Chapter 32
DOUBLE-USE SCRUNCHIE
MABEL
Corbin strides over to me along the side of the court, holding a paddle and a small pink gift bag. He’s pleased, judging from the size of his grin. I let myself enjoy the view of him as he moves, loose and easy in basketball shorts and a gray T-shirt that hugs his pecs.
“Corbin,” I half chide as he passes the net, then stops in front of me, offering me the bag. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did, Mabel. I definitely did.”
My heart jumps as I reach for it. “I told you that you didn’t have to.”
“And I didn’t listen.” He’s unrepentant in his gift-giving. “I told you I was going to get you an apology gift.”
“You don’t owe me an apology. It’s fine. We cleared the air. Just like we said we would.”
“We said we’d handle things like adults.” He taps his chest. “This adult likes to apologize to you with gifts. Now just open it.”
As I peer inside, it’s my turn to smile. “It’s my favorite color.”
“Wear it,” he says.
“So bossy.”
“Damn right I am. Want to let me put it on you?”
So much.
I fish out the lilac scrunchie from the bag and give it right back to him. “Do your thing, you bossy man.”
“I will.”
I turn around as a charge of anticipation races down my body.
The clink of his paddle hitting the court registers as he moves behind me, combing his fingers through my hair, pulling it up. I lean into the tug as he arranges my strands into a high, neat ponytail.
He takes his time roping his fingers through my hair, adjusting it, tweaking it, then dropping my hair and doing it all again. “Sorry. Need a second try,” he mutters, but he doesn’t sound sorry.
I don’t feel sorry either.
My stomach flips as he runs those fingers through my hair once more, then loops the scrunchie and steps back to admire his work. “Perfect. Now let’s play ball.”
Once I turn around, I give a flick of my hair just for fun. “You’re so good at giving gifts that we just might have to fight again.”
“I’m in,” he says with a wicked smile that burns off quickly as he picks up the paddle and points at the net. “Time to teach you how to destroy your enemies.”
I love competitive athletes. I just do.
The ball bounces and Corbin lunges for it, serving it back to me. Of course he hits it. He never doesn’t hit it.
It’s exhausting, playing with him.
“You’re doing great,” he calls out even though I miss the next ball.
“Ha. Hardly.”
We’ve been playing for an hour and he’s giving me tips on how to serve it more cleanly, and how to hunt out weak backhands and attack them, and it’s all good stuff.
“But the reason I keep hitting it is because you need to vary your shots more,” he says.
I shoot him a doubtful look. “You’re a pro athlete.”
“But not a pro pickleball player. I can help you.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this on my day off,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Or you could let Tiffany and Brittany destroy us this Friday.”
“I have you. You’d never let that happen.”
“We’re a team,” he says, then comes around the net. “Let me show you how to vary your shots.” When he reaches me, he runs a hand through his hair, pushing a few sweaty strands off his forehead.
Hello, sweat. What would it feel like, to run my hand up under his shirt, over the sweaty ridges of his abs right now? His chest? How easy would it be to slide my hand down into his shorts and—
Oh, great. Now I’ve learned I have a thing for his sweat. And I need to stop thinking dirty thoughts about him.
“Show me,” I say.
The facility has four courts but we’re the only ones here.
The best part is these courts are screened by hedges that are easily ten feet tall.
At first, I joked that they meant no one could see how badly I play.
Now I’m thinking this privacy will be useful in other ways.
He moves behind me, wrapping his arms around me, and… oh, yes.
That’s nice.
It’s been a while since he touched me. Fine, it was only an hour ago when he looped his hands through my hair. But before that? Ten days to be precise.
His arms slide along mine, his chest brushes against my back, and my insides do the hula.
He’s just so warm and solid behind me, and that campfire-and-lake scent mingles deliciously with sweat as he reaches for my wrist. “If you want to do a two-handed backhand for power,” he begins, and the rest is argle-bargle as his hand circles my wrists, holding me tight.
As his scent wafts past my nose, enticing me.
As his chest presses against my back, tempting me.
As my restraint—already frayed—breaks even more.
“Can you do that?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, then I bump my ass back against him, testing to see if he’s affected too. And the answer is a warning growl.
“Mabel,” he says in my ear, voice husky and warm.
Cock thick and hard.
“Corbin,” I tease back, giving another pop of my ass against the hard ridge of him. There, right there. Against the thin fabric of my skirt.
“You’re being a troublemaker,” he says, holding still, keeping us in place like he doesn’t want me to move.
“I’ll stop,” I say, and I should stop rubbing my ass against his hard-on, but maybe he should stop too.
And he’s not. He’s going. He’s pressing back. Grinding against my butt, gripping my wrists harder.
“I shouldn’t,” he whispers.
“I know. We said,” I murmur.
“It was a one-time thing,” he continues, a soft plea against the skin on my neck to help him say no to this.
“I’ll stop,” I say, drawing a steadying breath. I can do this. I can stop. I will myself to inch away.
But once there’s a sliver of space between us, he growls in protest. Ropes his arm around my waist. Yanks me close in a vise. “Don’t stop.”
I sway against him. He rocks back, then dusts his mouth to my neck. He’s always been obsessed with my neck.
And here on the pickleball court on a mid-December afternoon, he leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses from my ear down to my collarbone, each one a little harder, a little more desperate than the last, like he wants to mark me.
I flash back to what he said the night we fucked in the bakery. Try since I met you, Mabel. Since I met you.
He’s been so vulnerable with me about all this longing.
He was even vulnerable in a way when he asked me if I was on the apps.
If I can’t have you, I don’t want anyone else to.
The more he shares, the more it cracks something open in me.
Makes me want to give him the same. “I wanted you too. The day I met you,” I confess.
His breath comes out ragged, stuttered. “Yeah?”
“When you were helping me clean up after the llamas. I kept thinking this guy is fine,” I say, remembering how handsome he was then.
“You have no idea what that does to me,” he says with a groan as he tugs me tighter against him.
Well, I think I do know. It excites me.
He kisses me more urgently now, like my confession revved him up another level.
Like he can’t hold back anymore today. I’ve been terrible at holding back too.
Restraint, evidently, is for other people.
Corbin’s still gripping my wrists and the paddle, and that seems wholly unimportant so I drop it to the court.
“I wanted to, Mabel. So badly. Then I learned you were—”
I know where that’s going. He learned I’m his best friend’s sister. I learned he was forbidden too, in lots of ways back then. “Same. You were off-limits to me too,” I say, my eyes fluttering closed, my body melting like butter on a warm day.
“But now.” His hand reaches for mine, and he threads our fingers together. “Now I just…” He sounds as lost to whatever this is as I am.
And I am utterly lost, so I wiggle free, spin around, cup his shoulders, and say, “My turn.”
“For what?” he asks.
I glance around, making sure it’s still just us, then I push him toward the edge of the court, near the hedges.
A few strands have fallen out of my ponytail, so I undo it, then redo it, giving him a sly smile when it’s fixed.
“My turn to apologize. Good thing I have this scrunchie to hold my hair back.”
His eyes widen. A thrill flickers in them. Then dirty, filthy hope as I drop down to my knees.
“Wait,” he snaps.
I arch a brow in question, but he’s already stripping off his T-shirt—of course—and setting it down on the court for me to kneel on.
“The filthy gentleman,” I muse, as I settle in on the gray cotton.
“I am. And now I’ll ask you the question like a gentleman. You going to apologize with that pretty mouth of yours?”
“I am. It’ll be a very deep, full-throated apology.”
He grabs the side of my face, stares hotly at me, then ropes his fingers through my hair once more. “Open wide, then.”
I tug on the waistband of his basketball shorts. “Give me that big dick so I can.”
With a groan that seems to rumble all the way up his chest, he pushes down his shorts, frees his cock, and wraps a fist around the base, offering his cock to me like a gift I ought to be grateful for.
I am. I’m so grateful my panties are wet.
Nope. Make that wetter. Just like his dick, with a drop of liquid arousal beading at the tip. Leaning in, I dart out the tip of my tongue, flick it across it, then moan, murmuring, “More.”
Giving a small pump of his hips, he thrusts a little deeper, offering me another inch.
Grabbing his hips, I wrap my lips around his shaft.
I draw him in, sucking on the crown, then more, then as much as I can.
Soon I’m lavishing attention up and down him with my tongue.
I’m making a mess of his cock, licking him sloppily, wrapping my hand around him and drawing him deeper.
So deep that I bat his hand away from the base.
He’s mine right now, and I want all of him.
“Fuck, baby. You look so fucking beautiful like this. So fucking perfect on your knees.”
My pulse beats hot and fast between my thighs.
He grips my head harder. Ropes his fingers in my hair that’s getting messier. “This scrunchie is so fucking helpful,” he mutters.
With my fingers digging into his skin, I urge him to pump his hips. He obeys, and I relax my throat as best I can. Somehow, I drag him in deeper, caressing his cock with my mouth, letting him hit the back of my throat.
I gag. Coughing. Letting him drop from my mouth.
“You okay? Want me to stop?”
I grab his hips harder, digging my nails into his flesh. “You’d better apologize for saying that.”
He runs a big hand over my hair. “Yeah? How do you want me to say sorry?”
“By filling my throat with your come,” I tell him.
The sound that rips from his chest is animalistic. I draw his wet cock back into my mouth, inhaling him, it seems. He fills my mouth, so there’s hardly room for me to breathe, but I don’t care.
He’s groaning, grunting, thrusting. And swearing so damn much.
So fucking beautiful.
Yes, fuck yes, do that.
I can’t fucking take it.
But I can. I can take it all, and he gives it all in one deep thrust as he jerks, shudders, and comes down my throat. I swallow it all, savoring the taste of my business partner and pickleball coach out here on the court.
When he eases out, he’s panting, and moaning still. But he must blink off the haze quickly, since he says, “What a mess I’ve made of your pretty hair. Let me fix it.”