Page 43 of Playboy Pitcher
“Willow, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You looked scared when I saw you and Drake by your car. That’s the main reason I intervened. Did he threaten you?”
I can’t answer that and not break his rules. So, I tap dance around them. “Drake blames me for Dad putting him on waivers.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “He seems to think my father blackballed him.”
Conviction drops like a steel curtain over Ben’s face. “Roger respected the game too much to do that.”
“I know,” I say quietly. That’s a battle he never has to fight with me. I’m the last person he has to convince that Roger Mays honored the integrity of the game above all else.
This is too much too soon. I thought the scars had healed, but they were just held together by hate and avoidance.
Sighing, I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. “Ben, it’s late. We should try to get at least an hour’s worth of sleep. Plus, I have a headache and…” My eyes pop open as the sudden scent of grass and leather assaults my senses. Ben is beside me and only inches away. I’m inhaling him, and he’s consuming me. “What are you doing?”
“Willow?” he says, his breath fanning over my face.
“Yes?”
“I notice you.”
I freeze. “What?”
“You asked me if I’ve ever been so desperate for someone to notice me that I’d do anything to get their attention. I just wanted you to know that you never had to lift a finger to get my attention. You said something similar the first night we met. I told you then that you’re hard to miss.”
He did. In the chaos that has ensued since I walked out of my West Palm Beach hotel and into a storm, I forgot about those words. I forgot about how, for a few precious hours, I didn’t feel broken. I forgot he noticed me.
He noticedme.
There’s no temptation when I push up on my palm. There’s no prayer of forgiveness when I cup his face. And there’s not an ounce of guilt when I press my lips against his.
That is, until Ben stills.
Oh. Shit.
Pulling back, I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, a laundry list of penance building in my head. “Ben, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what—”
I never finish my apology. Ben’s blue eyes darken and within seconds, his hands mold around my face, and his mouth is on mine. Only this time, I’m nowhere near in control. Ben owns this kiss. He owns my mouth, my lips, and my tongue. He commands, and they all obey. Heat like I’ve never known blazes through my bloodstream as we tumble back onto the bed.
His kisses are both oxygen to my soul and the most delicious death. Benson LaCroix kisses like every lick is a claim and every bite is a victory. His wicked tongue darts around my lips, teasing and invading every crevice of my mouth.
And while I’m drunk on his kisses, his hands do wicked things to my nipples through my shirt. My eyes nearly roll back in my head as he grinds against me, letting me know exactly how one night with him would wreck me forever.
“Willow,” he whispers against my lips.
“Yes?”
“I’ve never met Alicia Evans in my life.”
I’m squirming beneath him, my body at war with my mind. The parts of me I’ve kept in solitude for so long are screaming for him. They want to believe him. They want this kiss. They want his hands all over me. They want to feel every inch of him thrusting hard and mercilessly inside me.
But the sensible part… The part that reads the tabloids… The part that doesn’t trust anything he says… The part that suspects everyone of having a motive and an agenda…Thatpart owns ruling stock in Willow McBaine.
“Ben…” His name is swallowed by a moan as his hand dips under the blanket, skating down my bare stomach and over the thin layer of my panties. Teeth sink into my bottom lip as his fingers curl around the edge.
