Chapter 30
30
[Bolan]
G etting home late the next night and actually seeing Ruthie standing in the kitchen is the visual reassurance I hadn’t known I needed. Like that night of watching each other had been a dream, and not reality. Like Ruthie was more a mirage than something physical in our duplex.
“You waited up,” I whisper as I crest the top of the entry stairs and see Ruthie leaning against the peninsula island. Her hair is in a messy bun on top of her head. Glasses on. One foot on top of the other in that way she stands. She reminds me a little of a flamingo, but she’ll always be a flower to me.
Slowly, she smiles while I drop my bag and close the distance between us. She steps away from the counter and falls against the refrigerator opposite the peninsula as I rush to stand right in front of her. Bracing my forearm on the cool surface of the appliance beside her head, I lean over her .
“Hi.” I smile back, taking in her face. Those deep eyes. The swell of her lips. The slope of her nose. I don’t even know where to start. I want to kiss her everywhere.
“Hi.” She giggles, and I further lean forward, kissing her softly at first.
“Welcome home,” I murmur to the corner of her mouth, although she’s been here for three days.
“Same to you.” She smiles again and I capture her lips, kissing her more soundly this time until she squeaks and presses into me. She breaks the kiss and glances over her shoulder where a stream of water dribbles from the water dispenser on the refrigerator door.
Ruthie swipes at her backside. “You got me all wet.”
I chuckle. “That’s exactly what I like to hear.” I bend my knees to wrap my arms around her ass and lift her. Her hands land on my shoulders, and she spreads her legs around my hips while I spin us to set her on the peninsula countertop.
My lips travel along her jaw to her neck where I drag my teeth over her flesh. She shivers before she runs her hands over my shoulders around to my back, pulling me closer to her. I slip my hands underneath the hem of the cropped sweatshirt she’s wearing.
“Your skin is so soft,” I mutter to her shoulder, pushing the loose fit collar over the curve and down her arm.
Ruthie hums as I slip my hands further underneath the sweatshirt until I hit the underside of her breasts. No bra.
“Flower,” I groan as she arches forward, inviting me to continue my exploration. I cover each of her breasts with a greedy palm and squeeze, tugging at the tender swells and pinching her nipples in tandem.
Ruthie gasps and I swallow the sound, needing to breathe her in. Like I’ve told her before, she feels like the first solid breath I’ve taken in years.
I slide my hands around her sides and cup her ass next, where one cheek is damp from the water dispenser. Tugging her to the edge of the countertop, I line us up. My hard cock to her soft center, covered in baggy shorts. Massaging down her thighs, I stroke over her knees before breaking the kiss to glance down to where we meet in the middle.
“I want to touch you,” I groan.
With her arms loosely around my neck, she purrs, “Yes.”
I skim her inner thigh again and sweep into the edge of those loose shorts, finding her wet in other places. Quickly, I push aside her underwear and slip one thick finger into her heat. Home .
Clinging to my neck, Ruthie whimpers as her head tips back.
“I remember touching you like this on that banquet table,” I murmur as I run my nose along the column of her throat, inhaling her floral and spice scent. “I wanted to devour you that night.”
Ruthie hums. “As I remember it . . . you did.” Pleasure fills her voice, the memory fond for both of us.
With my free hand, I gently press her backward, breaking her hold on my neck. This kitchen counter looks like another perfect place to savor her. Swiftly, I remove her shorts and underwear, lifting her heels for the edge of the counter, and staring down at my feast. The swollen lips. The pink flesh. She’s a flower eager to bloom and I don’t plan to disappoint her.
Seeing her in person is so much better than the other night.
With my head between her spread knees, Ruthie whimpers as I slice my tongue through her seam, dipping into her creamy center and savoring her essence. Her hands come to the back of my head, running her fingernails over my scalp which causes me to shiver. However, nothing deters me from bringing her to the brink and then tipping her over the edge.
A line drive to center and a base stolen .
She’s so beautiful, all spread out on the counter, panting my name, and taking what she needs from me.
While I hadn’t planned our night to go this way quite so quickly, a homerun is my greatest desire, but I won’t push her. There are so many other things I can do to please her.
With a kiss on her inner thigh, I tug her upward and into my arms again. She wraps her arms around my neck once more. Her legs around my hips.
“Where are we going?” Her voice is quiet, sated and soft.
“I’m going to carry you over the threshold.”
“You’re going to take me down the stairs and outside, like this?” She pulls back to see my face. Her mouth gapes.
I chuckle. “How about if I take you upstairs and carry you over the threshold of our room.” Because this is our home and after losing nights with Ruthie, I’ve decided I don’t want to spend the nights we have together without her in our bed.
There’s no pressure to do more than kiss her breathless and then hold her all night long. But when I set her down, I slip my hands underneath her cropped sweatshirt and guide it over her head. “I just want to look at you.”
I want to see her, in the flesh, spread out and naked on this bed, solidifying the vision in my head. A photograph etched in my brain forever.
“I’ve missed you,” I whisper, looking her directly in the eyes while running my fingertip over the peak of one breast, around the tip of her taut nipple, and down the other side.
I drop our locked gaze as I coast my hand between her breasts before laying my palm over her belly, pausing above that soft mound of hair at the top of her legs. “I don’t think I’ve ever missed anyone the way I’ve missed you.”
The ache for her isn’t just about her body, though. I’ve missed her presence. Her laughter with Tulane. Her smiles at me.
Ruthie softly gasps before cupping the side of my face. Her thumb strokes over my jaw which is in need of a shave. “I missed you, too. More than I can explain.”
Her brows pinch like she’s puzzled by how she missed me, but I don’t need her to explain herself. Tonight, I just want to worship her body, and I continue my intentions by slipping my finger into her warm center while we stand toe to toe.
Ruthie moans and slides her hand over the front of my pants. The heat of her hand seeps through the thin material as she gently squeezes where I’m stiff and desperate for her.
“Let me show you how much I’ve missed you.”
I blink in the dark room as my wife turns into a vixen, dropping to her knees and fumbling with the removal of my pants. Hastily, I remove my shirt, wanting to be as naked as she is. Free to any exploration she wants to take with my body.
Ruthie wraps her delicate fingers around my hard cock, and I hiss at the sizzle of contact. God, have I missed her. It’s been a week without her. Three weeks without her touch. More than a month since I’ve entered her.
When her mouth surrounds me, I swear I see heaven.
After only one long suck up my length, I’m tugging free of those sultry lips and hoisting her upward, tossing her onto the bed. Ruthie scrambles backward and I follow her retreat over the blankets and up to the pillows, wedging my large body between her legs.
“I just want to feel you against me.” Her heat. Her skin. I hold my dick, placing the tip at her entrance, and sliding the head through her slick folds. There’s no pressure to do more. I could naked-cuddle this woman and be happy. Kiss her all night and be happy. Be in her presence and simply be happy.
But we both groan at the electric connection between us.
With strength I didn’t expect her to have, Ruthie presses at my chest, forcing me to my back and sliding over me, straddling my lap.
At the contact, I hiss again. The pleasurable crackle of her wet heat against my hard cock is a welcome spark. She glides up my length, coating me in her creamy essence until she notches on my tip. Back and forth she moves, grinding against me, and my hands land on her hips, guiding her along my dick from head to balls.
“Ruthie,” I groan, keeping the pace at her speed.
“I want more.”
My eyes ping open, staring up at her face above mine, reading her desire for me. Fuck, I want to give her everything.
Reaching for her hair, I tug at the elastic holding up her messy bun, freeing her hair to hang down in a lush curtain over her shoulders and around her cheeks. Taking a second to admire how beautiful she looks over me. Her eyes sparkling. Her mouth gaping. Then, I roll us again, flipping her to her back. My dick is so hard, weeping and begging, to be enveloped in her warmth, but I don’t want to pressure her.
However, because I’m reactive instead of reflective, I blurt, “I want to give you a baby.”
She stiffens beneath me. “What?”
I realize a little too late that I’ve said too much too fast. My damn brain, which can be slow to chug, picked up speed, and barreled forward like a runaway freight train, and I can’t seem to stop myself.
“I want to give you what you want most. Let me be the one to do that for you. Let me make a baby with you.”
Although we’ve discussed Tulane, and I’m thrilled to consider Ruthie her mother, I want to give Ruthie something else she’s wanted. Another baby. A houseful of babies.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say.” She swallows thickly, enough that I hear the gulp, and I inch back. Her legs are spread, my hips cradled between them.
We can stop right here.
“I understand.” I’m deflated but I get it. I’ve said too much too soon. This is a conversation we should have outside of a moment like this one. One where it might appear I’m just caught up wanting to give her that more she asked for earlier. When what I want is to give her the world.
“I just want you to know that I haven’t been with anyone in over nine months. Not since I met you. You can trust me. You’re safe with me.” I stare into her eyes, willing her to understand without mention of her past experience. “You will never have to worry about me straying from you, because I want to give you everything. You mean everything to me.”
Breaking eye contact, I scoot back, lowering my face and pressing a kiss to her shoulder, preparing to push up and off her. Condoms are inside the makeshift nightstand which is still an upturned box.
But Ruthie wraps her ankles around the back of my thighs. Her hands cup my ass, and she tugs me upward again.
“You’d really do this with me? For me?” Her dark eyes blink up at me.
“For us.” I kiss her quick. “I’d do anything for you, Ruthie.”
What feels like the longest moment of my life passes between us before she nods once. “Okay.” Her voice is featherlight.
“Yeah?” I whisper, choked up a little. The pressure slowly rising inside me. She’s trusting me. She’s giving me this honor. I’m going to father a child with her.
“Yeah.” The happiness in that single word is the best sound I’ve ever heard.
With my tip at her entrance once more, I press forward, wanting to take my time, wanting to remember this moment. Every inch forward. Every hug of her tight channel. I’ve never been bare with anyone. Not ever.
And my breath hitches as I first enter her. The sensation is almost too much. I’ll blow before I’ve fully seated if I’m not careful. And I want to be careful. I want to take care of this woman who takes care of me and our little girl .
I want to see my precious flower bloom and grow our family.
As I slide deeper into her warmth, her body hugs mine in a new way, and I’m overwhelmed. Emotions ping around inside me, like a fast pitch pitching machine.
Finally, I’m to the hilt and I breathe deeply. “Just give me a second.” My voice is thick, and I lick my lips. “God, Ruthie. I’ve never felt anything like this.” Her. Us. Love.
“Me neither.” A single tear slips from the corner of her eye.
“Oh, baby. I’ve got you.”
“I know,” she whispers.
“Green,” I remind her. The color of safety for her.
“Green,” she says, her mouth curling in a soft smile. “But I wouldn’t mind a little red.”
Buried inside her, I chuckle. “Nothing feels more reckless and wonderful at the same time.” I kiss her with a broad sweep of my tongue before sucking at her lower lip.
Then I move. Back and forth, I go slow until I can’t keep the tempo steady any longer, because Ruthie moves with me, like she was made for me.
There isn’t any rush like the minutes we had against a window in a ballroom. We have all the minutes in front of us, in our bed, in our home, expanding our family.
The thought spurs me faster and I press up on my hands, my hips pistoning harder. Ruthie matches my pace, sucking me into her sweet body. The sound of us fills the room.
“Never felt this,” I stammer. This need to fill her. This need to love her.
Ruthie tips back her head, a smile on her lips as her eyelids lower.
“Keep those pretty eyes on me. I want to see your face when I plant my seed inside you.”
She huffs. If she could laugh, she might, but I dive deeper inside her, cutting off any words from her. Our bodies speak the only language we need right now.
Until I feel her squeeze me in a new way. A tight embrace. A swell of warmth. Her release triggers my own.
“Flower,” my voice hitches as I fall apart inside her, her shattering around me. Nothing has ever felt so right.
Those silver stars she sets twinkling dance before me as I try to catch my breath. I collapse over her a second, smothering her, but she doesn’t protest. She clings to me like she does, like she never wants to let me go, and I don’t want her to ever release me.
Eventually, I tip to my side, taking her with me, keeping us connected. Not quite as intensely as a moment ago, but still as one.
“I think you just got me pregnant,” I tease.
Ruthie laughs harder, covering her mouth to stifle the sound. “You’re ridiculous.”
Her laughter causes her to clench around me, and I press a kiss to her nose. “That’s why you love me.”
She doesn’t respond; maybe one day she will. In the meantime, she rushes to kiss me, and I have the only answer I need for now.
I love her.
Eventually, Ruthie excuses herself to clean up and get ready for bed while I’m too tired to move. She’s drained everything out of me, and I doze as Ruthie tiptoes around the room. On my belly, hands tucked underneath the pillow, my head is turned in her direction when she finally returns to bed.
Something light tickles my arm. The touch is soft, though, hesitant. Slowly, the pressure running up and down my forearm deepens until her hand finds mine and I link our fingers together beneath my pillow.
“Think we made a baby?” I mutter .
“It might be a little too soon to tell.” Her tone is more somber as she stares at me.
“I’m looking forward to the practice, if you aren’t.”
Ruthie softly smiles, her thoughts possibly catching up to reality. We might have made a baby.
“I’m happy you’re here,” I add, my voice sleep-laden and low. Happy that I’m married to her. Happy she’s the mother of Tulane. Happy to make more babies with her.
“I’m just happy,” she whispers.
With that, I shift, scooping her into my chest and holding her against me, wanting her as close as I can get her. Still holding her hand, our position kind of reminds me of dancing with her. Ruthie would think I’m ridiculous, but I’m ridiculously content.
Savoring this unfamiliar sense of happiness.
Anchor Field is an iconic baseball stadium known for the ivy wall running the length of the outfield beneath the bleacher section. A giant scoreboard is manually operated by managers who hang out inside the ancient thing, adding numbers or switching them as needed when teams score. Everything about this setting screams history and nostalgia for one of the greatest games to be played in one of the greatest stadiums to play in.
Standing in the friendly confines on opening day is a dream come true.
My granddad would be so proud. I can almost hear him cheering from heaven.
Could also be the roar of an overzealous crowd happy to have their team home and kicking off a new season at their beloved field.
After warmups, I take a quick peek into the stands, seeking the WAGs section off to the left of the dugout. In the sea of people, I find my redhaired girl wearing an Anchors knit cap to ward off the cold. With the sun shining and the temperature low, it’s a perfect day for baseball but my personal fans are bundled up against the chill.
Ruthie catches me watching them and shifts Tulane while pointing in my direction. I wave and Ruthie holds up Tulane’s hand, forcing her to wave back. Then Ruthie presses her fingers to her lips and blows a kiss in my direction.
With my catcher’s mitt raised, I jump up to catch the kiss, then scoop it out of the leather like I’d remove a ball. Only I don’t toss this kiss away but slip it onto my omamori tucked inside my jersey for safe keeping.
One of the great things about the Anchors is how they allow walkup songs for their batters during home games, and I’ve picked a new one for mine.
When it’s my turn up at bat, Katy Perry’s “E.T.” cuts to the refrain begging someone to kiss her, and I’m ready to take on the world.
Or at least, the ace pitcher from New York.
I twirl the bat in my hand, focus on what I assume will be a curve ball, and watch my hit soar through the sky, having a good feeling about it.
Yes! First at bat in a new stadium for me, and it’s a fucking homerun. I feel like the alien Miss Perry is singing about. Just out of this world.
From there, our home opener is chaos.
Sylver and Valdez have another showdown in centerfield, which leads to what looks like a more purposeful altercation. On the big screen over the bleachers, the replay shows Ford pointing a finger at Romero and Romero twisting Ford’s arm. The one with a bad shoulder.
The crowd boos. Whether their jeers are a response to the overall show of poor sportsmanship from men on the same fucking team, or an insult to Valdez who has injured a fan favorite, it’s hard to tell.
Either way, after the game, the locker room is somber not only from the final score which resulted in a loss for the Anchors, but the loss of Ford due to injury and Romero under suspicion of suspension. Post-game interviews are a shitshow. Questions run rampant about the stability of the Chicago Anchors and the new management under Ross Davis.
Personally, I like the guy. He’s roughly a decade older than me but solid. He loves the game. He knows our team. He values our worth. And he knows Valdez is a fucking dick, but like any good leader, he isn’t slamming the weakest link. At least not openly.
In general, I’m pissed off by the loss. Undeniably, we should have played better but we for damn sure should have looked like a unified front, not a ragtag gang of boys on a sandlot where two guys are fighting over the same girl.
Not that Ford wants his wife back. She was in the wrong. Valdez was in the wrong. And Ford can do so much better than all this bullshit.
Still, tensions can run high on a ball field. Although, it’s typically between opposing teams, not the same team.
When I eventually toss myself into bed, Ruthie is sitting up beside me on her side of our new bed. A new comforter covers the bed, which I hadn’t noticed last night. The overhead light is on because we don’t have any lamps yet, or nightstands for that matter. Ruthie is reading from the toddler book I bought.
This will be my win for the day. This moment right here.
“You okay?” she asks me, having asked me the same question twice already this evening.
Tucking my arm behind my head, I lie on my back and stare across the room at the empty wall. “Yeah.” I sigh.
“That’s a heavy sound.”
“Ford might be out for the season.” I twist my neck so I can look at my beautiful wife, who remains silent, waiting on me to say more.
“It’s a reminder that at any time I’m an injury away from forced retirement.” At my age, recovery would be difficult. That’s the position Ford is in. If he needs surgery, then he’ll need rehabilitation, and he won’t be the same player he was. He’ll have too much time off the field as he inches closer to being too old for the game. Being washed up in your late thirties is a daunting thought.
“I can’t retire yet.” I shift my head, returning to stare at the wall opposite our bed.
“What do you want to do after baseball?” Ruthie’s tone is cheerful, like I have an entire list of possibilities. She’s also trying to sound positive about the next page in the playbook of my life when I’d like to keep my cleats firmly planted in the current chapter.
“Fuck if I know. I can’t even joke and say I’d be a farmer, living a simpler life, because I don’t know the first thing about growing plants or raising animals. Farming looks like fucking hard work.”
My heart hammers, panic rising that I don’t have any other skill than playing a game. Catching a ball and hitting one with a bat is the only field experience I’ve ever known.
“You could go into broadcasting. You have the charisma and face for it.”
I turn my head in her direction again, pinching my brows, despite the compliment of my face. I’d be hell at reading a teleprompter.
“Or coaching?” She stares at me, almost like she isn’t certain herself if leadership would work for me. But she’s commented in the past about how animated I look in the dugout. My penchant for cheering on my teammates, even that fuckwad Valdez.
Finally, she says, “You’ll figure it out. You have time. ”
I snort.
“What about you?” I ask after a few seconds. “You gave everything up to be here, but when this year is over, what will you do?”
Ruthie blinks a few times, the movement rapid, like something is in her eye, or I’ve caught her off guard. Was it something I said?
“I . . . uh . . .” She glances back at the book on her lap. “I haven’t thought about it.”
Funny thing. I’ve learned to tell when my wife is lying, and Ruthie is a thinker, so I have serious doubts she hasn’t considered what she’d like to do a year from now.
Maybe there will be another baby pattering around our house by then. But I don’t want Ruthie to think motherhood is the only thing that defines her. She wanted to be a teacher. She followed her late husband’s wayward path and her in-law’s direction. I want her future to be what she wants for herself.
But suddenly, she’s tossing back the covers over her legs and swinging them out of the bed, taking the thick book with her as she stands.
I sit upright. “Where are you going?”
“I’ll let you sleep.” She lifts the book, her fingers wedged inside it to mark her place. “I’m going to read. Downstairs.”
She quickly circles the bed and while I want to reach out for her and tug her back to bed, because I don’t have a clue what just caused a shift in her, I’m too tired, too sad, to react.