Wild Pitch (Dominating the Diamond Book 1)

CHAPTER 21

It shouldn’t be so hard not to moan for a kiss this chaste.

His lips are still pressed to my leg, and he looks up at me from under lowered lashes. My fingers are still laced in his hair, and it would be easy to guide his open mouth to where I really need him.

I don’t date ballplayers.

Maybe I stop myself because of my one and only rule. A rule I’ve already tossed alongside my caution to the wind repeatedly tonight. Maybe I stop myself because he is my catcher—of all the ballplayers in all the world I could possibly step out of line with. Maybe I’m just afraid I’ve read this all wrong, and Mateo Reyes would never kneel on his expensive deck and let me ride his face until the neighbors hear me scream his name.

“You’re cold.”

His simple statement doesn’t pull me out of my self-doubt. The way he trails both hands up my legs does. His fingers tap light and quick, playing a sonata on my skin, letting me revel in the music that flows through us.

His hands reach the hem of my shorts and travel no higher. He sits back on his heels instead. The wince that crosses his face is quickly disguised, but not nearly quick enough for me to miss it. I hold my hands between us, and he takes them without breaking eye contact.

I help him to his feet. He keeps my hands wrapped in his and pulls me to the door, and for the life of me, I don’t know if he’s pulling me to seduction or safety. Worse, I don’t care, so long as he doesn’t let me go.

He slides the door open, and waits for me to enter the guest room before slipping in behind me. His chest is still speckled in beads of water, the towel forgotten on the deck along with the rest of his clothes.

“Feeling better?”

He smirks. There’s nothing mean in the tilt of his lips. Just a touch of amusement sprinkled through with arrogance. My stomach flips, but another part of me–the part I keep hidden behind lock, and key, and doors protected with masked anonymity and air-tight non-disclosure agreements–the part I’ve already let Reyes glimpse too much of–is compelled to wipe that smirk off his face until his arrogance is mine to own.

“Mostly,” he says without ire or pain contorting his voice. “A lot better and maybe a little bit worse, if that’s possible.”

I want to ask him what he means almost as much as I want to believe he’s talking about me. Us.

There can’t be an us. The thought doesn’t keep me from reaching out and catching a droplet on my thumb.

He takes my hand in his and presses a kiss to my palm. Yet again, the touch is so small. Tender and fleeting. It shouldn’t cut through me so viscerally, and I can’t afford to think it means something more. All players know the road is lonely, even when the other stadium is about as close as an away game can get. I tell myself that’s all this is. We’re both too busy, too focused, with too much riding on this season to even consider dating, so we’ve found intimacy where it presented itself.

“Goodnight, rookie.”

My hand is weirdly cold without the heat of his lips and fingers.

“Goodnight, Reyes.”

I stand at the foot of the bed and watch him go. Wet boxers cling to muscular thighs, and I don’t think I could ever get enough of watching the way his back flexes. He stops in the doorway. The hall light glows around him, casting shadows and turning his silhouette into a sculpture to rival the gods. His hand rests on the doorframe as he pivots, and I know I don’t have the strength to tell him no.

“There’s spare towels in the bottom drawer of the dresser.”

With that, he’s gone. A shadow shrinking into the hallway while I stand in stunned and needy silence.

With morning light streaming through the gauzy curtains, I waver in the doorway. September in Los Angeles is absolutely not cold enough to need the sweater in my hand, but I can’t ignore the temptation to walk down the hallway in his hoodie.

Until I smell breakfast. I’m not sure what he’s cooking, but the aroma of pork, garlic, and coffee is almost as mouthwatering as the idea of Reyes in the kitchen. I shrug the baggy garment over my head and fix the braid that hangs over one shoulder.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

I’m in a playful mood untilI first see him. Not Reyes. Though it’s impossible not to notice him, standing beside the kitchen island with a spatula in hand and an apron hanging over his shirtless body. His biceps flex as he wields the utensil to make a point, and his face is dark with an intensity I’ve never seen before, not even on the field, bases loaded at the bottom of the ninth, watching our shot at the post-season hanging by a thread and a prayer.

It’s the man standing a little too close who catches my attention. A couple inches taller than Reyes, the man leans in until they’re eye to eye. The expression on his face is every bit as intense, though considerably more open, giving me the impression that if I knew him, I would be able to read exactly what he’s feeling. There’s a plea in the set of his wide mouth, a flush of frustration on his broad cheekbones, something desperately imploring in his small eyes. He reaches for Reyes’ arm, but the catcher flinches and turns to face me.

When I see the guilt on his face, it doesn’t matter that I can’t read the rest of his expression or the tension in his body language. He takes a step toward me–a step away from the man who is clearly not a stranger and almost certainly more than a friend. Not that I should care what is or isn’t between them.

I don’t date ballplayers anyway.

“Anyway, it looks like you can catch a ride to batting practice after all.” I shrug my bag higher on my shoulder and keep talking before either of the men can get in a word of whatever explanation I don’t want to hear. “See you later, Reyes.”

I pivot like I’m doing an agility drill and all but sprint for the front door. Reyes catches up to me before I make it to the safe haven of my car.

“Ramirez wait–”

“Chill out, buddy. I’ll see you at practice, okay? Go deal with whatever your mess is.” I don’t mean to sound so passive aggressive, but I hate being put in this position. Whether I wanted more from him or not, regardless of my rules, I am furious that he made me the other woman. How trite is that? The baseball player cheating after an away game.

I throw my bag into the car and swear when my crap spills out over the front seat.

“It’s not what it looks like–”

I’m about to cut him off when I hear a young woman shouting from the other end of the driveway. I look up to see three women who look too much like Reyes to be coincidence gathered beneath the guava tree with a basket of the small fruits overflowing at their feet.

“Sorry, Tito.” The youngest woman glances at me sheepishly, as if she’s only just realized she’s interrupting something. Her freckled cheeks, brown but considerably paler than Reyes or the other two women, blush, and she hides behind the woman who is undoubtedly her mother.

“At least stay for breakfast,” Reyes says with his fingers curled around my car door as I slide behind the wheel.

Embarrassment, nerves, hurt, and confusion course through my veins, while the lust I shouldn’t feel for this man fills my belly and reminds me exactly how he felt beneath me. The thought that I just stormed through his house making a scene in front of his entire family over a man, who may very well be his brother-in-law, for all I know, is too mortifying to handle without a heavy dose of caffeine and the privacy in which to lick my self-inflicted wounds.

“Honestly, you don’t owe me an explanation. I need to go by my house before practice; that’s all. Okay? Go in and enjoy breakfast with your family, and I’ll see you later.”

He looks like he wants to argue some more, but he lets the door shut gently between us. He steps back. Enough to let me back out of his driveway. Not far enough for me to miss the frown pulling at his lips and furrowing his brow.