Temptation

By Amy Faye

Her body tingled, every nerve in her body waiting for him to touch her.

This book has three FULL LENGTH, standalone alpha bad boy romance. No cliffhangers, and a sexy HEA. Perfect for anyone who loves men that bite and scratch and make it oh so hard to love them!

• Language: English
• Publisher: HeartthrobPublishing
• Release date: Feb 14, 2019

Book preview

Chapter One

Catherine Bolton hasn't been out of the house in weeks. Six weeks, precisely, but that's not really the point. Well, it's also not entirely true. She's gone to work. She's gone to practice. But those feel like they're practically her house, too. They don't really count as going out, do they?

So really, she hasn't been out of the house in six weeks, even though she's been outside the house.

There are plenty of more important things in life than going out. The key to getting ahead in life is figuring out which things are important to you, and making decisions about which problems you want to have.

For her, the problems she want to have mean she doesn't go out a whole lot, doesn't eat to excess, and she really shouldn't drink. She's allowed to have one or two, though. Even Miss Abigail said so, which is why she's got a pint sitting in front of her.

She'd like to at least savor the fact that she's going off-plan for a little while. The place is noisy, too, which is strange and a little exciting. People leaning into each other, talking in voices that couldn't have been hushed over the too-loud music being pumped in through the speakers.

One pair separates now, her mouth practically pressed into his ears. He raises an eyebrow and gets a cocky smile. He's marginally attractive; not by Cathy's estimate but she at least knows some people would find that to be a good look.

He's leaning on a pool cue, and after a moment of smiling at the girl he's with, he picks it up and leans on the table instead. The crack of the cue hitting another ball is barely audible from this far away, but she can just about make it out.

She takes another drink. She shouldn't be having the calories. She's going to have to work out for an extra hour tomorrow to burn it off. Catherine's eyes glance around, the thought setting her on-edge. If she'd said something like that out loud, everyone would probably think she was crazy.

You don't go to a bar just to worry about your weight, not sane, normal people anyways. But she has to worry about it. Again, it's about the problems you want and making rational decisions with your brain, rather than just acting on instinct.

She's going to get into ballet. Not 'oh, wouldn't it be nice to take some beginner classes and maybe have a recital.'

Been there, done that. In fact, she's just finished with the last one about three weeks ago. Which is why now is a particularly good time to do her drinking, frankly.

No, she's going to get into ballet, like get into a wicked dance school and join a troupe in New York and get out of this shit-hole town.

But that wasn't the sort of thing that normal people did. They said they'd like to be famous, they'd like to get out of here—that was true wherever here was, but in the suburbs around Detroit, it's a bit more true—but then they would fuck around through high school, phone in college if they want, and then they'd get a decent job in a warehouse or working retail.

Then they'd look at their money, and they'd see that they've already lost the chance to go to Julliard. They're twenty-six years old and whatever limberness they had, in high school when they were doing dance once a week, it's gone. They're never going to be anyone but the person working at CVS.

Well, that's not who Catherine is. Catherine's the one who's going to make it, and that means that even though she wants to cut loose, cutting loose comes in the form of going out at all. Not from pretending that she's not drinking damn near five hundred calories while she sits here.

She glances around the room again. They banned smoking in bars a while ago, but some places still let you. At the highest level of competition, most dancers go nuts with stuff like that.

They can't eat a whole lot—a ninety-pound woman just isn't ever going to be able to do that, not if she wants to stay ninety pounds—and they can't go drinking. The day's too full between practice, sleep, training, and more practice if you've got any spare time.

So a lot of them turn to, you know. Quick fixes. A way to get yourself clear and fix your head without needing a whole lot of time. Cigarettes work great for that. Of course, the real choice tends to be uppers. Amphetamines, coke… caffeine isn't even on the radar any more. Whatever effects you used it for, it's not good enough.

Catherine's already looked at her options. She's already considered what it would take, what the payoff would be, and what the liabilities would be. Lot of liability. A whole hell of a lot of liability.

So she's not going to do that stuff. It's not going to help her in life to avoid it, but it's not going to help her to go for the stuff, and she's going to keep her money, thank you. That's the important part of life is knowing that you can walk away with your money if you want to.

Dance is what she wants to do. What she's always wanted to do. But it's not something you do forever and eventually, when her feet are fucked—they're already starting to look weird from going on pointe, but that's normal—and her joints don't want to work any more, she'll at least need to have some money so she's not a tired, broken wreck of a woman.

Catherine looks around the room again. People split up into groups of two or three, with a single table of four where some people are here on what looks like a double date. A guy walks in alone; he's got a good body. He could probably have made a good dancer, if he'd put work into it.

His clothes make it hard to say anything for certain, heavy jeans and a jacket. He's got a Tigers cap that is pulled down over his face a little. But from what she can tell, he's got muscle, enough to be able to do lifts.

Other than that, he's long-limbed and moves with an easy grace that tells her immediately that there's more to him than whatever she might be thinking. She can't see much, under that cap, but from what she can see, he's pretty cute.

She takes a deep drink, and she's surprised to find that it's the last mouthful of the glass. She shouldn't get another, but then again she shouldn't have had the first one. She's got permission for two and she'll be God damned if she's not going to have a second. Dance is her chosen profession, but it doesn't control her God damned life.

She picks up her glass and slides out of the booth, heading toward the bar. It's hard not to notice that there's no real space. Over on the left are the singles that had come in and then immediately paired off to try to get laid ASAP.

She wasn't interested in that, and wasn't interested in going over towards them at all if she could help it. She didn't want them getting the wrong impression. It wasn't that she didn't want to get laid. She didn't want to sleep around with some random stranger.

The only alternative, then, had already been picked by him. The man in the cap. She leans onto the bar next to him and waits for him to finish talking.

He's got a good voice, too. To match his good body. Closer up, she can see his face better. She's got to reassess her previous opinion, because he's not good-looking. He's not kinda cute.

He's God damned gorgeous—high, prominent cheek bones, his cheeks just a little bit sunken, and a strong jaw that's just masculine enough.

He finishes his order and the bartender looks over at her. She points at her empty glass and he nods. And then the guy next to her turns, nothing to drink in front of him yet.

You from around here?

Why?

I'm new in town, you're cute. What else is there, really?

Sure, then. I'm from around here, more or less.

What's 'more or less?'

Well, I'm not from here, this bar, specifically, no. But go a few miles south of here, and that's where I'm from, so—more or less.

He rolls his eyes a little, but his smile tells a different story. Catherine gets ready to settle into the conversation.

I'm Catherine. You?

Chapter Two

It should have been obvious, but somehow, the thought that she was going to ask him what his name was hadn't even occurred to him. Like. Not even a little bit. Now he felt more than a little bit like an idiot.

Still, he'd gotten himself into this mess, come in with every intention of this being a quiet night and now he'd gotten himself into a chat somehow without thinking she'd ask his name.

Jeffrey Hess. He keeps his face straight, because cringing when you say your own name isn't great.

She doesn't react, which is good. If previous encounters were any indicator, about half the people in the city knew at least enough about baseball to have heard his name, and the minute someone said it loud enough to be heard, then someone in the room would need autographs.

There was no damn way that he was interested in that kind of thing right now. His dad and him were still settling into the city. He didn't need to get a ton of attention—not even attractive female attention—from fans of a team he hadn't even officially signed for yet.

Nice to meet you, Jeff. What brings you to town? Business, or pleasure? She emphasizes the word 'pleasure' a little too much and then giggles at herself.

Business? I guess? I'm—I don't know. Don't worry about it.

Oh, wait, shit. Were you in, like. Some newspaper?

Maybe, but you're going to have to be more specific.

She shrugs. I can't. I just remember seeing something about a Hess, at work.

That could've been anyone.

No, it couldn't, she counters. The bartender sets his drink down in front of him. He takes a mouthful, and it goes down smooth, so he takes a second.

Okay, you're right. Anyone with my last name.

There you go. That's true.

She's got a pint of something pale; when the bartender brings it back, she wraps her fingers around it. She's attractive. She's got a waist thin enough he could practically put his hands around it in a big circle.

He lets his eyes drift a little south of her face, just for a moment. For such a small girl, she's got a surprisingly… feminine figure. Surprising indeed. Surprising and erotic.

She leans forward and he gets a little view down her shirt a ways. The way her bra presses her breasts together. His eyes flick back up to her face.

So what is it you do, Catherine?

Cathy, please.

Okay, Cathy. What is it you do?

I'm a student.

Oh yeah? What subject?

You have to promise not to laugh.

Why would I laugh?

I don't know. Shut up. Just don't laugh, okay?

I promise not to laugh. Probably.

She gets an exaggerated annoyed expression on her face. Then maybe I'll tell you. Probably. Eventually.

Fine, fine. I won't laugh. Promise.

I'm a dancer.

Like. You mean a dancer, right? That's not a euphemism or something?

Wait, what? Do you mean, like, 'by dancer do you mean stripper?' No, I'm not a stripper.

Are you sure? You could have a lot of success with it, I think. Might be a solid backup career.

She rolls her eyes. I'll keep it in my back pocket.

See? I'm helping you out already. I mean, I'd pay to see it.

Oh yeah?

She leans forward again and gives him a glance again. Whether it's intentional or not, he's not sure. But he tries not to gape openly anyways.

Well, I mean. If you were offering.

Too bad, then, she says, straightening back up. I'm not that kind of dancer. I do ballet, mostly. Can't afford to specialize too much, if you want to get work. But that's what I do.

You any good?

If I wasn't, I'd probably say something like 'I'm a cashier.'

True.

What do you do?

Okay, don't get weird about it, though.

I already told you mine, don't go acting like now you're some kind of hot shit.

I'm a pitcher.

Like, a baseball guy, you mean.

He hadn't thought of it quite that way. Like the full sum total of his career was 'baseball guy.' But it did fit.

Sure.

You any good?

I'm talking to the Tigers right now. Just waiting on the ink to dry, more or less.

More or less?

There's little things. Nothing too big.

What's that mean?

What do you mean, what does that mean? The terms of the deal aren't set in stone. But I mean, they have contacted me, they paid for the move.

So things are pretty serious, then.

You could say that, sure.

But would you say that, though.

I did say that.

So you're going to be in town a while.

Maybe.

His drink is empty, but it only takes a moment to signal to the bartender that he'd like another, and a minute later he's got a glass half-full.

What's 'maybe?'

They tell me where to go. They trade me, I go somewhere else.

Well, I'm not staying here. No chance.

No? Don't like Detroit? She looks at him with an expression of such impressive disdain that he can't help but smile. That's a no, then.

I wouldn't piss on this city if it were on fire.

That's a fairly strong sentiment, if you don't mind me saying.

I'm getting the hell out of here next summer, moving to New York. I can't stay here.

Why are you here now?

Because I can't afford New York housing on Michigan wages.

Good call, then.

She smiles. I thought so, too.

Yeah, you might have that one correct.

A brief silence. She's still smiling. Finally Jeff breaks it. You know, you could always offer to buy me a drink. You have to watch your figure, of course, but if you've got money to burn—

Wish I did.

Well, you know. It's the thought that counts. You can buy me a drink, and we'll pretend you're going to pay for it, and that way you can admit that you're attracted to me without having to, you know, say it out loud. And then, when the time comes to settle up, you just pout a little and ask if he'll take an I.O.U.

Who says I'm attracted to you? She raises an eyebrow, but she's still playing the game, and he knows it.

You know who I am, don't you?

I know who plenty of people are. You think I'm attracted to Danny Devito, too?

I'm not Danny Devito, though, am I?

She shrugs.

That's one theory. If I had to pick between the two of you… well, I'd have to have the opportunity.

Jeff snorts. Cathy's got a mouth on her, that's for sure. And soon, if he has his way, it'll be on him, too. A good first night in the city, that's for sure. A very good night.

Chapter Three

Catherine shouldn't have been in the bar in the first place. So she shouldn't have been there when he arrived, and she sure as hell shouldn't have been talking to him. She didn't talk to boys. The only ones who she knew were dancers, and… she doesn't need to go over again why she's not going to date one of them.

Her mother was always going on about it, about how she needed to find a guy or her uterus was just going to shrivel up and die before she knew it. Maybe that would have been better.

Her uterus certainly hadn't shriveled up yet, though. That was for sure. Because she was very conscious of just about every part of her that made her a girl. The way he looked at her, the way his eyes raked across her skin was like he was undressing her with his eyes from the first instant.

You want to get out of here? His voice is just loud enough to hear over the music, still pumping through the speakers loud enough that you could feel every bass drum kick in your teeth.

What's that supposed to mean?

It's too loud to talk, don't you think?

Talk. Sure, that's what he was interested in. That was the fire burning in his eyes. His lower brain focusing hard on what it would be like to talk to her. Sure.

She leans in close to him. I'm not that kind of girl.

That's fine. But it's still too hard to talk in here.

She shrugs. He's not wrong. But where the hell else are they going to go? She's not going back to his hotel room 'just to talk' or to get another drink, or anything like that.

An image flashes through her of what that would be like. What that would feel like. Her knees wobble a little under her, and she settles her weight a little more on the stool underneath her hip.

He drops a couple of bills on the counter and starts moving towards the door. He doesn't ask before he takes a grasp on her hand. It's not tight, and she could pull away, but she lets him pull her toward the door.

The feeling of his skin on hers is good. He's got soft hands, not anything like she'd expected from a sports guy. he must take good care of them. Then again, no doubt they're the most important part of his job, if his job is throwing baseballs all day. She lets him pull her out into the cold night air.

She shouldn't be going out there. She's going to finish her drink and go home. She's got to be up early to train before work. She's not going to go home just yet, though. Not the way things are going tonight.

The evening chill hits her in the face as he opens the door. Her skin gets real sensitive, and now what had been a comfortable guiding hand, attached to an attractive young man, burned her skin with his warmth. She imagined those hands in other places, doing other things.

He walks her over to a tall truck and leans his back against it.

Sorry if you're a little cold. I have a coat in the back. He gestures towards the truck cab with his coat.

You're just trying to get me in private, aren't you? Her face is flushed and hot. Whether it's from the drinking or from the attention, Cathy doesn't know.

You can't blame a guy for trying, can you? Pretty girl like yourself.

And flexible, too, she adds, before she realizes what she's saying. Then her face is really hot. I. Uh. Didn't mean that.

No, please. Go on. Tell me more, he says. He's close to her, now. His body feels good against hers. Something might have been pressing against her hip. Something he makes no mention of, and she doesn't know how to respond to exactly. Something that she shouldn't be as interested in as she definitely is.

I really should get home.

And miss this lovely conversation?

Is that what this is?

For now, he says, and he winks.

What else would it be, Jeff?

You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?

I don't know what you're talking about.

Cathy leans back against the truck and stretches her back. She enjoys the way that he looks at her, even as he no doubt wants to pretend that he isn't doing it.

Oh, I'm sure you don't.

I'm sure I don't, either. Do you want to tell me what I'm doing?

He smiles. An aggressive smile, almost angry. One that says that he likes a challenge, and one that says that he definitely sees her as a challenge. She almost melts under that look. Under who it's coming from.

Well, if you're not sure, I have an early morning tomorrow. Supposed to go meet with some suits to finalize contract things.

I have an early morning, too. I guess I should get going.

He pulls out his phone. Before you go, just in case I need that twenty bucks back, how am I supposed to reach you?

Cathy considers for a moment. How is he supposed to reach her? He isn't. Nobody is. She's barely got time in her day to do anything by herself, never mind with someone else.

Her blood pumps thinking about what kind of trouble she could get herself up to with a guy like this, though. She's found time in her day before. She'll find it again.

Give me that.

She taps her number into his phone and sends herself a message. Then she hands it back. There you go.

He looks down at it, where she's typed 'Hey, sexy' to herself. He's got a smile on his face when he cocks an eyebrow.

You've got a very high opinion of yourself, don't you?

You don't think I'm sexy?

She can see the way he grinds his teeth together.

Where would you get that idea?

Are you saying you do think I'm sexy, then?

I didn't say anything at all.

No, I guess you didn't. If you don't think I'm attractive…

I didn't say that, either.

Then tell me. You think I'm hot, don't you?

Climb in the passenger seat and we'll find out, he counters.

She leans into him, her hands on his chest. His arm wraps around her waist, pulling her in closer. Her face is inches from his, his face filling her vision. He's really as good-looking this close up as he was before, which is a surprise all by itself.

She can smell the cologne he uses—not overdone, just enough to hint at a vaguely woodsy scent. It's attractive and just enough to get the message across. Just enough to be tempting at this distance. But she can't afford to be tempted.

Maybe later, she says, and pulls away. She can see his teeth grinding again. It looks hot, accentuates his already-attractive jawline.

I'm going to hold you to that.

You'll have to catch me first, she answers, and heads away. Her keys come out easily. The alcohol isn't getting to her too much. Two glasses isn't so much.

What's really got her intoxicated is the tingling running all through her insides. The question of just how much trouble she could have gotten up to if she'd let herself.

And how much trouble she could still get up to later, if he'd still let her.

Chapter Four

His arm wasn't sore, which was strange and uncomfortable. He should have been throwing more. He should have been working it. If he didn't train a little, he'd get soft. He'd lose track of his game.

There would be time to do it later. But skipping out on morning practice just for a little meeting with some suits, missing out on training… he forces his face to stay positive, even as his mood sinks further.

Why the hell does he even have to deal with this stuff? There's nothing for him to do, not really. There might be some argument in favor of him joining in these talks if he was actually going to do or say anything in it. But he won't. Dad's not going to let that shit happen. No way in hell.

Mr. Hess, Jeff. Nice to see you both.

The voice from the doorway almost surprises him. Head down. Nothing to worry about at this point. No reason to worry about any of it in the first place. They're past the point where you worry about stuff.

I know it's a Saturday, and you've probably both got other things to take care of today. We'll be talking to each other for several days, so we'll keep things short today.

Good. That meant more time for practice. Well, no. That was too charitable.

More accurately, it meant that he was losing less of his time. That whatever time they were going to spend, he wasn't spending now.

How's the arm?

Jeff looks up, realizing somewhere in the back of his mind that they're clearly speaking to him, but at the same time not quite registering the comment.

I asked how's your arm.

Oh. Fine. Better than fine. Feels great.

It was only half a lie. It felt better than normal, even. And if he didn't beat it back into shape, then that would be when the problems started. Some guys like to stay fresh all the time. They train, and then give themselves a day, two days, maybe three, to rest before games.

It means that they can bring some real god damn heat when they start. Stuff that Jeff dreams about. Oh, he's fast. Nobody's ever doubted that he's fast. But he could be something even more special if he took a few days off and let himself rest.

Then after three innings, when his shoulder started to get a little tired, he'd have already lost ten miles an hour on his fastball. Now instead of having staying power, he'd be sitting there in the fourth with batters who've all been watching his 102, now they're swinging at 90s.

He'd get creamed, and he'd get creamed bad. So he doesn't do that sort of shit because it's a bad career move for him. Maybe the other guys can make it work. Jeff doesn't risk it. He stays tired. He goes out tired, and for six to eight innings, he stays just about tired.

Right around the time that he hits 'exhausted' is when he finishes his workouts. Including warm-up, 115 pitches or so in a game. Workouts can be upwards of 200, so really he never gets that tired in a game. By the time a coach pulls him, he's just about starting to feel it.

Dad's talking about numbers. There's not much point in listening. He learned that when he was thirteen. There was no point in listening to the numbers because if there was ever a question, the answer was, 'we'll talk about it later,' and then later the answer would be 'don't worry about it.'

So it's an easy choice. He lets Dad worry about it, or he gets all bent out of shape. It's not like Dad's skimming the money. He doesn't need it, after all. He's already got plenty of his own. Besides that, ten percent is plenty.

What do you think, Jeff?

I'm just excited to be joining the organization, he says. It's what he always thinks. Keep his mouth shut, talk the options over with Dad well in advance, and once Dad knows what he thinks let Dad make the calls.

That's the first thing that he learned in sports. Listen to Coach. Let Coach decide what you're doing. There's no reason to think too hard. An athlete who thinks too hard is an athlete who under performs.

Too many players get it in their head that they can outsmart their coach. Sometimes, they're not wrong. Occasionally. But if you are afraid of that happening, you chose the wrong coach in the first place.

Jeff Hess has never chosen the wrong coach, because he knows where his priorities are. Ever since he felt that sting in his fingers, all the blood forced right into the tips—since he felt the soreness in his shoulder that came from throwing a little leather-wrapped ball as hard as he could whip his arm—he knew what he wanted to do.

Dad recognized it, too. Developed it. And ever since then, through middle school, through high school and into college, the first question was always, 'who's coaching there' and 'do they know their ass from a hole in the ground?'

That way, you get the synergy that you need. First of all, trust the coach. Second, trust the catcher. Third—if you've got any doubts about the call, shake him off. If he insists, see numbers one and two, and throw the god damn ball.

Dad leans in close, and Jeff goes from halfway listening to all-the-way listening.

Things alright? You seem a little quiet.

Just don't have anything to add, he says back.

You sure?

Sure.

Good. Let's get home, then. I gotta get ready.

So did Jeff. Had to work the ball. Had to get his hands around it. The last words he'd gotten from Coach in college was that he could really do with a third pitch. Good advice.

His fingers still felt strange, spread out like that, and he needed to throw another hundred or so before he could start doing anything else for the night. After a few thousand pitches, it would feel as natural as anything.

There was something else, too. A thought nagging at the back of his mind. She was only a little thing, five-two maybe, and couldn't be more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.

And apparently, he added at the last minute as a faint smile spread across his face, she was flexible, too.

Chapter Five

The fundamental problem, the reason that she didn't try to go out more often, was that no matter how much she did the night before, no matter how much things seemed like they'd changed…

Well, the more things change, the more they stay the same. And every time that she seemed like she might really be throwing things off-track, the next morning showed up and then it was routine and schedule and she was focused on making sure that everything worked.

Sure as hell not focused on boys. Not focused on one boy in particular, who she couldn't help noticing hadn't texted her. Maybe he was just letting it go. If he was half as busy as she was, no doubt he didn't have much time to text her anything.

But even still, the shift seemed long. Longer than usual. Because every time that she left the register to go do anything actually useful—her 'real' job, the stuff that doesn't just keep happening all day—she just naturally checked her phone.

Every time, she realized that she was more disappointed than she'd thought she would be. After the first couple of hours, though, things got a little easier. After all, she could only afford to split her attention so much.

She couldn't get fired from this job. There were hundreds of other people out there hungry for work. They were there all the time, asking about applications. It was only because she was a hard worker that she could stay in the position.

Maybe it wasn't fair to them. Maybe she should let someone else have a shot at it, for a while. But that would mean giving up the income, and she relied on that. It was only by saving up that she could afford tuition at any of the schools that would actually ensure her career moving forward.

She wouldn't have time, never mind energy, to get a job in New York. Which ignored the very real possibility that, with her split schedule and limited time, she could struggle to find the work to be done.

No, she needed as much as she could to cover room and board. She'd force her way into as many scholarships—shit, the thought flashes through her head. She hasn't done her video submission for grant submissions. She makes a mental note. At evening home study she'd do that.

The work is mind-numbing. And after a while, it's easier not to think about him. After all, it's not that he's not texting her. It's that he's giving her space. He's busy and he's waiting a little while. Really, it's nothing weird.

Her phone buzzes, and she jumps, dropping a party-sized bag of M&Ms on the carpet. It lands with a plop right on her foot. Cathy picks it up and puts it on the shelf before she lets herself check her phone.

A little drum roll goes off in her head, preparing her for the text. Is it going to be flirty? Friendly? Professional? Distant? Is he going to jump straight on the sexting train?

Her teeth are almost chattering as she jabs the power button, and the screen jumps to life. The text itself is distant. But then again, Mom's texts always were.

She's on her own again for supper. There's a ten dollar bill on the fridge, if she needs it.

She won't, of course. There's no reason that she would. She can't go out. Where would she even go if she could? Where would she be able to guarantee that she's got the right calorie intake?

They're all crazy. Everything is too high, and she's already got food all ready. No reason to go out. So she isn't going to. Still, the ten dollars will go a long way, considering she didn't pay for it. It'll serve for a few days' worth of groceries, at least.

The door opens, and Cathy leans out to see who's come in. She jerks her head back behind the rack as soon as she does. He's not supposed to be here. He's supposed to text her. Or more likely, leave her alone. Never talk to her again.

She'll go back to being some nobody, back to never having any time for anything. It's easier than having to go out and find time and have fun. Relies less on her feeling good, which she never does and never will. Why would she feel good? Why would something good happen?

Small world.

His voice is deep and rough and tired, and he looks as good as he ever did.

Oh, hey, she says. She doesn't look up, just packs the M&Ms from the box onto the shelf without looking. Maybe if she doesn't look up, he won't see the deep red blush that she can feel spreading like a fire across her cheeks.

How was morning practice?

Fine. Why won't he leave? She's not supposed to be here. She's supposed to be attractive and mysterious and cool. Now the hot guy she met at some bar, completely by coincidence when she shouldn't even have been there, is squatting down next to her. In her shit retail job.

You want me to go? I was just getting a bottle of water.

They're over— she turns and loses her balance a little. She catches herself, but not before she tips right into him. His arms reflexively wrap around her shoulders.

Watch out, Cathy. Lucky thing I was here to make sure you weren't hurt.

He lets his hands loose of her, and she's not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. All the blood in her body is in her face now. It burns like a son of a gun and she wants nothing more than just to be left alone, to forget any of this ever happened.

You going to be alright?

I'm fine, she says. She tries desperately to cling to the fake personality that she uses with customers, but all she can think about is how well they'd hit it off the night before. How she couldn't stop thinking about him all morning.

Good.

She stands up and gets her balance again. Water bottles are in a cooler in the corner.

I know, but I saw you, and I thought I'd say hey.

Hey yourself.

She leans over to pick up the next box and starts loading that onto the shelf. Maybe if she just ignores him, he'll go away. She hopes to hell so.

Then another customer comes through the door and she peeks her head out again, and the spell is broken because he's standing at the counter tapping on it with the side of his thumb, and she's got work to do.

Excuse me, sir, can I help you?

He wants a pack of cigarettes, and by the time that she's done dealing with him, the pitcher from the night before is gone. Evidently without his water bottle.

She lets out a breath that she's been holding since she first saw him, only able to get rid of half her air at any time for fear that the rest will be pushed out by the pressure of being around him.

The rest of the day is slow. He still doesn't text, which isn't very damn sensitive, she notes with no small amount of annoyance.

Which makes it a real surprise when she steps outside and hears his voice calling to her from the first spot in the lot.

Cathy, you got somewhere to be?

She leans into his window. Why?

Because I've got a free evening and a bad idea.

Chapter Six

If there's one thing that baseball teaches a player—this goes double for pitchers—it's that sometimes, you swing and you miss, and there's no shame in it. If he allows a hit per inning—that's one in three—then he's not doing his job.

His WHIP is going to tank. Then in his next contract negotiation, he loses a hundred grand because now he's not some up-and-coming star.

So he can't exactly afford to be upset every time something doesn't go his way. Besides, he could see in her eyes. It wasn't that she wasn't interested.

He'd caught her off-guard. He'd thrown a pitch she wasn't expecting and she'd swatted the ball off foul. But that was just the beginning of the game. They were still getting started.

Which meant that like he always did—he just had to try again. Get back up on the mound and throw another. The metaphor fell apart when he realized he was hoping to hit a home run—not strike out.

He should cut off the train of metaphors before it pulls into the station and—god damn it. His phone fit into his hand comfortably and the weight was a comfort in his hand. His arm felt good again, just barely too tired to really do his best work.

Just enough of a workout that he can keep that razor-honed edge. And now he's got time for something else. Her number is right there. The text from last night is still there, too.

'Hey, Sexy.'

He smiles. Yeah, that sounds about right. But he can't afford to leave it there, can he?

'What are you wearing?'

He clicks the button to send it, and an instant later, it pops up in the log. He sets the phone down. Maybe she'll bite. Maybe she won't. You don't get a hit by watching every pitch go by. Sometimes you have to be proactive.

All the time, really. He imagines her getting the text. Imagines her looking down at her clothes, deciding whether or not to go along with it, or to play it straight. She seems like the sort of girl who would think about it. There's charm in it that he can't deny.

His phone buzzes.

'Just about to get into the bath. ;)'

His heart rate jumps. She decided to play along, huh? Arousal spreads through his gut.

'Hot date tonight?'

'Wouldn't you like that.'

'You know I would. You'd like it, too, trust me.'

The churning in his stomach, the nagging thought of where the conversation is no doubt going to go, makes his jaw feel tight. He moves it from side to side, trying to loosen it up, but that just makes it feel tighter.

The phone buzzes in his hand before he's even put it down.

'Oh yeah? What would I like about it?'

Some part of him wants to treat her like a child. Is she ready for what he's dealing out? He knows that's a mistake almost as soon as the thought occurs to him. If she's not ready, then she'd better get ready. And she will get ready, like it or not.

'You'd love the way my tongue feels.'

He can feel the arousal spreading from his stomach to his cock, already stirring to hardness.

'I'm imagining it right now.'

'Are you touching yourself?'

His skin feels sensitive, his throat tight. The inability to do anything about any of it just drives him to stronger arousal.

'Do you want me to be?'

'Yes.'

'I'm all alone. I can afford to be as loud as I want.'

'God that sounds hot.'

'So tell me. What would you do for me that my fingers aren't doing for me right now?'

'I want to fuck your throat so bad.'

Jeff's hand pressed against his cock through the thick fabric of his jeans absent-mindedly. Don't do anything about the arousal. Just let it settle in. But Jesus did he want it.

'How soon could you make that happen?'

'Give me a place.'

She takes a minute to respond. Whether she's thinking it over or not, he's not clear. But then he gets his answer. An address, with a little line under it. One that says that it's as simple as clicking it and his phone will tell him how to drive the route.

'I can be there in 10 minutes.'

His stomach does a flip in his stomach and he pulls the keys off the counter and slips them into his pocket on the way out the door.

His cock is already hard to the point of forming a tent in his pants. His phone buzzes as he's slipping into the driver's seat and turning the ignition. There's only one word in the message and it makes his hardness throb:

'Hurry'

Chapter Seven

Whatever had gotten into her, it was wriggling around in her stomach. She must have shifted in her seat a dozen times in the first minute, and the tension only got worse from there.

Was she misunderstanding things? Maybe she was. She'd never really done anything like this before. She'd heard about it, on TV and stuff. Heard about girls at school doing stuff like this. But it wasn't really her, and it never had been. She didn't have time or inclination to find a guy to do it with.

But now one had fallen into her lap and her skin felt like it was on fire with the idea that he was going to come over, and show her all of the things she'd missed out on all these years.

She stood up and checked out the window. If she stood and stared, though, she'd seem desperate, wouldn't she? No, she doesn't want to seem desperate.

Even the texts themselves had been… Jeez, that was hard. Her fingers had been trembling. Did she sound like some kind of awful slut or something? Was she being too easy?

What did it matter if she was being slutty? It wasn't like she'd ever see him again. And even if she did see him again, which was unlikely, what did it matter if she had a little reputation with one guy?

Who wouldn't sleep with a pro baseball player, anyways? Having sex with sports stars was some kind of dream. Anyone would kill to do it. But that didn't mean she could afford to let herself go, either.

God. She's getting all turned around. The sound of a car pulling up outside told her that either Mom was home early—something she'd very specifically said not to expect—or he was here. Ten minutes almost exactly. Nine.

Her phone buzzed. 'I'm outside.'

She doesn't answer it. She'll give him his answer when he gets inside. A minute later, shoes on the paving stones outside. A knock on the door. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could feel it in neck as she reached toward the door handle, and then when she opened it…

Hey. He's better-looking today. Which seems almost impossible, but he's managing it somehow. A black t-shirt fits tight around his ribs, showing off his figure better than he had shown it off the day before. He looks exactly as good as she'd expected. Maybe better.

Hey. She stepped back from the door. He stayed outside.

Come on, he says. He doesn't say it like it's an order, but he doesn't look like she's got the option of refusing, either.

What's going on?

You haven't eaten, have you?

She hadn't. What's that got to do with anything?

Come on. I'm taking you to dinner.

I thought we were going to—

I know what you thought. But I'm not going to just come over and—dessert comes after dinner, don't you think?

She took the spare key from the peg by the door and stepped outside, only half-certain about his logic.

Oh, wait— She turned and fit the key into the lock in a hurry. I left my money inside.

His hand on hers set her skin on fire. Don't worry about it.

Are you sure?

Of course I'm sure.

She takes a deep breath. Okay. She can do this. She slips the key into the pocket of her dress. It's not a large key ring, but it barely fits into the pocket. Damn girl pockets.

It's easy to step up into the truck. It's a little high off the ground, but she's had to use her legs for much more strenuous activities before, in much worse positions. Even in a dress, it's not so bad.

Physically, that is. Because getting into the truck is one of the hardest things she's had to do. Her heart thumps loud in her chest, so loud that she's amazed that Jeff can't hear it sitting in the driver's seat.

He's smiling as she slides in, though, even as she pushes down the hem of her dress to cover her thighs a little better. Maybe the modesty is pointless. For a minute she'd considered just cutting to the chase and answering the door with nothing on at all, but…

Then it had seemed a little forward. So she put clothes on. And now she was getting into a truck and heading out, so clothes were definitely the right call. Go Cathy.

So how was work? The question is too strange. Too banal. Too much about her. It was so completely out of left field that she must have misheard him.

What?

Work. How was it?

It was fine, I guess. She'd seen him after work. How did she look to him, after all that? Couldn't have been that good. No way. She probably looked like all hell. Which was how she always looked. How was your thing this morning?

It was fine. Just wanted to get home through the whole thing.

Little did you know that only a few hours later, you'd be wanting to get out of the house again.

I finished with practice. So I mean… Jeff shrugged. Whatever, right?

Sure. Where are we going anyways?

He smiled. That's a good question.

Then he jumped on the freeway, and before she knew it, she had just as little idea where he was going as he must have had. In town for what must have been less than a week, and he was already going to mystery restaurants? A bold decision.

She climbed out and looked up at the place, then looked down at her clothes. It seemed too nice. And beyond too expensive. No, there was no chance in hell that—

His arm wrapped around her shoulder and he led her toward the door. Cathy was too shell-shocked to think of any way out of it. So she let him guide her inside. She'd never had Japanese food before. And she'd sure as hell never been to any fancy Japanese grill.

Was a twenty-dollar dress from the clearance rack really going to let her fit in? Not that she had much of a choice at this point. Jeff put one hand on the door handle confidently and pushed it open, held it as he guided her inside.

Table for two, please.

Can I have a name?

Jeff.

Thank you, sir. It'll be just a few minutes.

By the time they brought her to the table—which was really a large, wide flat surrounded by a bar—she realized she was leaning in, laughing at his jokes, and the only question that she had was how soon they could get to 'dessert' after all.

Chapter Eight

His food wasn't getting cold any more, because he'd finished it. So there was nothing wrong with sitting there, watching her. Well, nothing except that Jeff could see that she hated it. But that didn't stop him from doing it. Not much was going to, because he wasn't going to just not look at such a pretty girl.

How's your food?

She looks like she's about to lose her mind. How little food can she eat that she's sitting there poking at it like she wants to eat more but can't physically fit any more in her mouth?

Oh gosh, it's great, but just—

Is too much? the chef offers. He's standing there, too. It's a strange experience all told. Not one that Jeff's had before. Presumably, from the way that her eyes were wide as saucers for a while, neither had Cathy.

Too much. Yeah.

The Japanese guy's at least as old as Jeff's father, but he's got a sort of rough-hewn look to him and when he smiles, it looks as natural as can be. Which Jeff's never described his father as, not even once.

Good?

Incredible! She immediately throws herself into trying not to be rude for leaving food there, explaining between bites how wonderful it is, even as she tries to stuff her cheeks like a squirrel to get as much food inside her body as she can.

The smile widens. So does Jeff's. This was a good choice, whether she can finish the food or not. He does, however, have to try not to think too hard about the check. His normal day, he barely spends ten dollars on everything. One of the perks of being busy all the time, and having several people willing to just give you stuff, all at the same time.

But it doesn't really matter. He can more than afford it. It's just that the sticker shock always hits whenever he actually has a chance to spend anything.

She's trying to communicated her pleasure with the smile she's got on her face. It's not hard to see that she thinks that she ought to punish herself for not finishing her food. Or at least, she thinks that someone else will think that she should be punished, and she's not willing to fight with that person.

She should have worn a jacket, he thinks as she shivers on the way out. He's got one in the back seat of the truck, but he hadn't brought it out to the restaurant, and now that the sun's dipping below the skyline, the afternoon warmth is fading fast.

So you liked it, huh?

Oh gosh, yes. Loved it.

Good. Cold?

Just a little. I'll be fine.

The walk to the truck is short, but by the time they get their she's got her arms wrapped around her. It creates an appealing valley between her breasts. Jeff almost felt sad when she slipped into the warm car and that valley started to go away.

But you didn't like it as much as you like me, though, huh?

She looks over at him, a gentle smile spreading across her face. What makes you say that?

I can just tell, I guess. I can read your mind.

Oh yeah? What am I thinking?

You're thinking that I'm not going to guess what you're thinking.

She raises her eyebrow. Nope.

Sure you're not. What are you thinking then, miss unreadable?

He eases the car onto 275 and merges into the evening traffic, his mind only halfway on the conversation, halfway on making sure he doesn't miss his exit. That would be a bit embarrassing to say the least.

I was thinking that you deserved a reward for taking me to such a lovely dinner.

Oh yeah? What kind of reward were you thinking?

Do you want to know?

Of course.

Only halfway on the conversation. Mostly he's thinking about which way to go. Which is why the idea of what she's going to do next doesn't even occur to him until she's already unzipping his jeans.

Hey—what are you doing?

I'm giving you my reward. Early dessert.

She leans over and stops talking, her hot mouth engulfing his hardness. The pleasure that runs through his body is enough to make his hands tighten around the wheel, the thrill of getting what she's giving is enough to get his mind off the road for an instant. He has to force himself back into focus.

Jesus, Cathy. Don't—

He's not sure how he intended to finish that thought. What she was supposed to not do. Did he want her not to do it? Jesus, no. All he wanted was for her to continue.

His right hand finds a place to rest on the back of her head. Jeff's eyes point forward. He has to keep his focus on the road, and the fact that he can't focus on the pleasure, that it has to stay on the edge of his consciousness, only drives it harder, only makes him need it more.

She lets his cock, as hard as it's ever been, slip out of her mouth for a moment and runs her tongue up and down its length. His hips jerk up against her without his permission.

Jesus, Cath—

And then she sits up, leaving him hard and hanging out of his jeans.

That's enough for now.

He feels a surge of anger, and then arousal. When we get home—

What's going to happen when we get home, Jeff?

He lets out a laugh, one that's dark and violent, putting himself away with one hand as he eases the car around the turnoff.

You'll find out.

Am I going to get the dessert you promised me?

His jaw tightens until his teeth click together. You know you are.

Good, she says. She reaches across with one hand and presses her palm into his cock. I'm looking forward to it.

Chapter Nine

She liked the way that his face strained, liked the immense power that she felt over him. She'd never have that kind of power over someone again, not one on one. He needed it, needed it so bad. The minute she'd say no, she knew that she had to have it again. She had to have that kind of control.

Her heart thumped in her chest, and her thighs were begging to be toyed with. The place between her thighs, her deepest place, begged for her fingers to find it, to tease her lips apart and dip inside.

She held off, though. Forced herself to manage that arousal. Forced her hands to stay away from the places that they so desperately wanted to go. She crossed her legs and tried not to notice the way that it only helped build up more arousal.

His teeth grind together in arousal, set hard against each other. And then they pulled into a driveway. Her driveway. It didn't take long to make it to the door, but she had already waited too long. She'd already had to hold herself back for more time than she was remotely capable of, and now she needed whatever he could offer her.

He followed behind, no questions asked. Both of them knew where this was going now, and neither one wanted to stop it. He leaned into her, his body pressed against hers, her back up against the wall. Her toe reached out to close the door behind them, and once it shut and she heard the handle click home, it was as if it had never been there in the first place.

Jesus, you feel good, she purred. His body was something out of a Greek statue, like it belonged to a God. She wasn't sure when it had happened but she'd lifted her leg up and wrapped it around his waist, pulling him into her with a heel even before they've taken their clothes off.

He stepped back and she let him go. His shirt coming off told her she made the right decision. His skin clung tightly to his muscles, showing each separate part, the separation between his abs—

A shudder rippled through her body, daring her to lose control.

Your turn, he growled.

She looked up at him, giving him the best doe-eyed expression she could manage. I can't reach the zipper. Can you help me?

She turned around and bent over a little, her hips sliding back until she felt herself pressing against him. He couldn't resist moving his hips, pressing himself against her ass, and she couldn't help enjoying it.

Then his fingers found her zipper and worked it down slowly, exposing more and more of her back to him. Exposing more and more of her skin. His lips traced the line behind, pressing on each inch of exposed skin until it reached the bottom, and he pushed the shoulders of her dress down.

Cathy let them slip down her arms, let them free her breasts. They weren't as big as some girls she'd seen, a consequence of a lifetime spent worrying more about staying trim than about… anything else, really. Would he be disappointed?

She pressed herself up against the wall and looked over her shoulder at him, hoping that it creates a sexy sort of allure. His hands grip her hips, pulling her away from the wall, and with an easy movement that's just rough enough to show that he means business, he turns her around to face him.

Cathy's hands came up naturally to cover herself, to hide her no-doubt disappointing breasts. If he couldn't see them, then he couldn't be unhappy with them, and she could go on imagining that he might find something appealing about her.

One of his smooth-skinned hands grabs her arms, both wrists at once, and pulls them away. The way that he does it doesn't leave any room for questioning or fighting, and he does it with a strength that says she couldn't fight back if she wanted to.

Yet, the expression in his eyes doesn't show any disappointment. He looks at her hungrily. His eyes are full of need and desire and nothing else. Nothing humiliating, nothing embarrassing. She shivers before she realizes what she's doing and presses her back up against the wall.

Jeff closes the distance with her, his head dipping to press his lips into her neck.

I can't afford to have a mark, she gasps out, the pleasure of his mouth on her sensitive skin making it hard to form the words properly. Don't leave a mark.

His teeth bite down and pull just enough the give her a halfway mix of pain and pleasure that makes her mind go blank.

Then I won't.

He dips his head lower, and now his hand starts to loosen on her wrists as it starts to be too long a reach, but she doesn't fight to stop him. His teeth find the hardening bud of her nipples and tug softly, eliciting a moan that she isn't sure comes from the pain or the pleasure.

And then his hand starts to explore as well, dipping deeper and lower and searching for a place on her body that lets her sample the pleasures that