Long Ball(53)

It feels good. It feels daring. It feels…badass.

I head for the windows and look down at the street.

Dylan walks to stand beside me. “Hell of a view.”

I nod, tracing the windowsill. “My neighbors all have personal soundtracks that only I can hear. I sit by these windows, day after day, and look down at them and play their songs.”

“What do they sound like?”

“Different every day. It changes with the weather, with how fast they walk, with the things they’re carrying. With the stories I imagine their lives to be.”

He edges closer. “What would my soundtrack sound like?”

I close my eyes to feel the crashing notes. Bold, bright but sustained. It would sound like passion unrestrained.

“Rachel?” His tone has gotten thick and gritty, and I know it’s time.

My breathing is shallow, and the invitation to my bedroom is on my lips, I can taste them.

Chickening out, I turn right and stride forward into the little galley kitchen, flipping on the light. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Rachel?” What have you got?” His voice comes from right behind me, and I startle forward, pulse racing, focusing on the fridge.

“I don’t have much, unfortunately.” I’m stalling. I’m running away. I open the door between us. “Water, or juice. A soda?”

He pushes the door closed and turns me to face him. “I’m really more hungry than thirsty.”

“Oh. In that case, I’ve got—”

His hands land on my hips and press me backwards, slamming my ass against the counter.

Oh. Yes.

He steps into my personal space. “Rachel, are you a good girl?”

“Yes.” The word is barely above a whisper, layered with anticipation. I’ve been taught that good girls get rewards. And I’m ready for my reward.

But his eyes flash with something wicked. “Not tonight.” He presses closer against me. “Tonight you’re going to be bad.”

Every nerve in my body lights and flares with pulsing need. I reach for my scarf and he grabs my hand.

“Leave it.”

“Why?”

His eyes are nearly all pupil. “Because I said. Now It’s time you showed me your bedroom.”

He removes his hands but stays in my space, making me slide out from between him and the counter, but he hooks a finger in one of the loops of my jeans, keeping me close as I pull him toward my bedroom with my hips. He shuts the door behind us closing us in the dark and I use the opportunity to break away, weave between some stacks of boxes, and slip beneath the blanket on my bed.

“There’s a box—a few actually, so be careful on your way over here. Just follow my voice.”

He flips the light on and my lids try to squeeze shut in protest. “Are you actually hiding under the covers?” He makes his way through the stacks like a jungle cat weaving through trees and peels the blanket back, exposing me to the harsh overhead light.

Damn it, I need to pull it together. I invited this man to my apartment for one reason. Smoking hot sex. I can do this—it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again after tonight. I don’t have to worry about what he thinks of me. I go for what I hope is a casual shrug. “Maybe I was cold.” Never mind the fact I’m still fully dressed.

He climbs over me, his mouth hovering inches above mine. “If you aren’t into this, Rachel, you need to let me know right damn now. Because in approximately two seconds, it’s going to be about impossible for me to leave.”

His breath is warm on my face, his lips ready to meld mine to his. His eyes flicker from mine to my mouth. “So, do you want me to leave?”

It’s the one thing I know with certainty. “No,” I whisper.

The word is barely out when he crashes his lips to mine, his tongue darting along my teeth as he invades my mouth. His kiss is eager and urgent and bossy—not at all like the polite kisses I’m used to. I drown in it, under it, but it’s a good kind of drowning. The kind of drowning that baptizes as I give myself over to him.

I’m desperate for air by the time he pulls away. He scoots down my body, his large hands peeling off my jeans. After he’s worked them over my feet, he

tosses them across the room, then slowly drag their way up my calves to my knees.

Goosebumps roar up my legs, covering every inch of my skin.

He opens my legs, kneeling between them. “I want to see everything.”

“So do I.” The words surprise both of us, but I press on. “I want to see you too, I mean.”

He reaches over his head and grabs the back of his t-shirt, pulling it off and tossing it in the same vague direction as my jeans.

But who the hell cares about fabric when a tattooed God is between my thighs.

I’ve never seen muscles like this outside of Greek statues and a few movies with Hollywood celebrities Alex made me watch. My ex was a bassoon player, studious and wiry. Bassoon players aren’t renowned for their chiseled biceps and pecs and abs. Dylan’s got an eight pack. I thought they only came in six and I’ve never seen a set of six up close either.

But what really makes me squirm with interest are the tattoos covering his skin. A pretty woman, the Virgin Mary maybe, looks serenely over a bunch of flowers on his right arm and shoulder. Mi Vida Loca, My Crazy Life, is scrawled across his chest with some fancy writing and curlicues for decoration.