Page 169 of Curveball

This isn’t your whole life anymore, it says, and my brain agrees, my heart agrees, my fuckingbonesagree.

She is.

45

SUNDAY

It’s notuntil hours later, when I'm in the stands surrounded by adrenaline and noise and many, many excited family members, does it hit me that as much as I’ve heard about The Great Cass Morgan and his miraculous arm, I’ve never actually seen him in action.

I’ve never gotten the appeal of baseball—beyond motherly love and support for my son, of course—but as I watch Cass, I get it. That revere he’s always greeted with; I understand it now.

Cass isgood.

Outstandingly good. Almost offensively good because he’s good in a way that makes everyone else seem useless, like he’s moving in smooth hyperspeed and the rest of them are lumbering around in slow motion. He’s in his element and they’re justthere.

It hits me all at once, hard and fast, like the curveball Cass throws so easily.

How can I be the one to take this away from him, from what he’s so clearly destined to do? How can I live with that? How can I expect him to not resent me for something like that?

I won’t.

I’m okay with getting half of him, half the time, as long as it’s the same happy, confident, grinning man working that field like he owns it.

And later that night, when we celebrate just the two of us, when I beg and plead and he finally takes me in that bed he’s been promising, long and slow, and then he kisses my bump and feeds me ice cream and rubs my feet, I decide I’m even okay with the fake part of us, as long as it’s always like this.

* * *

“Jesus Christ.” Laying a hand flat against his chest, Cass groans. “You’re trying to kill me.”

Trying not to shiver at the intensity in his gaze as it rakes over me, I roll my eyes at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Knock it off. I already said I’d go.”

Abandoning his observation post in the doorway, he comes up behind me, smoothing his hands along my silk-covered belly. “That wasn’t flattery, sunshine. I’m genuinely concerned.” He uses his grip to tug me back against him, and I get very well acquainted with the bulge in his matching slacks. “Gonna hurt myself walking around with this all night.”

“Again?” The quip comes out breathy, my gaze laser-focused on the lips following the delicate gold chain around my neck to where it drops between my cleavage. “Impressive for a man of your age.”

Short curls tickle my neck as Cass shakes his head, his chuckle a puff of warm air against my chest. “See, you say shit like that and I take it as a challenge.”

When he straightens and settles a hand on my lower back, I quickly step out of his reach before it can push to bend me at the waist—experience has taught me the man loves me face down, ass up. “We’re already late.” And while the greedy bitch might want another round, there’s only so much my poor pussy can take. It’s swollen and achy enough—the joys of pregnancy strike again—without being pounded for the fourth time today.

Athlete’s high; the female orgasm’s best friend, apparently.

Cass pouts like a baby as I slip out of the room. My dress swishes around my legs as I head for the mercifully flat shoes strewn on the unmade bed. I groaned and whined and threw a pretty spectacular fuss when Cass told me the party thrown after the All-Stars game had a pretty well-adhered formal dress code. At approximately seven million weeks pregnant—almost thirty, actually, but I’m at the stage where every week feels like an eternity, especially the ten stretching out before me—me and clothes aren’t exactly seeing eye-to-eye. I spend most of my time as close to naked as I can reasonably get. But while pantsless, braless, shoeless attire might be acceptable at home, at the Players Party, not so much.

Although, technically, I’m two of those things in a floor-length dress that’s tight enough around my chest to give my poor, oversized boobs some support and to give me a reasonable excuse to go pantless. Or panty-less, I guess, something I’m wisely choosing not to mention to Cass lest the problem of an elasticated waistband digging into my stomach is exchanged for the problem—I say questioningly because problem? Really?—of an insatiably horny baby daddy.

All things considered, my tantrum might’ve been premature. It’s really not that bad. Especially since my long dress means I can shove my swollen feet into some definitely not formal Birkenstocks, as close to shoeless as a girl can get.

And, c’mon. Who am I kidding? I’d wear a freaking ballgown if it warranted Cass looking at me the way he is right now, stalking towards me like a predator.

Hands curving around to palm my ass, he all but licks his lips. “We could always skip it.”

Eyeing the man looking half a second from tossing me back between the sheets we only just managed to pull ourselves from, I point out, “You’re the guest of honor.”

Cass puffs out air, rolling his eyes. Playfulness abruptly fading, there’s something uncomfortable about the way he shifts, tugging on the collar of his shirt, pausing his incessant perusal of my ever-growing body to frown at the floor.

The furrow in my brow matching his, I step into his line of sight, an easy task considering our height difference. “What’s up?”

Broad shoulders lift and fall. “It’s just not my thing anymore.”

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