The Dugout(85)

Silently, Carson looks it over, pausing longer over the pictures. I watch as he nods in approval, his smile growing wider as he scrolls to the end, and then he claps obnoxiously. I stop his hands, but he’s too fast for me, and moves the computer only to pin me back on the mattress.

He stares down at me, and I am thrilled by the pride I see in his eyes. “Your intelligence is a fucking turn-on.”

“Does that mean you think it’s good?”

“Coach,” he says, using the nickname I’ve come to love, “it’s fucking great. I’m actually pumped up and excited for you. If I had a facility like that growing up, I would have been over the moon. The sports medicine addition, the massage therapy, the skills center, and then all the batting cages and the addition of the clay in the back for infield drills. Damn, Mills. You’re going to build an empire.”

“Stop, it’s not—”

“You’re creating an empire,” he says, his voice growing incredibly serious. “You’ve used your incredible baseball smarts with the body-specifics knowledge gained from your kinesiology degree, and created something I’ve never seen before. A one-stop shop for all aspiring premier baseball players. And you couldn’t have chosen a better place for it. Chicago is a breeding ground for baseball with Brentwood at the heart of it and the two major league teams.”

“There really is only one,” I say, even though, there are two but who really likes the Chicago Rebels anyway? It’s all about the Bobbies.

“Hey, what if the Rebels draft me? That’s a tough pill you’re going to have to swallow.”

I cringe. “I can’t even imagine wearing a Rebels shirt. Seriously, I don’t know if it could happen. That’s my worst nightmare.”

“That’s your worst nightmare?” he asks, brows raised. “That seems like quite the exaggeration.”

“I hate the Rebels. Absolutely hate them. They are so trashy with their long hair and beards and loose jerseys. Ugh, gross, no one likes them.”

“Eh, their millions of fans beg to differ.”

“They’re classless. They get a single and practically high-five each other with their penises. It’s absurd. They celebrate over the smallest things and make a show of it. How about you get a hit and then turn to your coach to see what’s next? No need to wave your hands to encourage the crowds or pump your chest or raise your fist to the air like you just won the World Series. It’s a single, get a life.”

He chuckles. “What if I told you they’ve been looking at me?”

I pause, my heart flipping in my chest. “What? Who told you that? That’s not what the reports have been saying? They haven’t even been in the mix, as they have Vlad at second with a heavy presence in their minor system at that position. They’re set. Seriously, who told you that? Disik? Has he been talking to scouts? Oh my God, no, you can’t be drafted by the Rebels. It can’t happen. Seriously. Was it an analyst on SportsCenter? Tell me who. Was it Alex Rodriquez? He’s great with play-by-play but he does conjure up some far-fetched ideas. Nick Swisher, was it him? Oh God, please don’t tell me it was Swisher, because he’s been right about other drafts.” I bring my hand to my eyes and peek through my fingers. “Was it him?”

“Slow down.” Carson presses his hand to my chest and chuckles. “I was kidding.”

“Excuse me?” I sit up and scramble away from him, blocking my naked body with the blankets. “You were kidding?”

“Coach.”

“Oh, don’t you dare Coach me right now. You’re telling me you were kidding, no one even mentioned the Rebels when it comes to being drafted?”

“No, but—”

I point to the door. “Leave. Leave right this very second. You are no longer allowed in this apartment.”

Apparently, he doesn’t think I’m serious because he pulls on my legs from under the covers and brings me in close to him again. He lays his heavy, muscular body on top of me and nuzzles my neck.

“You don’t mean that.”

I tell myself to not fall for his sweet kisses, or for the way he makes my body hum with a simple touch.

“I . . . mean . . . every . . . bit,” I answer between gasps as he nips at my breasts, which he just so happened to uncover with one swift shift of the blankets.

“Mm-hmm.” His fingers find my pussy and he dips inside, stroking me and feeling how easily he affects me. “Your body is telling me otherwise.”

“My body and I are fighting right now. It’s still attracted to you but my mind . . . that wants you out of here.”

“You’re such a goddamn liar.” He laughs and lifts up to my mouth, where he claims my lips, dipping his tongue inside, while pushing his fingers inside me . . . and just like that, my legs fall open and my back arches, pressing my breasts into his chest. “You’re so goddamn hot when you’re mad.”

“Really mad. I’m so mad at you.”

“I get that and it makes me happy. I want you mad more often if it gets this kind of reaction out of you.”

“I highly suggest you don’t—oh fuck, Carson.” He presses his thumb against my clit. “Don’t . . . oh Jesus, right there, more. I need more.”

He laughs against my skin and continues to ruin me for every other man in the world. I want to be mad at him, but there is no way I’ll ever resist this man, not when he makes me feel so damn good, so desirable . . . so loved.