Page 82 of Endgame

His chaste kiss ends our frenzy as I’m carefully lifted from his lap. Callaway places my feet on the ground and reaches for my bikini bottom strings. He wiggles the tiny strings back into place from the rawness of his hands and lets go with apop. He pulls back, clearly to register my reaction, and shoots me a wicked grin; his eyes search mine to hold a stare.

“You seem to have forgotten. You deserve more than a quick fuck, especially in a tent for all to see. When I take you for the first time, you can expect a bed and a night stuffed full of my cock. Trust me when I say this, Dakota, the wait will be worth it.”

How can I even argue with that? The promise of being locked in a room filled full of his beautiful cock all night sounds too good to be true.

Cal reaches for my hand, holding it in a gentle gesture.

I’m about to respond when he cuts me off, determination in his stare. “So, how about that date, sweetheart?”

I’d be a fool to say no. A date sounds pretty damn great.

My expression must amuse him, nonetheless, seeing how he lets go and turns towards the exit, expecting me to turn down the offer once again.

He strolls to the opening of the sheeted door and pulls it back to look at me before walking through it; his brows pitch, waiting for my answer.

“Fine. Now go away.”

“We’re doing this, Dakota. Time to make room for me in that pretty little heart of yours.”

I wish I had my camera on me because the beam emanating from his smile is contagious, bringing my own grin forward.

It’s a date.

I'm unsurehowI got here, but I’m glad to be here.

I’ve got a date with Callaway Hayes—my ocean eyes.

34

CALLAWAY

“We’ve gota runner on the bag, plays at first, boys.”

It’s the top of the ninth inning, and the score is close. We’re currently in Cleveland at our first away game since the off week, and the team is fighting like hell for this win. The break seemed to do my shoulder some good because I pitched nothing but back-to-back strikeouts, putting the score at a settling 2-1, Strikers in the lead.

There’s one out on the board, leaving us with the goal of two outs and no runs batted in this inning to secure the sweep. The Cardinals have a jam-up pitcher, Michael Bronc, who I played with in the minor league years ago. He’s known for his impeccable change-up, making his label as a beast very fitting.

However, what Michael fails to have is my speed.

I don’t consider myself cocky, but I’m confident. I’ve worked hard for the skills I have, and you can bet on me using them. It’s taken me years of rigorous training to get my fast pitch to a steady and consistent speed of ninety-eight miles per hour.

I’m out here making grown men weep.

It’s my hidden sweet spot when we need to secure the board from any more runs before our closing pitcher finishes the game.

Booing and ridicule come in chants from the stands, and it's nothing like our home games in Atlanta. Ithriveoff of their hostility.

My body buzzes with expectation as the next batter takes the plate. I eye Bodhi at catcher's position, and he nods in understanding.

It’s time to slaughter these deadbeats.

Deciding to throw off the momentum this batter seems to think he has, I let my curveball take flight. He hits it dead on, sending a line drive to third. Graves glides into motion, running up on the hit to stop the ball with ease. “Headache,” he calls out to King at shortstop, signaling for him to duck as he sends the ball flying to Jethro at second to secure the first out.

The runner is still en route to first. He’s a slow fucker, leading Jethro to play the ball to our first baseman, Mack, in time to secure the second out before the runner gets to the bag.

He’s out.

Three outs on the board, and it’s a sweltering win for the Strikers.

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