“I can, and I will. It’s my job.”
“Ican’t do it,” he said, stressing the first word with a hard thump on his chest.
I huffed out a breath. “Why not?”
I expected to hear some misogynistic rant about women reporters or something about team unity and him not wanting to be singled out. My mind was scrambling in a dozen, increasingly ridiculous directions. Aliens had told him not to do publicity or some other stupid excuse. The last thing I expected him to do was stare at me with raw pain in his face.
“I’m trying to save my career here,” he rasped. “My knees could crap out any time. One bad fall, one stupid ripple in the field, and I’m done as a catcher. But even with the best of luck, the wear and tear is going to make it hard for me to do my job much longer. I’ve got maybe a couple of seasons left before I either have to quit or switch positions.”
“I know that,” I argued, but he kept going.
“So I’ve pinned my hopes on becoming a great hitter. I have to get better at it.I have to.”
“I know that, too,” I said, my words getting more pointed.
“And you fuck with my concentration!” he snapped.
I blinked. “You’re stared at every day. You’ve got a million fans, not to mention the press—”
“It’s you!” he interrupted. “You.”
I rolled my eyes. “And what makes me so special?”
He didn’t answer at first, just gaped at me as if I had just sprouted a second head. But then he grabbed my shoulders with a curse, and before I could react, slammed his mouth down on mine.
The impact was hard and quick, the thrust of his tongue nearly brutal. But I’d just spent the last half hour fantasizing graphically about his mouth on mine, his body filling mine. So, while my mind was caught up in WTF?, the rest of me was already on board. Besides, we’d already kissed once before, so I knew just how spectacular it could be.
I wrapped my leg around him and pulled myself against him. My hands, which had been pressing against his chest, slid up and gripped his head, and our mouths dueled with each other as if we were trying to consume each other.
And then suddenly, he was pushing me away from him, hard enough that I stumbled and caught myself on the nearest sink. Our breathing sounded harsh in the tiled room. And when I looked up at him, I saw panic in his dark eyes.
“That’s why,” he growled.
Oh God, he growled, low and throaty, and my sex spasmed in reaction.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, and this time, there was a husky quality to his words.
“Like what?”
“Like you want more.”
“I do.” I don’t know what demon possessed me to say that. I had already decided that he was a safe fantasy because I would never—never—get together with a coworker. And yet here I was, nipples hard, panties wet, panting over a guy and staring at his hands. His hands! They were big and calloused, and they’d gripped that bat, swirling the thick part in a steady circle. And my clit throbbed.
He stalked forward, one slow, deliberate step at a time. Then he touched my chin, pulling my face up to his. And as he leaned down, I stretched up to him. But I didn’t connect. He didn’t let me, and when he pulled back, I made a sound of dismay.
“You were watching me bat,” he said with that raspy growl that trembled through me.
“Yes.”
“You were fantasizing about me?”
I nodded.
“Say it.”
“Yes!”
“I was, too. I was thinking about having my hands on you. About the sounds you’d make. The way I would lose myself in you.”
