The Pitcher's Assistant

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, his hips rolling against mine rhythmically, in perfect time with the hot, thick spurts that fill me up, overflowing and trickling down my thighs. “So soft and sweet. This hot little thing between your legs begs for come, doesn’t it? All tight and pretty.”

“Yes,” I whisper, still shaking beneath him. “Your come.”

“Pippa,” he groans, his body bowing with a final shudder. “You. Are. Mine.”

Those words of ownership seem to be what my body is waiting for to finally go limp. Satisfaction like I’ve never known spreads throughout my limbs and I collapse, boneless, my eyes lazily tracing the outline of Cort’s broad shoulders, his messy black hair. There’s an unspoken assurance that he’s going to take care of me—and he proves it a moment later when he picks me up, holds me close to his chest and carries me upstairs.

I’m drifting off to sleep when I remember the article I’m supposed to be writing.

Is there a timer ticking down on my time with Cort?

If so, when time runs out, will I have him? The exclusive? Both?

Or nothing at all?

5

Cort

I pace back and forth at the foot of my bed, unable to take my eyes off sleeping Pippa for even a second. My fucking heart is butting up against my ribcage like a caged tiger, possessiveness roaring in my blood. Jesus, she’s so gorgeous, limp and naked, cuddled into my sheets, the sleek curve of her backside turning my dick to stone. I want to wake her up and fuck her again more than I want oxygen, but I’ve underestimated how much being in love would mess with my head.

It’s almost midnight.

The plan was to make her fall for me, the way I’ve lost my heart to her.

But I have no idea if I’ve even come close yet.

Yes, she gave me her body. Her virginity.

I’m just not sure why. Was it me she wanted?

They money I’m paying her to be my assistant?

Or a groundbreaking exclusive interview with Cort Mulloy?

I slide my fingers up into my hair and pull on the strands. I’m lying on the operating table and my chest has been pried open. Pippa holds my beating heart in her hands and she can either save me or pulverize me. Not knowing which way this is going to go is agony. I could wake her up, question her, explain to her very patiently that I love her and she needs to love me back. But what if she’s not sure yet? I’ve never felt even a fraction of this much need, affection and protectiveness for someone before.

Do I want to know if she isn’t feeling it back?

My little beauty rolls over onto her back, her eyes blinking back to wakefulness.

Jesus Christ, my heart squeezes like there’s a fist around it, stealing my breath.

What if she’d never walked into the locker room? I never would have known this adorably spunky, thoughtful, beautiful, passionate girl existed.

The possibility that I could have missed her is terrifying.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, my voice emerging like carving knives dragging together.

She sits up, her tits in full view, her skin rosy from sleep. “A little,” she whispers, yawning. “I didn’t eat dinner.”

I nod, grateful to have a task. A job to do for her. “Stay here. I’ll get something.”

Twenty minutes later, I walk back into the bedroom carrying a tray of ham sandwiches and potato chips, setting it down on the bed beside Pippa. I join her on the other side and we eat silently for a few minutes, the sounds of the night breeze drifting in through the window. I want thousands of nights, just like this. With our children sleeping down the hall.

She could already be pregnant.

I busted so deep, so hard, I can’t imagine a world where she isn’t.

And hell, I always thought I wanted professional success more than anything, but those hopes are nothing compared to this. To wanting this sleepy sports reporter as my wife, the mother of my children, the person I come home to at the end of every day, no matter what.

I open my mouth to tell her, point blank, she’s the one I want forever, but she starts speaking at the same time. “Pippa—”

“I guess I should keep asking my questions?” She shakes her head, turning a little pink. “I’m sorry, what were you going to say?”

“Nothing,” I say gruffly, taking a bite of my sandwich to disguise the disappointment. Is she here for me or the interview? Truth be told, I couldn’t even blame her if it’s the latter. I’d never fault her for wanting to get ahead in a world where she’s up against men with three times the experience. “Go ahead and ask your questions.”

She hesitates, setting down her sandwich. “I hope you don’t mind me getting personal…”

My response comes out a little harsher than I intend. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”