“Velma,” she cut in, grinning.
I pulled back just enough to give her a look. “Seriously?”
She laughed, wicked and unrepentant. “Don’t act surprised, coach. You knew what you were signing up for.”
I smirked and slid my hand lower, over the curve of her belly, teasing the waistband of her shorts. My voice turned rough again. “Once we getVelmasettled for the night, I’m still gonna lay you back and eat your pussy until you scream my name loud enough to wake the neighbors.”
Her breath hitched, her pupils blown wide as her nails dug into my shoulders. “Deal.”
Dani
Roasters 92–70
I’d once written a paper during my first master’s program about the validity of athletic rituals, seemingly silly things that players believed in like wearing a particular brand of briefs on gameday or drawing in the dirt before each at bat. And much like the sports psychologists who had come before me, I had concluded that these superstitions were, more than anything, a way to help a player feel grounded and focused.
I respected them, even found them fascinating to study, but I’d never really felt the pull of them myself. My brain leaned more toward facts and explanations, hence my obsession with true crime documentaries and horror films, my comfort watches.
Pink had even gotten me a book of children’s ghost stories, which I had taken to reading aloud to my belly at night. Brooks hadn’t exactly been thrilled about me introducing our baby to tales of haunted lighthouses and vengeful spirits before she was even born, but he put up with it, grumbling every time beforesettling in beside me anyway . . . so long as he could follow up whatever story I read with one of his own, lighter in tone.
I had never been the superstitious type myself. Not until Brooks had mademehis pregame ritual.
“That’s it,” he growled, breath hot against my ear. “Fuck me back, kitten.”
My palms were flat against the glass wall of my office, hours before the first pitch, the empty field stretched out in front of me. Rows of seats waiting to be filled, bases gleaming in the afternoon sun—none of it mattered. Not when Brooks’s body caged mine in, his naked, sweaty chest pressed to my back, his cock driving into me with enough force to make the window shudder under my hands.
“God, kitten, you’re soaked,” he rasped. “Like you’ve been waiting for this all fucking day.”
I had. And he knew it.
I moaned, forehead tipping against the cool glass as he filled me again and again, each stroke deeper than the last. My breasts bounced with every slam of his hips, nipples pebbling in the chilled air. He reached around, his calloused fingers closing over one tight peak, rolling it between his fingers until I gasped and arched into him.
The shock of pleasure tore through me, raw and sharp, making my pussy clench around him like I couldn’t bear to let him go.
Brooks groaned low, like he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get deep enough. “Look out there,” he ordered, voice wrecked, his breath hot against the side of my neck. “Empty seats, empty field. And you’re mine. Before anyone else gets a piece of me tonight, I’m getting all of you.”
I couldn’t even remember when it had started. Maybe that first home game after I’d shown up in his jersey on the jumbotron. Or maybe when he’d started sneaking into my office betweenbatting practice and first pitch. But at some point, it had become routine, unshakable as a lineup card.
Fine by me.
If Brooks needed to fuck me on every surface of the stadium to keep his wits—and hopefully get the win—who was I to complain?
“Look at you,” he ground out, voice rough against my ear. “Tits bouncing, pussy dripping all over me.”
“Yessss,” I choked out, my hips grinding back against him shamelessly, desperate for more. I could feel him everywhere, thick and heavy, filling me until my legs shook. “Harder, Brooks.”
His hand slid up, covering mine against the glass, pinning me in place while the other curved around my front, finding my clit and working me in rough, perfect circles. My cry bounced back at me in the empty office, loud and broken.
“Perfect, kitten,” he growled in my ear. “You’re my favorite goddamn lucky charm.”
My laugh broke into a gasp as he thrust harder, deeper, stealing every ounce of air I had left. “Pretty sure this is more for you than the team.”
His teeth scraped my shoulder. “Win-win.”
He bent me deeper, chest pressed to my back, hips pounding into me so hard my knees nearly buckled. His rhythm turned merciless, grunts punctuating every slap of skin. The pleasure was brutal, overwhelming, curling sharp and hot through my body until I was gasping, teetering right on the edge.
“Come for me, Dani,” he commanded, rubbing my clit harder, faster. “Let the whole damn world know who you belong to.”
If you insist . . .
