Throwing Heat Prologue
MEMPHIS
“Oh, fuck yeah, baby. Just like that. Suck it.” My hands grip onto the long brown locks, tightening just enough so that when she moans, the sound vibrates against my balls. I’m so ready to come, teetering on the edge of a release that almost feels too good to be true.
Beep.
Ignoring whatever that was, I look down, watching as—well, I don’t know who she is, if I’m honest—bobs up and down on my cock like it’s her last meal. Her lips feel plump and full, so snug around me that I know it won’t be much longer until I explode right down her throat.
Beep.
“Goddammit,” I groan, almost losing my concentration, but somehow managing to stay right on the precipice, electricity gathering low in my core when she reaches up and drags her long, pink fingernails down my abs.
The muscles flex under her touch, my head beginning to go empty as I prepare to fill her mouth.
Beep.
Jesus fuck, what the hell is that?
Here I am, getting the best head of my life, and it’s being interrupted by what sounds like a dying smoke detector.
Whoever’s house this is should really change the battery.
It’s making it hard to enjoy the little party going on in my lap right now.
Not that I have room to talk. Mine has been beeping for the past three days because I’ve been too damn bus—
Beep.
Shit.
My eyes fly open, my head whipping from left to right as I take in the empty bedroom. My empty bedroom. Lowering my gaze, I lock onto my very erect dick, dripping with precum and not inside the mouth of whatever sexy brunette I conjured up in my dreams.
Disappointment settles in, and I relax into the pillow, throwing an arm over my eyes. But with the next annoying beep of the smoke detector, I’m jackknifing up in the bed because motherfucker, I’m late for work!
Frantically, I roll onto my side, swiping my phone from the nightstand.
Sure enough, the fucker is dead, which means my alarm never went off.
I squint, waiting for my tired eyes to focus on the digital clock that sits on the dresser, growling in frustration when I realize I completely overslept.
I’m supposed to be at the Gladiators practice field in fifteen minutes to meet with my pitching coach, and the ride from my condo is almost a half hour on a good day.
“Fuck,” I grumble, quickly hopping out of bed and rushing across the room.
Knowing there’s absolutely no time for a shower, I throw on a pair of boxers, sweatpants, socks, and a Cleveland Gladiators hoodie before grabbing my useless phone and rushing out of the room.
I’ll have to plug it in when I get there because I can’t be later than I already am.
Pitchers and catchers report for Spring Training next week, and I need all the reps I can get.
By the grace of the baseball gods, I make it to the facility in just over twenty minutes, grabbing my duffel bag from the passenger seat of my sports car and hauling ass to the entrance.
I’m grateful to see that my favorite security guard, Warren, is working, expecting him to have the gate open by the time I reach him.
But as I run through the players’ parking lot and catch his attention, I notice the immediate change in his normally chipper demeanor.
“I know, I know,” I rush out. “I overslept. Can you believe my phone died? I didn’t even kn—”
I’m cut off when his giant body crashes into mine, all the air rushing from my lungs as he wraps his arms around me and squeezes.
I’m frozen where I stand, completely unsure of how to react because, as much as I love the dude, we aren’t exactly hugging friends. This is not a normal occurrence for us.
“I’m gonna miss you so much,” he says, sniffling.
My brows furrow, confusion washing over me as the whole thing becomes weirder by the second.
I know I’ll be leaving to train in Arizona next week, but it’s not like I’ll be gone forever.
You think the guy would be used to seeing us come and go by now.
“Ooookayyyyy,” I reply, drawing out the word. He embraces me for way longer than I’ve ever been embraced by another grown man, and unless I’m going absolutely crazy—which isn’t an impossibility at this point—presses a barely-there kiss to my ear before pulling back.
It takes everything in me not to look horrified as he stands to his full height and allows his arms to drop from where they’re wound around my frame. His eyes are glossy with unshed tears, his gaze lingering on me for a few more seconds before he finally eases the gate open for me to step inside.
Strange, but whatever.
I give him an awkward wave, still processing the way our relationship just went from high-fives to ear kisses in a matter of minutes, before passing by him and entering the practice facility.
It’s fairly empty, which isn’t a surprise since it’s technically still the offseason, with just a few random employees moving around the open space.
Hurrying through the building, I notice that everyone I pass has one of two expressions on their face. They’re either like Warren, with sad eyes that don’t focus on me for long before looking away, or they seem confused, like they’re wondering why the hell I’m here at this hour on a Monday morning.
But I’m always here at this hour on Monday mornings.
With no time to waste, I shrug it off, pushing through the heavy metal doors that lead to the locker rooms. Much like the rest of the facility, it’s pretty desolate, but I can tell I’m not the only one here by the voices echoing through the walls.
Tossing my bag into a cubby, I yank open the zipper, then dig around inside for my charger.
My pitching coach is probably going to have my ass for being late, but I may as well plug my phone in while I’m with him so I can check it when I’m done.
I’m sure my nephews and best friend, Oakley, have texted a million times already, wondering why I haven’t replied.
Hell, I’ll be lucky if they don’t have a missing person report filed by the time I leave here in a few hours.
I’m dressed and ready to hit the field just moments later, ignoring my phone as it powers up and about five hundred notifications echo through the quiet space in rapid succession.
My nephew, Rhys, recently learned how to send voice messages, and he insists on giving me a play-by-play of his morning while getting ready for school each day.
I love it, but I’ll have to catch up on those later because, right now, I have somewhere to be.
I’m out of the locker room in a flash, my athletic shoes pounding against the concrete floor that leads to where my coach is surely ready to make me pay for my tardiness.
But as I rush down the empty hallway, my eyes catch on one of several wall-mounted TVs, my blood freezing in my veins as the big, bold headline rolls across the screen.
Cleveland Gladiators trade Memphis Vaughn. Veteran pitcher headed to Las Vegas.
What. The. Fuck.
Throwing Heat, book 1 of the Vegas Vortex series, is coming early 2027!