A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,15
for practice. “Easy.”
“Easy and fun, right?”
“Sure. It’s easy and fun,” I repeat, and the weight of my words fully registers.
Something about being with Fitz is easy. Everything about being with Fitz is fun.
I bet getting him naked would be easy and fun too.
And in a filthy heartbeat, my threadbare resistance starts to unravel.
8
Fitz
Intense concentration etches on his brow. Dean swings the bat again with the same grace and power he used when he was mixing drinks.
Except…
“Your grip’s all wrong,” I say and because sports are second nature to me, I move in behind him, my arms over his, adjusting. Damn, he smells good. Like soap and pine and the man I want my hands on, my mouth on. The man I want to have my way with.
I take a breath. I have to make this count.
Something tells me it’s now or never if I’m going to win Dean over.
And this is a match I don’t intend to lose.
“There,” I say, shifting his right hand one more inch. “You want to put your hands like that. Hold on to it. The power comes from the stance.”
Dean doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him breathing hard against me. I slide my hands along his arms, moving his hands slightly. Tightening his grip on the bat.
“From there, you just have to hit as hard as you can,” I say, and I’m hardly thinking about softball right now. I’m hardly thinking about what I’m saying. I’m just feeling—feeling the inescapable pull of contact. “That’s it.”
“That seems simple enough,” he says, distracted, and clearly as uninterested in softball right now as I am.
And I know that I’m getting to him—little by little.
I can be very convincing.
“It’s so simple,” I say, then I run my nose along the back of his neck.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not part of the game,” Dean says in that tone that gives away his desire. A tone that says he wants more.
“No, it’s not. But maybe it should be. Especially when the players feel like this.”
I let my hands glide down from the bat, daring to graze his forearms.
“Ah, yes,” Dean says, like he’s trying for a laugh. “All ballplayers should have burly, pushy American men standing behind—”
His words are laid to waste the second I bring my lips to the side of his neck.
It starts as a soft kiss maybe.
For a second.
But then I bite him because he tastes so fucking good. I bring my teeth down and nip. His scent goes to my head, makes me lose my mind.
I crowd him with my body, my crotch against his ass, my arms around him, kissing and biting and sucking his neck, and the whole time he’s tense in my arms.
But not quite.
Not quite at all.
He’s slowly but deliberately giving in, his body veering the slightest bit closer. He pushes against me, and the sensation nearly drives me over the edge.
Then a loud clang of metal hits my ears. He drops the bat—or maybe I push it out of his hands—sending it clattering to the ground.
Dean spins around, and in a flash of a second, his hands are on my chest, and he backs me to the cage wall.
Oh yes, I like commanding Dean. I like commanding Dean very much.
“Has anyone told you that you had better finish what you start?” His lips are a straight line, his jaw set hard and his eyes fiery.
“That’s what I want with you. Don’t you know?”
“I mean, don’t be a fucking tease with your kisses, Fitz.” Dean levels me with a stare. “Mean them. Finish them. Kiss me all the fucking way, like I’m going to kiss you.”
And then he grabs my face and drops his lips to mine and takes me. His lips are devouring, ravenous, and he kisses me like he’s starving for me.
Sounds about right, since I feel the same damn way for him.
He grips me hard, kissing me passionately. He’s greedy and pent-up, and I’m the object of all his wild lust. He pours it all into a punishing kiss.
It’s deep, uninhibited, and so damn hot.
Normally, I like to lead, but hell, I will follow him anywhere right now. I take and take and take, and he gives it to me, his long, lean frame slamming against me. The outline of his cock, thick and hard and completely tantalizing against my pelvis, rubs against my hard-on, and it feels so incredibly good.