The Intimacy Experiment (The Roommate #2)(50)
Why wasn’t he moving behind her and positioning her hips like they did in the movies? This really seemed like a perfect opportunity for her to press her ass back against his dick and—
“Hey,” he said, noticing she was completely not listening. “Stay with me here. We don’t have much time.”
“Right.” Don’t look at his dick. Don’t look at his dick. “Sorry.”
“See how my knees are slightly bent and my back elbow is up?”
Okay, but did the pants have to be so tight? Surely that was restrictive rather than helpful? Did they wear cups in baseball?
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“So, your front leg stays planted, and you just wanna pivot on the toes of your back foot.” He swung a few times, slowing down so his body moved like he was slicing through water. If she didn’t get to spank that ass at least once in her lifetime, it would be a crying shame.
Naomi attempted to mimic him, torn as to whether she should purposely mess up to get his arms around her. Just when she was ready to thrust her butt out in a way she knew was a fan-favorite position, he headed back to the mound.
“That’s looking better.” He put down his bat. “Let’s try again.”
This time when the ball reached her, Naomi made contact, sending it almost straight up into the air. Hey, it was an improvement, even if Ethan ducked under it and caught it easily.
“Okay, so,” she called. “I’m probably never going to be an all-star, but I can run.”
It was one of the perks of being, like, seventy percent legs.
He studied her form, his gaze heavy. “Let’s try bunting.”
Naomi had zero clue what that meant, but when he came and reached for her, his big warm hands wrapping around her wrists and positioning her arms, she decided she liked it.
“So when I give you the signal, you can square up just like this, and then all you have to do is tap the ball with the bat and try to get it to go between the pitcher and the catcher. That way they have to move, and you can hustle to first base. I’ll put you in the top of the lineup.”
“Got it.” She tried to match his somber tone. “Don’t worry. I’ll bunt the shit out of it.”
Finally, he smiled. “Hey, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Even though I might be terrible?” She tipped her head to the side.
Ethan nodded. “Even though you might be terrible.”
“And even though I might embarrass you in front of your cool softball friends?”
“Even if you embarrass me in front of my ‘cool’”—he looked at the rest of the team doubtfully—“softball friends.”
She dropped her hand to her hip. “If we lose, are you gonna pout?”
“I don’t pout,” he said, indignant. Which meant yes.
Her heart did something dangerous in her chest. Was this . . . pining?
“Are you gonna stamp your foot? Maybe throw your hat in the dirt?”
He took a step into her personal space, so she could feel his breath against her neck. “You think you’re cute, huh?”
Naomi’s voice came out not much louder than a whisper. “I know I’m cute.”
She stared at the rise and fall of his chest. Her fingers ached to grab the front of his uniform and close the final few inches between them.
“You better get dressed, Ms. Grant,” Morey shouted from the sidelines. “You can’t play without regulation uniform.”
Ethan stepped away from her but lifted his hand and brushed it gently over her forearm. “Go ahead. I gotta rearrange the batting order anyway.”
Naomi nodded, not trusting herself to say words at the moment.
“See you out there,” he yelled, jogging backward to where a man in catcher’s gear waited. “Don’t let me down.”
She waited until she’d turned the corner to let out the breath she was holding.
The bathrooms off the side of the field were surprisingly clean, and full of people who were obviously changing from workwear into sweats for their game or one of the others on the surrounding fields.
Naomi pulled on her own uniform, deciding to leave the shirt open to frame her tank top. She couldn’t afford to completely surrender her identity in this quest to matchmake for Ethan. And if the idea of him admiring her cleavage when she bent over to bat flickered across her brain, well, it wasn’t the worst thing she’d ever thought about doing to entice him.
Even though she’d confirmed that Amelia Greene’s synagogue was playing Beth Elohim tonight, Naomi had expected to have to work harder to find her. When she practically ran into the blonde standing over the sink, she didn’t have the wherewithal to control her reaction.
“Fuck. You’re gorgeous.” Way hotter than Google Images suggested.
The woman, who was definitely Ethan’s camp girlfriend, blinked a few times. “Oh. Um . . . thanks?”
Amelia wore the kind of incredibly expensive workout gear Sports Illustrated swimsuit models favored in their fitness posts on Instagram. Even using L.A.’s high standards, her hair was the perfect beach blond and tousled in loose waves that definitely required multiple curling irons. All this for a rec league softball game?
“Are you Amelia Greene?” If so, her eyes were the same color as her last name.