Pleasure slammed through me, sharp and blinding.
I cried out, my entire body seizing as I came hard, walls pulsing around his fingers in tight, rhythmic waves. Slickness coated his hand and dripped down his wrist.
He worked me through it, fucking me with slower, deeper thrusts until I collapsed against his chest, trembling and breathless.
Only then did he ease his fingers out and bring them to his mouth, licking them clean with a low, satisfied hum. “So. Fucking. Sweet.”
His arms wrapped around me then, one hand stroking my back while the other cupped the nape of my neck, holding me close as I floated back down to Earth.
“You alright?” he whispered, lips brushing my temple.
I nodded weakly. Aftershocks rippled through me, little sparks that made my thighs twitch.
Fierce heat rushed to my cheeks.
Here I was, dripping all over his lap, no doubt staining his favorite pair of jeans, and he was still rock-hard, throbbing against my mound. He hadn’t even taken his shirt off.
“God, that was so—” I buried my face in his neck, unable to finish the sentence. “And you didn’t even—”
Bennett’s quiet laugh rumbled under my cheek. He tipped my chin up gently with two fingers,thosefingers, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“Don’t be embarrassed about letting go like that,” he said softly, thumb brushing over my flushed skin. “Not with me. That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever experienced.”
I bit my lip, still unsure. “But what about you?”
“Believe me, baby, thatwasfor me.” The sincerity in his eyes melted the last of my embarrassment.
I exhaled, relaxing against him again.
“But just so you know,” he murmured, his smile turning a little wicked. “The next time you come, it’s going to be with my name on your lips.”
Bennett
It was official; the team trainer was going to have my ass tomorrow. But that was nothing compared to what Diaz was going to do to me when I told him that Jo could cook hisabuelitaunder the table.
I had spent the past hour eating my weight in guavaquesitos,washing them down with Jo’s seasonal cinnamon dolce latte. The kind with a light dusting of cinnamon on top and carefully crafted foam art that looked more like a cock and balls than a bat and baseball.
If I had to guess, I’d bet that Jo knewexactlywhat he’d drawn.
Generally, most people took one look at me—and my permanent case of resting Rottweiler face—and figured I drank my coffee black, but fuck that. I liked sweet shit as much as the next guy.
Flavored lattes, caramel drizzle, cookie bits on top—the works. And right now, with the sugar still buzzing under my skin and the warmth of the drink settling in my chest, I felt almost relaxed for once.
“Fuck, man.” I moaned around another bite of the flaky puff pastry stuffed with cream cheese. “What’s the Scratch Ankle, Alabama, way to describe how delicious this is?”
Matty leaned back in his chair, the late-morning light catching on the freckles across his nose and turning his strawberry-blond hair almost copper. He didn’t even have to think about it.
“So good it’ll make your tongue slap your brains out.”
I snorted, nearly choking. “Jesus, the South really has a saying for everything, don’t they?”
“In a town with a population of two hundred and twelve,” he said, holding up four fingers like I needed the visual. “You learn to talk colorfully or else die of boredom.”
Matty and I had spent many bus rides comparing our tiny ass hometowns. In fact, it was an ongoing, friendly competition between the two of us, one documented with multiple lists and categories in Pink’s game notebook—population size, town lore, historical landmarks, and so on. To guys like us, Rose City might as well have been Manhattan.
Would Smell as Sweet hummed around us. Jo was in his natural habitat behind the counter, calling out orders in that rapid-fire mix of English and Spanish he always slipped into when things got busy. The air smelled like cardamom and brown butter, and every time the door opened, a cold February gust rolled in, fighting with the warmth from the bakery’s ovens.
“Don’t change the subject,” Matty said, tapping his pen against the table. “I’m telling you, if we don’t stagger the fielding stations, the kids are going to bottleneck at third base. Again.”
