Page 89 of Third Strike Smitten

And he does. The second time is slower, a languid exploration that feels more like a conversation than a conquest. He takes me from behind, his chest pressed against my back, one arm wrapped around my waist to hold me close. His lips are at my ear, muttering filthy, beautiful things as his hips move in a deep, rolling rhythm that owns me. The piercings are a constant, delicious shock with every movement, a secret language of pleasure only we understand.

The third time, I’m on top, riding him with a confidence I didn’t know I possessed, watching his face as he falls apart beneath me. His hands grip my hips, his eyes dark and worshipful, and when he comes with a broken cry of my name, I feel like I’ve won the World Series.

We don’t speak much. Words feel too small for the space we’re occupying. The room smells of sex and sweat and us, and the city lights outside his window paint shifting patterns across our tangled limbs. I trace the tattoos on his forearm, my fingers following the intricate lines.

He watches me, his gaze heavy-lidded and soft. He reaches out, his thumb stroking the curve of my hip. “I could get used to this view,” he slurs, his voice rough with sleep and satisfaction.

I let my head fall back against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my ear. His arms tighten around me, pulling me flush against the solid warmth of him. He fits against me like a piece of me I never knew was missing. The scent of him—sweat and sex and something uniquely Killian—wraps around me, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel utterly, completely safe. The kind of safe that makes your bones go soft and your mind go quiet.

His breath evens out against my hair, his body heavy and relaxed against mine. One of his hands finds mine on his chest, lacing our fingers together, and he brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft, absent-minded kiss to my knuckles.

This is the dangerous part. This is the quiet after the storm, where the pretending stops and the real feelings rush in to fill the space. The sex was one thing—a spectacular, earth-shattering, three-times-over thing—but this…this is something else entirely. This is the part that’s going to leave a mark.

19

KILLIAN

I’m not sure when it happened—when Isla Fallon became the axis my world spins around—but somehow everyone else seems to have noticed before me.

It starts with Harper Meers coming to town and cornering me after practice. She’s got that look, the one that says she’s about to deliver news I’m not sure I want to hear but should probably listen to anyway.

“You’re doing good work, Haynes,” she says, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. “Real good.”

I take a long sip of water, eyeing her over my bottle. “Thanks, I guess?”

She laughs, a sharp bark that echoes in the empty corridor. “Don’t play dumb with me. The girlfriend thing? It’s working. People are talking.”

“Talking about what?” I ask, though I already know.

“About how you’ve got a new spring in your step. How you’re not obsessing over your pitches between innings as often as you were. How you actually smile now. Like with a real smile, not that PR bullshit you usually flash for cameras.” She pushes off the wall, standing to her full height. “Whatever you two have going on, keep it up. The team’s responding to it.”

My stomach tightens at her words. “Right. Sure. Okay.”

“Why don’t you look thrilled?” she asks me, a skeptical expression on her face. “Is there something going on I should know about?”

I take another gulp from my water bottle. “Nope.”

She studies me for a moment; her head tilted to the side and her eyes narrowed. “It’s all fake, isn’t it?”

My head snaps to hers. “What?”

“Chill out. I’m not going to say anything.” Harper shrugs. “I had a feeling.”

“But how did you⁠—”

“It was awfully convenient that soon after I told you your place in Portland was in jeopardy, you found a woman to spend time with.” She nods slowly. “Nice play. But I hope you’ve thought about what happens when whatever you’ve cooked up ends.”

“If it ends, it ends.”

God, just saying those words has me sick to my stomach because that’s the last thing I want.

She just looks at me.

“What?”

“You just said ‘if.’”

I open my mouth then close it because I don’t know what I should say here. It’s bad enough Harper figured out so quickly that Isla and I have an arrangement, but in the past several weeks with Isla I really have changed.