Page 88 of Fielder's Choice

The last thing I expected when we got back here tonight was for this to happen, but making Olive come is officially my new favorite activity.

If this is how the year starts—with me making the girl of my dreams come all over my hand—this is going to be the best goddamn year of my life.

thirty-two

Olive

Ican’trememberthelast time I slept as well as I did last night.

Sure, I haven’t been having nightmares anymore—for the most part—but it’s not like my rest has been, well, restful. All my anxiety and unease throughout the day would keep me from relaxing at night.

But last night, I slept beside Lane. Of course, I’ve done that numerous times now, but not with him holding me.

After he gave me an orgasm better than any I’ve been able to achieve on my own, though, we got comfortable, and he pulled me in close, wrapping his arms around me while we drifted off to sleep.

And when I wake up, his arms are still there, shrouding me in warmth and security.

I can’t help but burrow myself in deeper, reveling in the way it makes me feel. Howsafeit makes me feel.

A hand splays over my hip, and I realize my movements must have woken Lane up.

“Good morning, Livvy,” he rasps, voice still pure gravel from sleep.

So hot.

“Good morning, Hotshot,” I reply softly, rolling to my back so I can face him but still wrapped up in his arms.

His eyes rake over my face before he kisses me softly. “So damn beautiful, Ballerina.” His gaze catches mine, his hazel eyes so warm and inviting. “As much as I would love to stay in bed with you, we should probably get up. I need some coffee before Skip brings Sage back over.”

I look at him curiously. “Skip?”

Lane laughs gently. “You don’t know baseball at all, do you?”

“That obvious, huh?” I reply, cheeks flaming in embarrassment.

“Skip or Skipper is what you call your Field Manager. So, Rory’s dad, in my case.”

“Why Skipper?”

“Something to do with boats,” he chuckles. “I just go with it.”

He kisses me one more time before climbing out of bed and helping me up with him. I fix the shirt he gave me to sleep in last night—he seems to have a thing about me wearing his clothes. I did bring my own, but I don’t think there was any way he was going to let me wear anything of my own but my leggings.

I watch Lane strut out of the bedroom ahead of me, giving me a perfect view of his back, skin taut over defined muscles. I’ve never seen somebody so perfectly sculpted before. It’s enticing and, apparently, a huge turn-on.

When we get to the kitchen, I pull myself up on the counter next to Lane while he gets the coffee brewing. Once he does, he comes to stand in front of me, putting my legs on either side of his hips.

“I really like waking up with you in the morning, Ballerina.” His voice is so soft and sweet now, and my heart flutters in my chest.

“I like it, too,” I admit, turning away slightly to hide my blushing cheeks. He just tilts my head back to his and presses a gentle kiss to my lips.

“How are you feeling this morning?” he asks, a slight nervousness in his tone, which is so unlike the cocky and confident man I know.

“I’m fine,” I answer. “I slept great last night.”

Lane sighs. “I mean, how are you feeling after what we did last night?”

“Oh,” I mutter, cheeks flaming again. “I’m still fine, then.”

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