His grin turned playful. “Ever take batting practice in an empty stadium?”
“I grew up with a baseball player for a brother. You’re going to have to do better than that to intimidate me.”
He lifted his eyebrows, impressed. “I think I can do that.”
Damn.Had one person ever been this turned on in a baseball stadium? Bennett always looked hot, but this was a special kind of sweat-soaked, grass-stained, good with children hot.
His skin was damp and flushed from hours on the field, and his athletic shirt clung in places that made it downright indecent. I found myself tracking the slow rise and fall of his chest without even meaning to.
His hair had grown out just enough that curls escaped from beneath his hat, springing free at the nape of his neck and around his temples.
And that headband. Damn.
Under his hat, Bennett wore a thin cotton headband to keep the rest of his hair out of his eyes. I hadn’t seen many menwear them before, except maybe during the occasional beach volleyball game, and yet somehow it worked for him.
And it was working for me, too . . . in a different kind of way.
He rolled the baseball between his palms, oblivious to the fact that I was standing there having a sexual awakening about headbands.
I followed him toward home plate without hesitation. Jared might’ve been the athletic Pink sibling—though, I doubted he could manage a fireman spin on my pole—but I had spent plenty of afternoons in backyards, hitting grounders until my hands buzzed.
Bennett handed me the bat, fingers brushing mine just long enough to make my stomach flutter with anticipation. “Care to make things interesting?”
“What did you have in mind?”
He smirked. “Strip batting practice.”
“Strip what now?”
“You heard me.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “Hit the ball, I take something off. Miss it, you lose your clothes.”
I should’ve hesitated or pretended to be scandalized. But there was no mistaking my excitement. “You’re on.”
Bennett’s grin turned downright wicked. Little did he know he wouldn’t be smiling for long.
I had already planted my feet in the batter’s box, shoulder-width apart, just like my brother had taught me, by the time he was set up on the pitching mound.
“First pitch is free,” he said, winding up with exaggerated seriousness.
Free my ass.
Actually, freehisass . . . from the constraints of those delicious pants.
The ball came in straight and lazy, practically floating toward the plate. I timed it perfectly, swung clean, and the satisfying crack echoed through the stadium as the ball rocketed down the right-field line.
I smirked over my shoulder. “Jacket, please.”
He laughed, shrugging out of his team windbreaker and tossing it onto the grass. “Lucky shot.”
His second pitch was faster—not bad for a catcher—and I fouled it straight back, the bat stinging my palms.
“Sorry, baby, that’s a miss,” he said, eyes gleaming. He didn’t move, just raised an eyebrow. “Your call.”
I rolled my eyes like it was no big deal, but my pulse was already racing as I peeled off my hoodie—well, his hoodie—and tossed it in the dirt. Brisk air hit my arms immediately, raising goose bumps under my thin long-sleeve.
The third pitch came in low and inside. I swung late, whiffing completely.
He didn’t even try to hide his satisfaction.
