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She physically reacts to my harsh words.Hot little cunt.
“What did you want to do?” Her legs shift restlessly, and my attention drops back to where the black cotton is peeking at me again from under the hem of the jersey.
“You want to know?” I take another swig of champagne.
“I don’t want you to tell me.” She rocks her hips up into the air. “I want you to show me.”
“We all want things, little mouse.”
She scrambles to her feet, taller than me because she’s standing on the bed, so when she swipes for the champagne, I can’t hold it out of reach. I swing it behind me, but that just meansI’mthere for her to grab instead. She tries to hook my shoulder, then fists the front of my dress shirt.
We both stop, breathing hard.
“I told you,” I rasp. “If you want a sip of champagne, you have to take off the jersey. I want to see your ripe little tits.”
“I think you’re trying to scare me,” she says breathlessly. “And it’s not going to work. Maybe I want you to see me naked. Did you ever think of that?”
“Only every day since spring training,” I growl. “You want to know what I did first thing this morning? I stalked your Instagram account and stroked my cock. Every fucking day, Sinclaire. Okay? I want you. I want you so fucking much, and it’s a fucking miracle that you didn’t figure it out sooner. But in the morning, you won’t want this to have happened.”
“Yes, I will.” She leans in and presses her nose against mine. “I’m not scared of you, slugger.”
The sweetness with which she says that makes me go still. “You should be.”
“Why?”
“BecauseI’mscared by how much I want you.”
“Oh.” She gives me a little, crooked smile. “Is there such a thing as wanting someone too much?”
“Yes.” I swallow hard.
“Why?”
“It would be all consuming.”
A sharp awareness flashes in her eyes. “Ah.” She inhales and nods. “Can we maybe just have tonight, then?”
And before I can stop her—no, we can’t just have one night, I need so much more than that, I need forever—she releases my shirt and straightens up. Her fingers fly to the buttons down the front of the jersey.
Tongue-tied, I stare as a sliver of her chest is revealed, then more. The curve of one breast, then the other as the jersey falls open. And in the shadows, two tight nipples, right at eye level for me.
All of my attention narrows in on this part of her I shouldn’t be seeing.
I hold my breath as I reach for her. My free hand slides between the jersey and her warm, soft skin, and I wrap my fingers around her ribs. She shudders at my touch, and I squeeze her reassuringly, as if to sayit’s okay, pet, but I don’t know if it is.
I don’t know anything for sure.
“You promised me a drink,” she whispers.
I hand her the bottle of champagne and watch as she takes a sip. “Mmm,” she says, licking up an errant drop that clings to her lower lip. “Hey, you know what?”
“What?” My voice sounds hoarse.
“You won the fucking World Series.” She passes the bottle back, but I don’t want to drink from it again.
I want to drink from her.
I set it down, then push the jersey off her shoulders. She stands on the bed in front of me like a nude goddess who should be out of reach, but through some miracle of circumstances, is right there.
