We turn onto a long, dirt road and I tear my attention from Cort to see the ranch in the distance. It’s a lot bigger than I imagined. The house is long and low against the horizon, bracketed on both sides by long, white fences that stretch further than my eye can see. The last dregs of a sunset turn the sky purple and give the ranch a pleasing outline. Lanterns flicker over the porch, as if beckoning us home. And an odd sensation infiltrates my middle, a layer of comfort sealing to the lining of my stomach. As if…I’m supposed to be here.
A few minutes later, Cort has parked the truck outside in the circular driveway. He comes around to the passenger side to help me out…and he makes a meal out of it. His mouth comes within in an inch of mine as he reaches across to unfasten my seatbelt, his palm skimming roughly over my belly, hunger darkening his eyes.
His steel forearm wraps around my back and he draws me out of the vehicle, up against his big body, leaving my feet suspended in mid-air. That part of him that needed so much adjusting on the ride home is pressed up tight between my legs and I whimper when he rolls his hips, his eyes latched onto my face, watching my reaction.
I’m pretty sure I’m cross-eyed from the building need inside of me.
My high heels fall off and I lift my thighs, wrapping them around his hips, his answering growl sending heat passing through me in waves. “We’ll leave the shoes here. You won’t need them inside.” He kicks the passenger side door shut and walks toward the house with me clinging to his strong frame. “You won’t need the clothes, either.”
“But…”
He seals his mouth over mine, cutting me off.
Pleasure blooms…everywhere at the contact. Between my thighs, in my chest, in the buds of my breasts. I’m pressed roughly to the front door of Cort’s house, his tongue trespassing between my lips and taking ownership of me. Of everything I am. He drags his tongue against mine, over and over, our lips slippery and eager, and uses his hips to prop me against the door while his hands strip the clothing from my body.
First comes my jacket. It’s tossed away without ceremony, his palms skating up and over my breasts, kneading them with a sound of possession. My blouse is ripped clean off and it’s still fluttering to the ground when his fingers go to work on my bra, fumbling with the front clasp and baring my breasts to the nighttime, our mouths still mating feverishly.
“Damn right I’m about to carry you into my home for the first time with bare little titties and a wet pussy.” His hips surge up between my legs. “Your body knows this is where you come to get well fucked. Isn’t that right, Pippa?”
“Yes,” I whine, shocked to find how right it feels to be naked before this man. I always thought I would die of self-consciousness if a man ever saw me without clothes. But this moment with Cort only seems inevitable. Perfect. Even his coarse language appeals to me because it’s so honest. So him. The rasp of his shirt against my nipples sends a thrill of exhilaration across my skin and I pout until he kisses me again, as if I’ve been reborn into a new personality. One that only exists when this man touches me.
But I have to remember why I’m here.
I can’t let this man’s touch rob me of my brain cells so thoroughly that I forget everything I’ve spent the last four years working for. I’m here to get the most coveted interview in professional sports. I can’t let this man overwhelm me and lose sight of that.
With a concerted effort, I break the kiss that leaves both of us panting. “I came here to ask you questions,” I wheeze. “So. Um. Th-that should come first or…”
“Or what?” Cort rasps against my mouth.
“Or you might make me forget,” I whisper. “Is that your goal?”
His lips curve up, a devilish light momentarily flashing in his eyes. “Work before pleasure. Is that the way it’s going to be?”
“Yes,” I say sternly, although the effect is ruined by my toes curling lustily against his thighs. “I am a professional, after all.”
“Then I guess we better get started,” he drawls, unlocking the door and pushing it open, carrying me over the threshold into a house that smells minty and manly, just like him. “But you’re going to have to ask your questions while I’m in the hot tub. Post game ritual.”
“Hot tub?” I stammer, very aware that I’m topless and being carried by baseball’s greatest pitcher. “I don’t have my bathing suit.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t have one, either.”
I gulp.
As Cort carries me to through his living room, I can’t help but gape. It’s extraordinarily masculine, everything in grays and blues and whites and blacks. Chrome. Expensive. But so tasteful and comfortable-looking, I find myself anxious to snuggle down into his big, oversized couch. To dig my toes into the shaggy white rug and wiggle them around, maybe take a nap in front of his floor-to-ceiling fireplace.