The Pitcher's Assistant

Where he lives. I would want a picture of his life to be painted to really bring his story to life. “Would you give me a tour of the rest of the house?”

He’s on his way back to me, a mug of coffee extended in his hand, those blue eyes watchful beneath black brows. “One question down.” He gives me a slow once over. “Come on.”

I accept my coffee and follow Cort out of the kitchen, through the living room and down a wide, carpeted staircase. It’s dark, but when we reach the wooden flooring at the bottom, our footsteps begin to echo, so I sense a large space ahead. I’m frowning when he flips on the light, awe quickly blanketing my curiosity. “You…you have a baseball diamond in your basement.”

Cort nods, sips his coffee. “It’s not full size, but the distance between the mound and home plate is accurate.” He nods at the state of the art pitching machine. “I don’t get up to bat much, but when I do, I like to make it count.”

“You do,” I murmur absently, turning in a slow circle, taking in the high ceiling and the net hanging down from the far wall. “You have the best batting average for a closer in history.”

He chuckles into his coffee. “You know more about my career than I do.”

I give him a prim look over my shoulder. “I do my homework.” I step onto the soft, artificial grass, enjoying the feel of it between my toes. “Is your mindset different when you’re pitching, as opposed to when you’re batting?”

“Good question.” He stares off into the distance, as if he’s never considered it before. “Yes. Pitching is second nature. My body does what it’s supposed to do. I don’t think. When I’m up to bat, I’m thinking about the mechanics of my swing.”

“Hmm.” I make a mental record of his answer. “I can’t believe I’m already on my third question.”

His breath coasts over my neck and I gasp, because I didn’t even hear him approach. “I’ll let you ask an extra one if you kiss me.”

Inhale. Exhale. “That…that sounds agreeable.”

I’ve barely turned when our mouths lock and wind into a slow, toe-curling kiss. One that wakes up every one of my senses and turns them into wild little sparkplugs. His free hand slides down my hip and squeezes, drags up my stomach and kneads my breast. A rush of wetness travels downward and coats my feminine flesh, my blood humming with anticipation.

“God,” I breathe, trembling. “Your hands are so big.”

“You haven’t even met the biggest part of me yet, Pippa,” he rasps, licking at my upper lip and scrambling my brain, his hips rolling against mine, letting me feel his thick erection. “It needs you.”

I need it, too.

I want to drop my coffee and cling to his sturdy body. Wrap my legs around his hips and let him pull me all the way into this sensual world to which he’s introduced me. Be strong, woman. Be stronger than that. Where is my professional drive? I haven’t even made it to my third question yet. And I can’t completely allay the fear that if I sleep with Cort before I get my story, he’ll lose interest and I won’t get it at all.

My heart weighs down over that possibility.

Oh no. My heart. It got involved before I could stop it.

The way his blue eyes bore so intensely into mine, like I’m a treasure he’s just unearthed, is getting to me with every passing second.

“Um…” I swallow and step back, even though every one of my nerve endings is alive and buzzing. “I-is there a specific player you hate pitching against?”

Cort doesn’t let me back away. He sets down both of our coffee mugs on a nearby bench and prowls back toward me, that protrusion in his sweatpants turning my flesh damper. “Yeah, the fuckers who lean into my breaking ball because they’re too afraid to swing.”

“Can I quote you on that?” I ask, breathlessly.

“Yes—and that’s your final question, baby.” Cort reaches me then, his touch searching my neck and scalp, his fingers digging into my hair, his mouth coming down on mine. “I need your pussy. And I need it right the hell now.”

“But…” Oh God, I’m losing any semblance of rational thought. Desperately, I look around the huge lower level, searching for a stalling tactic, even though my body is screaming at me to keep going. To let him obliterate my resolve to get this story. “I…I haven’t even tried the batting cage,” I blurt, my face swarming with heat.

Cort pulls back with a grin tugging at his lips. “You want to take some swings?”

“No. I didn’t mean that.”

He tucks his tongue into his cheek, clearly amused. “Why did you say it?”

“I don’t know. I’m terrible at sports. I’m only good at reporting on them.” I’m beginning to ramble. “Or I would be. If I could remember why I’m here in the first place.”