chapter 3
Chase Stern leaned forward, sliding the mane of red hair over the shoulder of the woman, tapping a line of white powder down her spine, a dot between each vertebra. She giggled, squirming beneath him, and he put a hand on her ass, squeezing hard, holding her still. “Don’t move.”
“Hurry.” She bounced back on his cock, the wet slide reawakening him, and he chuckled, leaning forward and taking the line, momentary spots of black in his vision before everything became blindingly, perfectly, clear.
The squeeze of her around his shaft. The bounce of her breasts as he rolled her onto her back.
The slow blink of eyelashes as she groaned, taking him fully in, the push of his thrust deep.
The dig of her heels into his lower back, the gasp of her mouth, the taste of her skin as he lowered his mouth to her.
“Oh my God, Chase.” Nails scraping across his back.
A sharp tug of his hair. Slick skin rubbing, his stomach against hers, her breasts hard against his chest. Her teeth dug into his shoulder.
She contracted around him and screamed his name, shrill and sharp, over and over, a record on terrible repeat.
He was close, his balls tightening, his grip on her harder, his thrusts quicker, when the hotel door slammed open, bright light in the dark space. He lifted his head, a curse on his lips, his body unprepared when hit with two hundred pounds of muscle.
Everything so clear. The fall of his body, away and out of her, his dick still hard, still ready, still close.
The huff of male breath, the smell of onion.
Pain in his shoulder, a hand on his chest, a fist coming down.
He ducked his head easily, pushing off, a bare hand against a T-shirt, the face hitting the light of the hall, a burst of recognition blaring.
Davis. Of course. He laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it all and pushed harder.
Another punch. Another easy miss. Everything so slow in this world of mortals.
He snapped up his elbow and watched the connection.
The widening of eyes, the crack of teeth, the connect of elbow and jaw, Davis’s head going back, hands limp, the edge of the dresser right there and finishing the job.
Davis out. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and stood, noticing the figure in the door—a woman from the hotel.
A manager. Cheap shoes. Mouth half open.
Face pale. Eyes darting, a ping-pong game of nervousness.
To his dick. To his chest. Back down again.
He twitched his cock and chuckled at her flinch, her eyes returning to his face.
He grinned, eye contact made, and winked. “Come on in, honey.”
The woman on the bed picked that moment to scream, a shock of red hair scrambling across the bed and to her husband’s side, a stream of Puerto Rican curses pouring out and directed at Chase. He smirked and glanced back to the door, his grin dropping when he saw the new face in the opening.
John Stockard. His and Davis’s manager. The head of the Dodgers’ MLB coaching staff. And he looked pissed.