A hand snaked out, pulling me inside. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark, but once they did, I saw red. Soren was grinning like an idiot. To borrow a line from tonight's film, I wanted to "wipe that face off his head."
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
I swiped at the air. “I can't believe you did that to me. Left me like that." I fumbled my words when those hooded, grayish-green eyes locked on mine. He stalked toward me, crowding me against the wall like a predator hunting its prey. I would be all too happy to let him have a taste. Or bite.
"Are you hurting, blondie?"
"You could have just—" I sighed, running a hand through my hair in frustration. "I wanted you to—"
"What?" He lowered his voice an octave before adding, "What do you want?"
He laced his fingers through mine, pushing my hands against the wall on either side of my face. My breath hitched when his hips pressed forward. I tilted my pelvis, arching into his burgeoning cock.
"Tell me, Clarke." The pressure building between us was reaching a fever pitch—pun intended. "What do you want?"
"I want you to make me come."
And then, as if a dam had been broken, the words poured out of me. The words I had spent years suppressing and, quite literally, payingfor.
"God, Soren," I moaned. "I want you to fuck me so bad. Please,pleasefuck me. So hard I feel you for fucking days."
His eyes darkened, just before he covered my mouth with his and gave me everything I had asked for.
And then some.
Soren
Spring Training: Week Three
We were down by five runs.
It wasn't looking good. Nothing was looking good.
The clouds had rolled in over an hour ago, and with them, came the wind. And the rain. Just enough to throw us all off our game—and send our opponents' balls soaring out of the park—but not enough to warrant a rainout.
We were already on our third pitcher, Diaz had been pulled out of left field after the fifth with a pulled hamstring, and I hadn't had a hit all game. It was naive to think that every game would go our way. Like every team, we'd seen our fair share of losses during the first half of Spring Training. Losses were inevitable, and there was nothing wrong with losing to a better team.
What I took issue with was playing like shit and losing to a mediocre team.
The Roasters might be new to the MLB, but none of us were new to baseball. You wouldn't know it, though, after watching today's disaster of a game. One that still wasn't over.
Knight was up to bat again. The asshole already had two doubles and a triple today. I groaned when I crouched forward into position. My knees were already barking at me—both of them—and we still had two innings to go. Fuck, thirty-four suddenly felt like sixty.
The crack of a bat had me springing forward. Straight into a brutal line drive that knocked my feet out from under me and had me landing on my knees.Mother. Fucker.
At least my shin had stopped the ball. Silver lining? More like a purple and green lining because there wasn't a doubt in mind that that was going to leave one hell of a nasty bruise.
I felt for the ball, firing off a throw from all fours—bad idea—just in time to beat the runner at second. What a way to end the inning. Now I just had to find the strength to limp back to the dugout. If only I could get my leg to withstand my weight.
"Shit, shit, shit," I grumbled under my breath. Suddenly, my bruised shin wasn't the only problem. My knee wasn't cooperating—stubborn fucker had popped out of place.
"Sinclair. You alright, man?"
I looked up. Matty and Tuck wore twin expressions of concern.
"Been better," I said, answering Matty.
"Your ankle?" Tuck asked.
