Page 118 of Hot Shot

“I fucking love when you do what you’re told.” I stroke her slick flesh with my crown, tracing the line until I’m coated in her. But I don’t slide into her like I want—first, I nestle my cock between her pussy lips, the head nudging her clit like my finger had.

She moans, hips bucking.

“Only when you’re naked.” I pump my hips, bumping and rubbing her clit again and again and again. “The rest of the time? I love that smart fucking mouth of yours.”

“Mmm,ah!”

I fuck her clit, savoring the sounds and the view. “Nobody in the world can tell you what to do, baby. Except me, inhere.” At the word, I nudge my crown into the dip where I know that silky sheath waits for me.

“Only you,” she whispers. And with a groan, I thrust my hips, dragging her onto me.

When I’m as deep as I can get, I pause. The tingling tension climbing toward the tip of my cock, lost somewhere inside her. I notice her arms trembling and bend, the humid air curling around me. My lips meet her back, my arm threading under her to take some of her weight. The other slides over her thigh, to her clit where, fingers together and flat, I smooth and stroke and pat while I thrust and drive and fuck, savoring the feeling of my cock in her heat, the sight of her dripping wet in plumes of steam, the echo of skin clapping.

In seconds, her pussy clenches around me, her grip so tight, I can’t move. But my fingers on her clit don’t quit until her gasps are moans and her flesh lets me go enough that I can pump my hips. Her cunt is still milking me, drawing the sizzling orgasm forward, begging me to come.

When I do, it sears, tearing from me, pumping into her. Her pussy finally slows, having gotten what she wanted, and my cock finally spends its last inside her.

We’re both shaking now—I pull out and bring her up with me when I stand. She turns in my arms, reaching to pull me into a kiss that I could die inside of. One I can’t seem to break, even when I pick her up and carefully step into the tub, lowering us into the steaming water with a sigh.

When she’s lying between my thighs, her back to my chest and her fingers threaded with mine, I close my eyes and try to lock this moment in my mind to keep forever.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

“For what?”

“For taking care of me.”

I shift so I can look at her, turning her chin so our eyes meet. “I just want you to be happy, Cass.”

I thumb the apple of her cheek when she smiles. “Good. Because I am.”

CHAPTER 43

SQUABBLE UP

WILDER

Iroll my bad shoulder, circling the mound, ready for this game to be fucking over.

The tournament is the last of the year, and for two days, we’ve played our way through the bracket in Sevierville, landing us here, in the last game of the season. Game number six in two days. Currently in overtime. All I have to do is strike out the fucker behind the plate, and it’s over.

As if the pressure isn’t high enough, the fucker behind the plate is Ashley’s ex, Trent.

Again, I roll my shoulder, which is tight and a little sore, despite having rotated with Jackson, our other pitcher. But Coach always leaves me to close it whether I’ve played the whole game or not. Normally, I don’t mind. But with Trent drilling holes through me from home plate, I’d rather be just about anywhere else.

Tate signals four times before I realize I’m being obstinate and take his suggestion. A glance down at the familiar red clay and a long, deep breath grounds me. When I look up, there’s nothinking, no reasoning. No decisions. I just let my body do what it knows how to do without a single thought in my head.

The ball hits Tate’s glove with a pop. Trent didn’t swing. The ump calls a strike and I nod at the ground, circling back to the pitcher’s plate once I have the ball again, turning it in my fingers, feeling the seams. I take Tate’s first call.

Strike two.

“One more, baby!” I hear Cass yell from the stands, and my heart skips and stutters. When I glance in her direction, I’m smiling, distracted a little—now I’m thinking about her and Cricket, sitting among our friends and family. But the distraction fades with pride and certainty rising in me like a wave just from the sight of them.

It takes me a second to get settled, but when I finally do, I pitch. Trent swings, his bat slicing through the air, the ball dropping just before he connects.

Half the crowd erupts when the ump calls strike, the other half yelling their discontent. But my half is louder, and we run around celebrating like idiots, exhausted and in desperate need of showers, I note when we’re all knotted together chanting.

I’m anxious to be done, but I do my best to be patient as we line up to shake hands with the other team, then to accept our trophies. When Trent shakes my hand, there’s a look in his eyes I don’t know how to decipher. Part wild animal, part heartbreak, part jealousy, if I had to guess. The hair on the back of my neck stands straight every time our eyes meet, and I distantly wish I’d never have to see him again.

---