Listen, Pitch (There's No Crying in Baseball 3)

And, apparently, so was he.

He didn’t say another word as my other hand traveled down my belly to between my thighs, and then even farther to my weeping sex.

He also didn’t say a word when I thrust two fingers inside of me and continued to circle my clit with two fingers.

And when I started to come? He definitely didn’t say anything then.

He shouted, though.

He also came without touching himself.

I tried to keep my eyes open, but the force of my orgasm made me unable to control myself. They closed, and I arched off the bed.

Wetness leaked from my pussy and slickened my hand.

It was only his grunt that had my eyes opening to see the last spurt of come leaving his cock.

His belly was decorated with his release, and I wanted nothing more than to be in that room at that very moment and lick it all up. One slow lick at a time.

Seeing the look in his eyes, I knew I wasn’t the only one wishing that.

I made a promise to myself that I would try to reschedule my flight for tomorrow after the photo shoot.

I didn’t know that I could be away from him for that long.

After all, technically we were still in the honeymoon stages of our marriage, right?

***

Two weeks later, after a devastating loss in Toronto that ended the Lumberjacks’ playoff run, I found myself staring at…myself.

And not in the usual way via a mirror, but on the very front page of Baller Magazine.

Rhys, who’d gone with me to the grocery store specifically for this very thing, started to moan.

“What the hell kind of dress is that?” he asked, sounding breathless.

I bit my lip.

I hadn’t realized that they were going to put me into something like that. In fact, I’d been downright surprised when they’d come out with the dress, and it’d actually fit.

And after careful deliberation, I’d decided to stay quiet on my end about the shoot, and now I was glad that I did.

Seeing the look of awe and lust on my husband’s face was enough to make the torture of that photo shoot worth it.

“Where are we going?” I asked. “We have to go to a doctor’s appointment…”

For myself.

Apparently, one couldn’t just get birth control if they’d never been to the gynecologist before.

I know, I know.

I should’ve been. But, to be honest, I was a bad patient. And the thought of having my vagina waggling around in the air for a man to look at—seeing as there was only four doctors in my insurance’s network at the time—I’d forgone the visits. If a woman wasn’t sexually active, what was the point in going?

I hadn’t needed birth control, and I hadn’t had anything crazy going on under my hood.

Which led us to now, picking up a magazine before a doctor’s appointment that was imperative. Why?

Because I didn’t like having sex with my husband with condoms.

They sucked.

And I knew exactly why men complained that they didn’t feel the same—because they didn’t. Not even close.

“Fuck it.”

“Rhys!” I whispered as he rushed me.

Then I was up and over his shoulder, and we were heading to the bathroom.

Moments after that, I had his cock in my pussy, and he was fucking me so hard that I couldn’t breathe—mostly because I was trying not to scream.

The moment that my pussy clenched around him, he came.

And I realized that we hadn’t used a condom.

“We’re so fucked,” I whispered.

He growled against my neck. “You were so fucked. But we’re not. I love you. You love me. There’s no way in hell that’s going to change. And…I have a big house to fill because I broke ground on a piece of land that is directly next to your mother’s.”

My heart soared.

“You what?”

He grinned. “You’re not mad that I didn’t consult you?”

I shook my head. “As long as you’re around, I’m pretty happy with just about anything.”

I had no clue that, in the months to come, that statement would be put to the test.Chapter 28Seriously, some of you need to go to church because I don’t want you in hell with me.

-Rhys to his teammates

Rhys

Six months later

Pregnant women were demons.

It took me two visits with the surrogates to realize that the two women we’d chosen to carry our children were likely the two worst possible choices ever to be had on the face of the Earth.

Poor Henley kept trying to be herself, trying to smile and be happy. But by the end of the the last visit? Even she wasn’t trying to act excited about the appointments.

Which sucked.

This was supposed to be a happy time in the prospective parents’ eyes. Unfortunately, every single suggestion that came out of Henley’s mouth was met with derision or downright anger.

For instance, the latest appointment, which was the appointment after the gender scan that not just one of our children—but none of them—cooperated. This particular appointment was the makeup scan, and when Henley suggested Surrogate 1 that was carrying ‘Baby A’ drink a Coca-Cola, Surrogate 1—I refused to learn her name when she was acting like such a bitch to my wife—had laughed in my wife’s face.