He senses my coiling tension, the precipice of desire hitting me and, in that moment, he matches his finger strokes with his tongue, hitting every pleasure point, so I can’t stop the loud scream that falls past my lips as I come.
I ride his tongue, my hips flexing against him until I can’t take it anymore and I lower my head to the counter, completely spent.
He climbs up from between my legs and leans over my body, his erection pressing against my back. Casually, as if he didn’t just deliver one hell of an orgasm, he says, “Should I heat up the waffles in the toaster? Might be nice to have them extra crisp.”
Oh no, he doesn’t . . .
I reach behind me and grip his straining cock through his shorts and he falls against my back, groaning.
“Sit yourself up on the counter. I need your cock in my mouth. Now.”
“Fuck, Mills,” he groans and obliges, shucking his shorts before hopping up. He leans back and offers himself to me. Gripping his thighs, I lean over and press my tongue against the tip. His eyes fall shut and he says, “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
And then I suck him until he yells my name . . . just like I screamed his.
“I’m really jealous of your TV. Fuck the baseball loft, I’ll be spending my nights over here, watching the games on the big screen.”
“I’m sure there’s more than one reason you want to be over here, other than the TV,” I say, our legs intertwined together as we lie on my bed . . . naked.
Are you really surprised? We’re rabid beasts at this point.
“Yeah, the concierge service is killer.”
I pinch his side, and he yelps before bringing me on top of his stomach. “You know you’re the only reason I really want to be here . . . that and Freddy downstairs. His English accent and attention to detail when we’re ordering something, it’s fucking awesome.”
I roll my eyes and plant a kiss on his lips. Before resting against his chest, letting his hold on my back soothe me.
There are boxes scattered everywhere, nothing has been put away, and the apartment is in disarray, but I have Carson here. I’ll have all the time in the world to organize, but my time with Carson is ticking down. With his last game coming up soon and then regionals and the draft, he’s going to be gone. Our access to each other is going to change drastically, so I need to soak up as much time with him as possible.
His fingers lightly stroke my back, sending chills up and down my spine. “Tell me about the proposal. Is it ready yet?”
I smile against his bare chest. “It is.”
“Really?” He lifts my chin to look me in the eye. “Were you going to tell me? Show me?”
“Do you want to see it?” I ask, not realizing it’s something he’d be interested in. It’s baseball, yeah, but it’s also business with metrics and graphs and boring stuff.
“Fuck yes, I do. Mills, you worked hard on this, I want to know all about it.”
“Yeah?” I ask, excited.
“Yeah.” His hand falls to my ass and he gives it a slap. “Get your computer. I want to see it.”
I shimmy off his body and grab my computer as he sets up the pillows so we have something to lean against. When I get back into bed, he loops his arm around me, and I set the computer on our laps. I open my proposal and show him. Renderings of the facility addition have been created, I added my investment to the proposal, and everything I envisioned for the space.
Silently, Carson looks it over, pausing longer over the pictures. I watch as he nods in approval, his smile growing wider as he scrolls to the end, and then he claps obnoxiously. I stop his hands, but he’s too fast for me, and moves the computer only to pin me back on the mattress.
He stares down at me, and I am thrilled by the pride I see in his eyes. “Your intelligence is a fucking turn-on.”
“Does that mean you think it’s good?”
“Coach,” he says, using the nickname I’ve come to love, “it’s fucking great. I’m actually pumped up and excited for you. If I had a facility like that growing up, I would have been over the moon. The sports medicine addition, the massage therapy, the skills center, and then all the batting cages and the addition of the clay in the back for infield drills. Damn, Mills. You’re going to build an empire.”
“Stop, it’s not—”
“You’re creating an empire,” he says, his voice growing incredibly serious. “You’ve used your incredible baseball smarts with the body-specifics knowledge gained from your kinesiology degree, and created something I’ve never seen before. A one-stop shop for all aspiring premier baseball players. And you couldn’t have chosen a better place for it. Chicago is a breeding ground for baseball with Brentwood at the heart of it and the two major league teams.”
“There really is only one,” I say, even though, there are two but who really likes the Chicago Rebels anyway? It’s all about the Bobbies.
“Hey, what if the Rebels draft me? That’s a tough pill you’re going to have to swallow.”
I cringe. “I can’t even imagine wearing a Rebels shirt. Seriously, I don’t know if it could happen. That’s my worst nightmare.”
“That’s your worst nightmare?” he asks, brows raised. “That seems like quite the exaggeration.”
“I hate the Rebels. Absolutely hate them. They are so trashy with their long hair and beards and loose jerseys. Ugh, gross, no one likes them.”
“Eh, their millions of fans beg to differ.”
“They’re classless. They get a single and practically high-five each other with their penises. It’s absurd. They celebrate over the smallest things and make a show of it. How about you get a hit and then turn to your coach to see what’s next? No need to wave your hands to encourage the crowds or pump your chest or raise your fist to the air like you just won the World Series. It’s a single, get a life.”
He chuckles. “What if I told you they’ve been looking at me?”
I pause, my heart flipping in my chest. “What? Who told you that? That’s not what the reports have been saying? They haven’t even been in the mix, as they have Vlad at second with a heavy presence in their minor system at that position. They’re set. Seriously, who told you that? Disik? Has he been talking to scouts? Oh my God, no, you can’t be drafted by the Rebels. It can’t happen. Seriously. Was it an analyst on SportsCenter? Tell me who. Was it Alex Rodriquez? He’s great with play-by-play but he does conjure up some far-fetched ideas. Nick Swisher, was it him? Oh God, please don’t tell me it was Swisher, because he’s been right about other drafts.” I bring my hand to my eyes and peek through my fingers. “Was it him?”
“Slow down.” Carson presses his hand to my chest and chuckles. “I was kidding.”
“Excuse me?” I sit up and scramble away from him, blocking my naked body with the blankets. “You were kidding?”
“Coach.”
“Oh, don’t you dare Coach me right now. You’re telling me you were kidding, no one even mentioned the Rebels when it comes to being drafted?”
“No, but—”
I point to the door. “Leave. Leave right this very second. You are no longer allowed in this apartment.”