Page 71 of Fair Ball

It was easy to avoid my usual mental pitfalls when he had such command of my body. The scratch of his blunt fingernails down my back and hips after he instructed me to sit on his face.

I don’t consider myself a prude, but I had never imagined that would be something I liked, though it was so new and different that I had no choice other than to simply give in and let go for the ride. Which I did.

Over and over.

Because once he returned home with Plan B, and we agreed neither one of us would be begging the other for “just the tip” again since he also came back with condoms, he proceeded to show me again exactly how good he is at keeping me satisfied.

He didn’t rush me even when it took me a long time to reach the peak. In fact, I think he relished that even more. When he could take his time and experiment, find out what I liked and how he could perfect the technique. Like he does with baseball. I know Austin is a creature of habit, and that day, I think I became another one.

I don’t mind.

I am just as hooked.

Although both of our patience has been put to the test. Between Noah’s school year ending and the unscheduled days of summer beginning, Austin and I have had to adjust our own routine. On Mom’s good days, she is able to be with Noah while I’m out of the house occasionally, but she has more bad days than good. And even if that weren’t true, I’m too anxious to leave him alone completely. He’s more responsible than I ever was at that age, but I’m not ready to leave him on his own without knowing someone is close and could help him, in case of emergency. Add on Noah’s own baseball schedule, and I’ve only been able to head to Austin’s after he’s already left for the day. Which is fine since he has me doing the bare minimum anyway. But during one game, the camera panned to the bullpen, where I spotted him and Yadi eating separate bags of Skittles, and that only made me redouble my efforts, making sure they each had enough for road games.

Today, though, I wanted to do something special. It’s been ten days since I’ve seen Austin in person, and I thought it would be nice to show up with a little treat. Mom, Noah, and I attended a church fair over the weekend, and I purchased a box of kiffles.

“Hello,” I singsong, opening the door, and I spot Austin’s head pop up from the back of the couch as Harold says, “Hello, beautiful.”

I offer the bird air smooches as I place my goodies on the kitchen counter, and Austin huffs as he hauls himself off the couch, wearing only a pair of low-slung mesh shorts. “I don’t get the same greeting?”

I take him in, my attention snagging on the valley between his defined pecs, the ladder of his abs, and that shadow of the indentation at his hip, before I finally force my eyes up. “You get real kisses.”

With a pleased hum, he pulls me into him, accepting a few chaste pecks on the mouth before he parts his lips, inviting me to take more. Meet strokes of his tongue with mine. It is a welcome that I can get used to.

I don’t realize that I’ve tunneled my fingers into his hair until he tugs at my wrists, bringing my palms to his mouth to kiss them. I brush my fingertips over his beard, speaking the words before I’ve thought of them. “I missed you.”

His exhale is audible, pleased. “I missed you too.”

We talk every single day, through text messages, photos, and the occasional dirty voice message from him ordering me to think of him when I touch myself or how he can still remember what I taste like—that he can’t wait to bury himself between my legs again—but it’s not enough.

Only having him in front of me, being able to stare into his eyes, and feel the abrasion of his beard, eases the tension. I miss him like I miss some indefinable yet vital part of my body. He is a part of me now.

This grumpy, bad-tempered pitcher is the best person I’ve ever known, and it’s becoming more and more impossible to see my future without him. Whether it be the immediate coming days or far-off years, I don’t think I want to experience anything without his reluctant dry humor or giving heart.

I don’t think there is anything I could say to him that would scare him off, while there is nothing he could tell me that would make me think badly of him.

“I brought you something.” I extricate myself from his hold, but he refuses to let me out of his grasp, fingertips staying on my hips as he follows me to the kitchen counter. “Kiffles.”

“Bless you.”

I smother a laugh. “Austin.”

He widens his eyes. “What?”

“Kiffles are a type of pastry.”

He sets his chin on the top of my head as I open the box, revealing the small cookies made from rolled dough and stuffed with different jams. I pluck a raspberry one out and offer it to him to bite into as I explain, “I took Mom and Noah to the church bazaar over the weekend, and the little old ladies make these to sell. You like?”

He nods and lifts my hand so he can polish off the rest of it. I lick the powdered sugar off my fingers before finding a walnut-stuffed one. “These are my favorite.”

After I take a bite, I offer him the rest. He speaks around a mouthful. “Kiffles, you said?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Do they happen to be anti-inflammatory?”

I snort. “Absolutely not.”