Page 21 of The Pitcher’s Proposal

Her eyes open. I kiss her, still fucking her hard enough that the couch shifts beneath us. Dakota’s legs tighten around my hips, and suddenly her pussy clenches hard around me.

She cries my name.

I drive into her again as my control breaks. My cock pulses deep inside her, pleasure tearing through me while I keep pumping through it, holding her against me as she shudders beneath my body.

Everything disappears except Dakota. Her arms are around me. Her face is pressed against my neck. I’m still buried inside her, my heart pounding so hard that I can feel it everywhere.

And I know this: I’m going to love Dakota Lee for the rest of my fucking life.

7

EPILOGUE 1 – DAKOTA

6 MONTHS LATER

Ihold my breath as Brendan comes set on the mound, one out standing between him and a no-hitter.

Nobody around me has sat down in several minutes. The entire stadium is on its feet, forty thousand people watching as Brendan stares toward home plate with a level of concentration I’ve rarely seen from him. I’ve watched him pitch through bad innings, tight games, and the pressure of October, but tonight he looks almost unnervingly calm.

I glance at the scoreboard behind left field. Zero hits. Two outs in the ninth.

The batter steps into the box, and I clasp my hands together in front of me as Brendan delivers the first pitch. Strike one sends a roar through the stadium. The second misses outside, then the batter fouls off the next one, leaving Brendan one strike away.

I barely breathe as he throws again.

The batter swings, sending a hard ground ball toward shortstop. For one heartbreaking second, it looks as though it might sneak through, but the shortstop reaches it, gathers the ball cleanly, and fires across the diamond.

The first baseman catches it.

The stadium erupts.

I scream along with everyone else as Brendan’s teammates pour out of the dugout. He barely gets a chance to turn around before they reach him, surrounding him in a crush of bodies and pounding his shoulders while the crowd chants his name.

My eyes sting with emotion as I watch him disappear beneath his teammates. Six months ago, I saw Brendan standing in a nearly empty clubhouse after the worst loss of his season, trying to figure out what to do with himself. Tonight, he’s in the middle of a packed stadium after throwing the best game of his career.

The past six months of our relationship have gone almost as quickly.

One date quickly became multiple, and then we both lost count. By Christmas, I had a drawer at Brendan’s apartment and a toothbrush in his bathroom. By February, he had enough clothes at my place that I accused him of moving in without telling me, although I still cleared out half a closet for him.

Technically, we still maintain two homes. In reality, we sleep wherever we’re already together.

At work, we’ve tried our best to keep things professional. I treat Brendan the same way I treat every other player, and he never expects special treatment from me. That hasn’t stopped him from finding opportunities to flirt whenever nobody important is listening. Last week, he told me his hydration plan would be much easier to follow if I personally supervised him in the shower.

I told him to drink his electrolytes.

He kissed me anyway, and I didn’t object.

The Titans are off to a good start this season, and Brendan has been pitching well from his first appearance. Still, nobody expected this tonight.

The celebration on the field keeps going. Brendan disappears behind several teammates, then reappears long enough for someone else to grab him. By the time he finally manages to break away, his cap is crooked and his grin is wider than I’ve ever seen it.

Then he looks toward me. His expression changes. He starts walking in my direction.

I beam at him as he reaches the edge of the field, assuming he’s coming over for a quick hug before someone drags him into an interview. Instead, Brendan reaches for my hand.

“What are you doing?” I ask as he helps me over the low barrier.

“Come here.”