Page 53 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“Easton.”

“You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to think you like me.”

She laughs. The darkness clears from her eyes some, and I know I’ve made an inroad.

And at the same time, we pass a little alleyway behind the stadium, out of view of the public, and I push her backward into it. Before we even clear the sidewalk, I have my lips on hers.

God. Damn.

She’s fucking addictive.

I want her.

Her taste.

Must have her.

The scent of her perfume.

Say yes to this, Scout.

The softness of her lips.

Say yes to me.

The tentativeness of her tongue as she fights her will to dive right in.

Let me the fuck in.

Even her temper turns me on.

And so I take what I want from her. What I need from her. My dick hardens from the kiss. From the way her fingers twist in my shirt. From the feel of her tits rubbing against my chest. From the goddamn moan that sounds like the white flag waving as she surrenders herself to me.

I don’t want this to end. But my dick is hard and I still have my cup on, and fuck, that’s a miserable feeling. Plus, we’re on the street. Near the stadium. And while I’d love to relieve the ache in my balls by doing a variety of things with her—right here, right now—it pains me to have to end the kiss.

To pull back and try to hold tight to my control that’s hanging by a thread.

But I don’t release her from my grasp when I lean back and look in her eyes. I try to catch my breath, try to quiet the caveman side of me, and then she speaks.

“Well, I guess that’s getting to know each other as good as any other way.”

The smile is there, but it takes a few seconds before the cautious look in her eyes reflects the same confidence reflected in her voice.

But fuck. I’ll take it.

I’m putting myself out on a limb for a woman who wants to run, when for the life of me, I’ve never been one to stay.

But I’m not going anywhere.

Nerves rattle around within me when they shouldn’t.

“This is . . . unbelievable.” I look around the facility. There’s a state of the art batting cage with a multi-pitch batting machine set up on one end, and a sloped floor to collect the balls and refeed the machine. The turf beyond houses a complete infield. The walls are littered with sports memorabilia from some of the greats—signed jerseys, bats, and balls from Mickey Mantle, Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Hank Aaron, Ted Williams . . . and a few from Cal Wylder.

I walk along the walls, stare at the living history lining them, and am in awe of the mini-museum of men I grew up hearing my father talk about.

“It’s my wall,” he muses quietly, allowing me to take it all in as I turn from the legends beside me to face one that I feel has equal potential.

“It’s a good wall,” I muse, heading over to the rack of bats all sized and weighted to match his preferences. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”