Her hands slid into my hair, tugging my lips down to hers. I smiled into our kiss.
Mm, my girl gets off to dirty talk.
I had to stop thinking of her that way. Clarke wasn’tmygirl. She wasn’tmyanything. This was just a short-term fling, something to get Clarke out of my system before the season started.
Matty was right. We were both playing with fire.
Butgod,if the fire burned as hot as Clarke’s pussy . . .
She gasped when I added a third finger.
“You have to be quiet, baby.” I knew it wouldn’t be long now. For either of us. The sounds of my heavy breathing and her squelching cunt were enough to set me off. “You don’t want the whole team to hear me finger-fucking you through the door, do you?”
That had her squeezing the absolute hell out of my fingers.
“Such a naughty girl.”
“Yesss. . .”
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this.” I nipped at her bottom lip, swallowing her cry. “Are you going to come for me, Clarke?”
She bit her lip, nodding rapidly.
“Are you going to come all over my hand, you dirty fucking girl?”
When she shattered, I swallowed the sound, crashing my mouth down on hers. I crushed her against the door, rubbing her through the endless waves of orgasms, until finally, one of her hands covered mine.
“Too much?” I trailed a path of gentle kisses up her neck as she came down from her high.
“Just sensitive,” she choked out in between uneven breaths.
She tangled her fingers with mine, still covered in her juices, and removed them from her pants. Together we buttoned and zipped her pants, laughing when our foreheads accidentally knocked together. When she reached for the erection tenting my sweats, I looped my fingers through hers again.
She looked up at me with apprehension. “What about you?”
“Later. We’ve got a bus to catch.”
“But—”
“Believe me, blondie. The things I want to do to this pussy—this mouth—can wait until we reach the hotel.”
She tried (and failed) to hide her flushed face against my chest. I kissed her forehead, relishing the taste of sweat . . .
And peaches.Fuck me.
It was going to be a long bus ride.
Clarke
“And with that, Roasters lead the Gulls three-one, heading into the bottom of the ninth.”
As it turned out, I had severely misjudged just how long and boring baseball games were. And no number of tight buns in tighter baseball pants made up for that.
Well, maybe a little.
We’d been in Scottsdale for five days now, which meant five days of glorious sunshine, seventy-plus degree temperatures, and a hotel dresser full of shorts that showed off my legs—even if they were paler than usual.
Now that I was making a steady paycheck, I’d treated myself to a few new wardrobe pieces. Mostly shorts, a couple of skirts, and even a spaghetti strapped romper, each more colorful than the next. Gone were the days of my mother ranting like a lunatic about dresses with ice cream cones on them, as if the devil invented them himself. I was a color girly now.
