself.”

  If it were possible for my heart to break free of my rib cage and flop onto the ground, then that’s what it would be doing right now. That hard heart of mine doesn’t seem so hard any more. Not when it comes to Easton Wylder, at least.

  And as much as I want more of this with him—as much as I think I’m ready—it still scares the shit out of me. The idea that I’m cursed is still alive in my mind, despite the most incredible past month.

  “I love this.”

  I love you.

  The thought is there. And once it’s there, it takes hold and won’t let go, no matter how hard I push it away, try to run from it, try not to be freaked by it.

  Because I am.

  “Thank you so much, Melinda, for letting us come out here today.”

  “Thank you, sweetie,” Melinda says to me, but I don’t think she’s heard a word I’ve said, because her attention is on the field to the left of the house. Her two boys, ages ten and twelve, are standing there with bats in their hands while Easton gives them pointers about their stances. The looks on their faces are priceless, complete idolization, and yet Easton continues his lesson, making them laugh and kidding around with them.

  He’s good with kids.

  And with dogs.

  And with his sick mom.

  And with spooked women.

  Is there anything this man can do to make me not like him?

  Because I’m beginning to think he might need to do that, so I don’t start believing he hung the moon.

  Or stole my heart.

  Easton

  “You smell like dog.” She laughs, leaning over to kiss me on the cheek before settling in the passenger seat.

  “You’re one to talk. Lola got more kisses than me. It seems she claimed you as hers,” I tease as I push a hand playfully against her face when she comes close and makes a show of sniffing at me. She grabs my arm, her laugh ringing out above the warm night air rushing in the windows, and she tries to wrestle it away.

  I let her win. Let her grab my hand and link her fingers through it, tangle us as if we’re not already entwined. Am I a sap if I admit I like this? A relaxing day, a casual dinner at a roadside diner, and a beautiful woman in the cab of my truck. There’s only one thing that could make this day better, and I sure as fuck plan on making that happen once we get back home.

  A skirt and cowboy boots? What sane man says no to that?

  “What are you thinking about?” she asks.

  “Today.”

  “What about it?”

  “How it was just what the doctor ordered.”

  “How so?”

  “It was good to get away from the city.”

  “It was.” She nods.

  “And it was nice to get to do something for you for a change.” She squeezes my hand in response as I roll up the windows. “You have spent so much time and effort on me.”

  “That’s sweet. Thank you for being so thoughtful.”

  “You deserved a proper date.”

  “You just wanted to see me dressed up in my skirt and cowboy boots again,” she laughs.

  “Now that . . . I won’t deny.” Images of her laid out in the batting cage with her legs spread, skirt pushed up around her hips, and her hands wrapped around the netting fill my mind. “Seeing your legs in anything is a turn-on.”

  The truck falls silent as I check my mirrors and take a right on the lone highway back to town.

  “You mean these legs?”

  I glance her way to find her shifted in her seat, back against the door, with one leg bent so her thighs are spread. But with the dimming sky and the shadow of her skirt, I can’t see shit.

  And fuck how I want to see what’s beneath it, even though I already have the taste, the scent, the feel of her pussy imprinted on my damn mind.

  “Yes. Those. Legs,” I murmur, as desire fires my blood and my dick hardens at just the thought of her. I glance up to find her eyes trained on mine. The damn woman is testing me, taunting me, and it’s hot as hell.

  “About those brownie points . . .”

  Music to my ears.

  “Yeah? What about them?” I may feign nonchalance, but fuck if she can’t hear that restraint in my voice snapping string by string.

  She doesn’t answer, not with words, anyway. It’s the hitched sigh of hers tha
t catches my ear and almost makes me jerk the truck off the road when I find her with legs spread wider and fingertips moving in the darkness I can’t see between her thighs.

  God. Fucking. Damn.

  The road, Easton. Look at the road.

  I glance to the straightaway then look back to her. To her fingers hidden beneath the white pair of panties. To her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. To her nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her shirt. To her panting breath that turns into a moan as she fingers herself.

  “Eyes on the road, Hot Shot,” she murmurs.

  “Now, that’s just not fair,” I groan, but obey only for a second before my eyes are back on her.

  On her eyes. On that slow, seductive smile with her teeth still biting into that lip.

  “Straight ahead,” she orders, and damn it’s hot being ordered around by her.

  “Fuck me,” I mutter under my breath, but I obey under protest. Because those fingers are still in her panties. The scent of her is filling the cab of the truck.

  “That depends if you’re a good boy and do what I say.” She chuckles, cranking up the seductress role and turning me on even more.

  I groan.

  She laughs. Fucking foreplay if I’ve ever heard it. Deep and suggestive and throaty.

  Her seat belt clicks.

  I move to look her way, and her hand is right there, guiding my face forward so I remain looking at the road. I start to protest, but I’m met with two of her fingers slipping between my lips.

  They taste like her.

  Sweet.

  Damn.

  Perfection.

  I suck on them and fight the urge to yank the truck to the side of the road and fuck her hard and fast right here for all to see. Because it’s Scout. That’s what she does to me.

  She pulls her fingers from my mouth and slides them down to my lap. She scrapes her nails up and down my thigh and over my cock pressed against the seam, pushing my thighs wider so she can tease my balls. I groan out loud and struggle not to close my eyes and drop my head against the headrest because it feels so damn good.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she murmurs against my ear, the heat of her breath tickling my skin and hardening my dick. “I want your cock, Easton Wylder. I want it right now. I want to wrap my lips around it. I want it hitting the back of my throat. I want all of it. To suck you off. To fuck you with my mouth. I want every last drop you have to give me.”

  That’s about the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.

  “You’re going to help me get your cock out of your pants, then you’re going to put both hands on the wheel and concentrate on not crashing. Understood?”

  My hips are already lifted, my zipper undone, and my pants shoved to my knees before she even finishes her sentence.

  “Good God, woman.” It’s all I can say as she wraps her lips and one hand around my shaft and then takes me all the way to the back of her throat on the first suck. My hips lift to give her as much of me as she can take. My hands squeeze the steering wheel like a vise grip. My teeth grind together as I force myself to keep my eyes open and watch the road.

  It’s a mixture of sensations. The heat of her breath warming and staying on my skin. The wetness of her mouth as she slides up and down. The suction of her lips as she pulls to my tip, and the little pop I hear and feel as she releases me from her mouth. She twists her hand as she works over my cock in a varying pattern; just as I start to get used to the feel of it, think I’m at the point of no return, she changes the angle, the grip, the movement, and builds me up all over again.

  Nice and slow, East.

  “You taste so good,” she murmurs around my dick, the vibration tickling down to my balls and then back up.

  Keep the gas pedal steady.

  She goes to town, holds nothing back as she sucks and fucks and licks and tongues every inch of me until I can’t hold back any more. I’m either going to crash or come, and fuck if I want to do the former.

  Remember the road.

  The sensation rushes from my balls and then through my cock. Her moan as she tastes my precum is the final straw that pushes me over the edge.

  I break the rules. I put my hand on her head to keep it still as I buck my hips and fuck her lips. And she doesn’t fight me. She doesn’t do anything more than pump my cock faster and suck harder as I shoot down the back of her throat.

  Her name fills the cab. Scout. It’s a broken moan as she does what she promised—sucks every last drop from me.

  And I can’t take it anymore. I can’t not have my hands on her. My tongue in her.

  I jerk the truck to the side of the road. She shrieks in surprise and sits up just as I slam on the brakes. And then I lean over the console in a flash.

  My one hand is back in her hair, the other is sliding to the wet heat of her pussy, and my tongue is between her lips.

  I taste me.

  I taste her.

  The two of them together are a drug I can’t get enough of.

  I need more.

  I want more.

  I’m going to take more.

  Right here. Right now. On this rural country road with fireflies outside the window and the scent of her everywhere.

  And just before I lose my fucking mind to lust again, just as I shift in the confines of the cab to slide down and taste the heaven between her thighs, a single thought owns my mind.

  I’m so fucked.

  I’m so far gone.

  Damn, does it feel good.

  And I’m not sure if I ever want to come back.

  Scout

  “Dad?”

  “Scouty-girl!”

  I sigh in relief. He sounds good. Stronger than he did the last time I spoke with him. And I’ll take that any day.

  “How are you doing? Are you comfortable? Is—”

  “Sally’s taking care of me just fine. Stop hovering, child. I’m the parent. I’m supposed to be the one hovering, so knock it off or I’ll hang up on you.”

  “Yes, sir.” I laugh and feel so good hearing him do the same. I know it means nothing more than he’s having a good day, like Sally already told me, but a good day is a good day and that’s what I’m holding on to.

  “You’re five days out. How’s the player looking?” he asks as Easton walks into the room with timing so perfect, he could never have known. I enjoy the visual—the towel slung low on his hips, the water still beaded on his skin, and the flex of his biceps as he runs another towel through his wet hair.

  “The player . . .” I say, meeting Easton’s gaze. He stops on his way to his dresser and narrows his eyebrows at me, a silent inquiry as to how my dad’s doing. When I nod my head and give a thumbs-up, his smile chases the concern away. “Appears to be at or above one hundred percent.”

  In my periphery, I can see the little fist-pump that Easton gives in response to my comment, his grin a mile wide. And I share the same sense of satisfaction knowing that, in a big way, I helped him get there.

  “So you’re ready to give your recommendation?”

  “Yes.”

  “You need to make sure you have a written report. Type it all up. His range of motion. What percentage you think his arm strength is. If you think he can last a whole game or if he needs to take a few innings at a time.”

  My cheeks hurt from smiling. You’d think he forgot I was around to watch him do this so many times in his career. But I’m just so thankful to be getting a lecture from him.

  So I let him ramble on.

  I let him advise me.

  I let him feel like he’s still in the game when his feet will most likely never touch the field again.

  It’s the least I can do after everything he’s given me.

  Easton

  “Hey, Easton?”

  “Ignore him, Easton,” Tino warns.

  “I see him,” I mutter as we line up on the left field line, jog a few feet, and then sprint the remaining ninety feet of baseline. We turn to jog back, and there he is, San
tiago, with his arms crossed over his chest, his hips leaning against the left field railing, and that goddamn smirk I want to punch off his face. “The asshole doesn’t know how to leave good enough alone.”

  “He’s just trying to fuck with your head. He knows in three days you’ll be back behind the plate and he’ll be relegated to riding pine or being bat boy.”

  I laugh. It feels good to know these guys have my back. But when we hit the line again, he’s still there. Still smirking. Still goading me.

  “Was that your trainer I saw you with the other night? Heading into your building with you?”

  My feet stop.

  “Easy, E,” Tino warns.

  My blood boils.

  “If that’s the type of personal PT the Aces provide, then this is one helluva club. Count me in. I’m gonna request her now for any future injuries.”

  My body vibrates with anger.

  “What’s her name again? I need to write it down on my request form.”

  My temper snaps.

  I turn to charge him, but Tino holds me back, and just as I break free, Drew is there. Then J.P.

  The goddamn Santiago brigade.

  Santiago’s laugh fills the air. “Was it Scout? Or Slut?”

  I see red.

  Fucking blood-red.

  And just as I’m about to punch my own friend to get a piece of the mother fucker, I hear one of them mutter, “He’s all yours.”

  Their hands are off me.

  And I’m charging.

  I lower my shoulder and tackle him to the ground.

  All I think about is Scout.

  We roll back and forth on the ground.

  All I see is fury.

  I fist a hand in his shirt. Yank him up.

  All I feel is satisfaction.

  When my fist connects—

  All I feel is pain.

  Then there are hands.

  And shouts.

  Ripping us apart.

  Pinning us down.

  Damage control.

  But I don’t fucking care. I’ve had enough.

  And when Tino and Drew push me off the field, it’s my dad’s face I see in the stands before they usher me down the dugout steps, and I can’t quite read what it’s saying.