Page 11 of Bad Ball Hitter

But I’m not that kind of establishment. No way am I risking my reputation over a pretty face.

We kept the talking to a minimum to start, but it didn’t take long before we connected, and the conversation flowed easily. I gave subtle hints about being single, which worked enough for him to ask me on a date. I could hardly believe my luck. Drake Gunner, star hitter for the Boston Bears, interested in little ole me? It felt like a dream. It took little convincing to end up in his apartment and bed.

Now, to seal the deal.

I’m done with the “waiting to fall in love” scheme. The chemistry between us is hot, and he’s so goddamn sexy. We can get to the next level. I know we can. I just need to play my cards right and snag him before he loses interest.

As Drake nears, those dark pools lock onto mine. His black hair is still damp from the post-game shower, dark strands falling across his brow in that casually tousled way that makes my fingers itch to run through them. The sleeves of his crisp white button-down strain against his biceps, hinting at the impressive physique hidden beneath. He does look sharp in a dress shirt.

I smooth down the silky fabric of my low-cut blouse as a half-smile plays on his lips, the one that says he’s pleased but doesn’t want to show just how much. I imagine he’s always been good at that—keeping himself just out of reach.

“Miranda.” My name falls from his lips in a promise as heat creeps up my neck.

“Drake.” I step forward, closing the gap between us, my heels clicking against the pavement like a ticking clock. This man is all mine; I just need to keep it that way.

Failure simply isn’t an option.

The space between us crackles, charged with the energy of what could be. His gaze dips down, tracing the curve of my neckline, lingering for a moment too long. Or maybe not long enough. My skin tingles under his invisible caress.

“Hope you weren’t waiting too long.”

I press myself against his solid chest, relishing the heat of his body seeping into mine. “For you? I’d wait forever.”

A chuckle rumbles through him, and he tilts my chin up, his thumb grazing along my jawline. The rough pad of his finger against my skin sends delicious little shivers racing down my spine. “Missed you today,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my cheek.

“Missed you too, slugger.” I trail my fingertips down the front of his shirt, feeling the rugged ridges of muscle beneath. “Congrats on the win. You looked good bringing in the victory.”

“I did, did I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

His hands skim down my sides to settle on my hips, his touch searing me even through the thin fabric of my blouse. “Couldn’t have done it without my lucky charm.”

I arch an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at my lips. “Oh, is that what I am now?”

“Damn straight.” Drake’s gaze smolders with an intensity that steals my breath. “You’re my Lady Luck. I enjoyed having you watch me.”

And then his mouth is on mine, his kiss hungry and demanding. I melt into him, parting my lips to grant his seeking tongue entrance. He tastes like peppermint and desire, a heady combination that weakens my knees. A needy whimper escapes me as his fingers dig into my hips, dragging me impossibly closer.

Too soon, he breaks the kiss, leaving me flushed and panting. “The guys and I are heading to The Green Monster to celebrate. I’d love for you to come with me.” His eyes search mine, a hint of vulnerability in their depths. “That is if you want to?”

Oh my God, he’s officially showing me off.

I beam at him, my earlier worries vanishing like mist beneath the summer sun. “Of course I want to! I’d love nothing more than to celebrate with you and your teammates.” Giddy excitement thrumming through my veins, I wind my arms around his neck. “Lead the way, handsome.”

As we enter The Green Monster, the lively atmosphere envelops us—pulsing music, clinking glasses, and muffled conversations. Drake’s hand rests possessively on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd of bodies. The heat of his touch seeps through the thin material of my blouse, igniting a flutter of anticipation in my stomach.

“Victory tastes sweet, doesn’t it?” I tease, leaning into him so my breath ghosts over his earlobe. I can almost feel the rumble of his chuckle against my cheek.

“Best when shared,” he replies, tilting his head to meet my gaze, those soulful eyes searching mine.

I don’t miss the double meaning. Shared victory. Shared … more. My stomach flutters, but I’m not one to settle on a feeling when there’s fun to be had. Drake leads us to the bar and orders drinks with a nod and a smile that has the bartender hastening to comply. I let my gaze wander, taking in the revelry, the carefree laughter. I cannot wait to check out who’s here.

We weave our way towards where several of Drake’s teammates gather, talking animatedly. As we approach, a familiar figure catches my eye, and my heart stutters. Kaplan Dior, one of my regulars at the salon, leans against the tall table next to the bar, his dark eyes glinting with mischief as they meet mine.

“Miranda.” Kaplan pushes off the bar, his lips curving into a delighted grin. “Fancy seeing you here.” His gaze rakes over me appreciatively, lingering on my curves. “You look absolutely stunning tonight.”

“I look stunning every time you see me.” Funny how you didn’t notice until I was with another teammate.

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