Page 47 of Force Play

Martha would be so proud, and I can’t even hold it against him because knowing he keeps it stocked for his mom makes it too damn endearing to use it as future ammo. Plus, after everything he’s done for me since I moved, it would make me an asshole of epic proportions. It’s almost like he cares. Like really cares, and I’m not sure what to do with that. It makes it that much harder to keep him in the box I put him in when I walked away. The one I convinced myself he deserved to be in because on the surface he reminded me too much of my past.

Carefully easing into the bath, I prop my bruised foot up on the side, but the edge digs into my swollen ankle, making pain shoot up my leg. I grab one of the rolled up fluffy white towels from the basket and slide it under my ankle. Much better.

Warm water laps at my skin as the tub fills. Switching on the jets, I sink lower, letting them work their magic on my tired body. Against my will, my mind wanders back to the man who came to my rescue today. Is he in bed already? Or is he wound tight after playing? Irrational jealousy has my teeth grinding together at the realization that he probably brings someone home after games to blow off steam.

With me here, that’s obviously not happening.

That realization shouldn’t make some of the tightness in my jaw melt away, but it does. It’s just because I don’t want to deal with whoever he brings home.

File that under lies I tell myself about the baseball player I’m not supposed to want.

Shifting in the tub to take some pressure off my ankle, a stream of water grazes my inner thigh. The pulsing sensation that accompanies it only reminds me of where I am. He would never know if I took the edge off. After a day like today, I deserve it.

Besides, he’ll probably do the same. From everything the girls have told me, and from my own experience with the man in question, I know the postgame high that players feel is a very real thing. This time, when another jet of water hits my pebbled nipple, a delicious zing has me gripping the edge of the tub, and the pain tinged with pleasure tugs free the loose grasp I had on my self control.

Trailing my hand over my slippery skin, I cup my breast, heavy from the idea that I’m doing this under his roof. Being with him is not an option, but there’s never been a question that he does things to my body. Things I hate.

Letting my head rest against the edge of the tub, I close my eyes, my mind already drawing on the memory of what he looks like under the spray from the shower. Is that where he is now, doing the same thing, or is he in his bed? The one he last had me in.

Shifting my pelvis I chase the pressure from the jet, letting it do the work for me. A whimper slips past my lips and then another as the pressure builds. His voice eggs me on as I imagine him pumping his hard length while he watches me.

With the warm jets making my brain malfunction, it feels like a missed opportunity that we never did that. His body is a work of art, sculpted from all the time he puts into it. Undoubtedly, it would’ve been hot as hell to watch him take matters into his own hands.

“That’s it. Take what you need.” I can practically hear him growl at me. His palm pressing down on my knee, he’d taunt, “Show me how wet you get for me. That pussy doesn’t look like it hates me.”

Blood pounds behind my ears as every muscle in my body tightens. I’m so lost in my pursuit of my orgasm that I almost don’t hear it when my crutches slide down the wall and crash to the ground. And I certainly don’t care enough to stop.

“What the hell.” My eyes fly open at the rough voice. Standing in the doorway in nothing more than a pair of low hanging basketball shorts Dom looks wild. His hair is pushed back like he’s been raking his hands through it, and his eyes are dark with lust and maybe a little anger. He looks from the crutches back to me.

With one hand on my breast, and the other between my legs, there’s no hiding what I’m doing.

I should move, cover up, yell at him for intruding on my privacy.

But here’s the thing: I’ve never been great about doing what I should.

Taking a step forward he looks down at me. “I hear whimpering and a crash. Now, imagine my surprise when I come running, thinking you’ve fallen, hurting yourself worse, and I find you touching yourself in my house. It better be me you’re thinking of.”

“And if it’s not?” I push, my voice shaking when the jet hits that spot between my legs that has me seeing stars.

“I’ll turn off these jets and remind you how good I am at giving your body what it needs.” He moves another step closer.

“We’re never doing that again.” There’s no conviction behind the statement, not with the pressure building between my legs again and the way he’s watching me.

“No?” One more step.

“No.” He’s hovering over me now, right at the edge of the tub.

“Then tell me to leave,” he says, adjusting himself through the thin material of his shorts. It’s just as large as I remember. “Say it and I’ll go. I’ll accept that it was one time.”

I bring my eyes back up to his, my heart pounding wildly against my chest as I work up the nerve for what I’m about to say. “Don’t go. I want you here.”

Fuck. His smile morphs into wickedly satisfied. “Tell me who you were thinking of just now.”

Biting my lip I consider my options. Am I really about to do this after all the times I’ve sworn to him and myself that there was nothing between us? Nothing good can come from this, but my life is already a mess. What’s one more time? It’s not like it means anything, it’s just an itch I need to scratch to get this little fantasy out of my head so I can sleep tonight.

“Words, Indie,” he demands more firmly, dropping to the edge of the tub, and covering my knee with his palm.

Letting the weight of his hand help gravity, my knee falls to the side and I give him the truth. “You.”

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