Page 49 of Off Limits: The Firsts

The single thought runs wild in my head over the few seconds I allow myself to be kissed senseless and reminded of how incredible he tastes.

And how amazing our chemistry is.

I want. And don’t want.

I know we should stop. But I can’t make myself step back.

Sensing my sudden hesitation, he does it for me. He tears his lips from mine and stares at me with a vigor I’ve not seen from him before.

“Easton—”

“You can refuse me all you want . . .” He laughs, stopping the rebuff on my lips. “But I should warn you, I’m a determined man. I’ll win, Scout. I’m a gamer, remember? So I’ll get that date. That next kiss. Earn them from you, including the halo of stadium light in your hair. And I’ll wear you down until you figure out there’s no need to be scared of me.”

He lets go of my arms and steps back as the arrogance returns to his grin. “It’s going to be a bitch, isn’t it? To have to stretch me. Body to body. To have your hands on me. To have to watch me get hot and sweaty. To hear me groan when I lift weights and not remember that’s the same sound I made when I came. To rub me out—nice and slow. To be around me so much you’re sick of me, all the while denying there’s something here worth figuring out.” He takes another step back, adjusts his baseball hat and lowers the sunglasses resting on its bill to his eyes. “Have fun with that. I know I will. You’ve got five minutes before I’m on your clock. Tick. Tock.”

And with one last flash of a grin, Easton turns on his heel and jogs down the corridor like we didn’t just run a race.

Or he didn’t kiss me senseless and then leave me speechless.

I’m breathless.

I’m stunned.

God, I’m fucked.

“Hey, Scout?”

“Hmm?” I murmur as I busy myself pulling my glove out of my bag, anything to keep my distance from him.

“I need to be stretched.” His sing-song tone, laced with the promise of his words from the corridor, floats from where he’s sitting on the right field turf and hits me squarely in the gut.

“Start your warm-up.”

“I already warmed up,” he says, prompting me to turn his way and see his grin in full effect and aimed whole-heartedly at me.

“Lovely,” I mutter as I make my way over to him, more than aware of the trio of players working out in left field with their conditioning coach. No rest for the weary, even on an off-day in their insane schedule.

“What was that?” he asks, cheer infused into his voice because I know he’s pushing those buttons he mentioned upstairs.

“Nothing.” I put my hands on my hips and stare down at him where he sits on the turf. He’s changed into his baseball pants, cleats, team T-shirt, and a new baseball hat. Add to the mix that grin on his face and he’s irresistible, but hell if I’m going to let him know I think that.

“How do you want me?” he asks, and I know he’s trying to pull me back to that first time we met. We’re around each other so much it feels like that was months ago, but in reality, it has only been weeks.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, but rather motion for him to stand up. Stepping behind him, I begin our routine—stretching, working through the stiffness, and feeling for any click in his shoulder.

I work in silence, trying to listen to his body and ignore it all at the same time. His taunts from earlier replay in my mind, challenging me to disregard them, despite the ripple of his muscles and heat of his skin beneath my fingertips that only validate them. Because with each touch of his arm, each rotation of his shoulder, all I can think of is what his biceps looked like when he braced his body over me. When he sunk into me. When he made me come.

“Can you do that one again?” he asks softly.

So focused on his shoulder, I repeat the stretch without skipping a beat. And when I press his arm up, I’m met with Easton’s waiting eyes and knowing smile.

“Seriously?” I say, dropping his arm instantly, pissed that I just willingly walked right into his extra stretch so he could maneuver me closer to him without questioning it or him.

He blinks his eyes a few times and feigns innocence. “It’s gonna be a bitch, isn’t it?”

“You’re a pain in my ass.” I laugh, wanting to maintain a hard line but unable to because I know he’s right. I step into him, jab my finger into his chest, and try to discipline myself anyway. “If this is contract, and that is pleasure, then let’s keep it that way. Don’t bring it on the field. This is my job. You’re my job. So, suck it up, Hot Shot, get your gear on, and meet me behind home plate,” I say the words that I know will stop him from saying anything else.

“What?” His excitement is heartwarming.