Holy shit.My thoughts echo his words from a few minutes ago as I watch his reflection bury his face into my hair and breathe in while his hands slide around to cup my breasts.
“Shower?” he murmurs, as one hand skips over my belly to between my legs.
I don’t respond, just stop his hand and lace my fingers between his and squeeze, wishing I could freeze this moment and just live in it until I’m ready to face the world again. Maybe a few months will do the trick.
“Shower,” I agree, and slip from his grasp to turn to the massive glass-encased shower behind us.
There are so many knobs and handles that I don’t even know where to start. All of my toiletries are back in my bedroom, and I’mnotleaving this little world we’ve managed to escape to just so I can smell like lavender. Though for a half a minute, when I eye the three-in-one shampoo, conditioner and body wash in the corner, Ialmostchange my mind.
He convinces me to stay, though, holding me back against his chest as his fingers slide between my legs.
I let out a soft hiss at the contact on the sensitive skin.
“Too much?” he asks, lifting his hand away gently.
Humming a yes, I spin in his arms and trace the patterns of his chest hair, flat and dark, pasted against his skin by the steams of water, as his large hands span my back and then slide down to squeeze my ass gently.
“There’s something I want instead,” I say, one hand slipping lower to wrap around him, already semi-hard again and his groan rumbles out of his chest, nearly drowned out by the water still spraying behind me.
Leaning in, I press an open-mouthed kiss to his sternum andthen trail down a line of matching kisses to his navel, dropping lower and lower as I do, falling into a squat not unlike what we both used to do behind the plate. Then I lift my eyes to him, my cheek against his thigh. His jaw is clenched, the tendons of his neck straining as one hand lifts to brush the backs of his fingers against my cheek. That gentleness in him that always seems to reveal itself at the most unexpected moments is one of the things I love most about him.
“Yours knees,” he protests.
“As we’ve discussed,Ididn’t spend twenty years in the majors,” I tease lightly, running my fingers along the underside of him, his arousal growing by the second.
That’s the only protest he’s able to manage and he gives himself over to me. He’s large in my mouth, a satisfying weight there, salty and slick as his hand settles onto the back of my head, wrapping my hair around his fist. Looking up at him, eyes wide, I wait and his expression flickers in surprise understanding.
Slowly, he uses those powerful forearms I’ve always admired to guide me ever so gently, my mouth taking him deep while I relax my throat against the intrusion, feeling myself clench tightly between my legs, my body wanting more of him, despite how tender it is. He only stops when I give a gentle tap to his calf, taking his cue perfectly as he pulls back. There’s a hypnotic rhythm to it, one that lets me study him carefully as he drives himself mad using my mouth, the strain in his body to keep himself under control, the way his muscles ripple with the motion and the way his skin glows against the steamy air, rivulets of water finding paths I intend to memorize.
He finishes, calling my name, and it echoes over the steady beat of the water against the tile and I taste him on my tongue, salty and bitter, but worth it to watch his head throw back in complete surrender to it.
And when I finally let him fall free, his arms immediately wind around me, pulling me into his chest in an embrace that somehow feels more intimate than anything else that’s passed between us in the last little while, even the words “I love you”. Holding each other under the water for I don’t even know how long before we both clean up and rinse off without a word exchanged between us.
His towels are soft and massive, thankfully, because it hits me then that I don’t have any clothes, just my bra and underwear, which are probably still soaking wet from the pool.
“You need something to sleep in?” he asks, though he knows the answer.
“Just a t-shirt will do.”
“Ah, so you can add to your collection? You never gave back the last two.”
“And I never will.”
“Good,” he says, and obviously we’re talking about a t-shirt andnottalking about a t-shirt at all.
I have no idea what I’m going to do next, but at least I know that.
I barely remember collapsing back into his bed, curled up into him with his thighs lining mine, one of his arms carelessly tossed over my hip and another cupping my breast beneath his Los Angeles Dodgers National League Champions t-shirt from three years ago (that I will definitely be keeping, as I never actually got one that night).
That’s how I wake up, though, sun already pouring through the skylights, with Javy pounding on the bedroom door. “If you two are done fucking each other’s brains out, Stew has been trying to call both of you for hours!”
Charlie groans into my hair and then blindly reaches out toward his bedside table to grab his phone.
He holds it out so I can see it too, a dozen missed calls from our . . . no, his, boss.
“Are we calling him back?”
“It’s Stew,” I say, already way more awake, sitting up fully and leaning against the headboard while he makes the call, putting it on speaker.
