The Pitcher's Assistant

Before I can catalogue everything in the living room—for my article, of course—Cort is carrying me out onto an expansive back patio that overlooks a swimming pool and the horse corrals beyond. The sun has gone down completely now, but frosted lanterns dance to life as if sensing our presence, painting the whole backyard in a golden glow.

And there is the hot tub.

It’s enough to fit a whole baseball team, let alone one pitcher and a reporter who is quickly forgetting her lifelong goals in the presence of this magnetic man.

Pull it together, Pippa.

I wiggle around until Cort sets me down, smoothing my hands down my skirt, which is all that remains of my clothing. And I do my best to look dignified. “Go ahead with your post game routine. I’ll just ask my questions while you—”

He strips off his shirt and my words stutter to a halt.

They don’t show this part on television.

Cort Mulloy is strapped with muscle. His shoulders are corded slabs, broad and capable. The movement of taking off his shirt causes his pecs to lift and flex, the brown discs of his nipples pebbling in the cool night air. And I have to assume mine are pebbling right along with his, because his pants come off next and oh, Jesus, he isn’t wearing any underwear. One flick of his famous wrist reveals a thatch of black hair and the thick root of his manhood.

“You were going to ask your questions?” he drawls, dropping his jeans.

3

Cort

Good God.

I wonder if she has any idea how fucking gorgeous she looks standing in my backyard wearing nothing but a tight skirt. A skirt that has been twisted up in my hands, leaving it several inches higher on her lithe thighs than before. A man would lay down his life to get his mouth on pert little nipples like Pippa’s. To get his lips on hers. To claim her.

And in a way, laying down my life is exactly what I’m doing.

My life has always been private for a reason.

I don’t like pity. I don’t like strangers knowing my secrets.

But it’s becoming increasingly obvious that I will do whatever is necessary to make this girl happy. If it means prying open my chest and letting her root around, so be it. When she publishes the article, a lot more people than Pippa will know what lies beneath my scars, but if I have her in my life, the discomfort will be well worth the payoff.

I step fully out of my jeans, watching her doe eyes shoot wide at the sight of my swollen cock. Even in the muted light, I can see the bright circles of color on her cheeks. God, the way her lips puff open on a gasp make me hornier than sin. Everything about Pippa makes me that way. Especially her eagerness to rub all over me and accept my tongue. Even though the intimacy scares her a little, the fear didn’t stop her from opening her thighs, because she already knows, deep down, her body belongs to me.

It’s her trust I’m after now.

Once she gives me that, her heart will follow.

Just like in the locker room, she whirls around, sputtering over the sight of nudity. Then she obviously realizes how silly that is, considering she’s half naked and part of our agreement is to get her off. So she turns back around.

“Yes, that’s right. My questions.” She chews on her bottom lip, unable to keep her eyes from straying back to my dick. “L-let me just gather my thoughts.”

“Take your time,” I say, taking the cover off the hot tub to reveal the bubbling water underneath, illuminated by blue lights, curling with steam. “I won’t be able to hear you over the noise, though, so you’ll have to get in with me.”

I climb into the tub and sink into the hot water, groaning as the heat meets my sore muscles. I didn’t pitch today, but I spent a lot of time working out some kinks. Tomorrow I’m on the roster to close the second game of our series against the Wolves. The post-game ritual of soaking in the hot tub doesn’t relax me as it usually does. God no. Not with her standing there, looking so innocent and turned on all at once. All I can do is drape my arms along the rim of the tub and wait, my cock throbbing and heavy beneath the surface.

After a moment of lip chewing, Pippa mutters something to herself and unzips her skirt, hesitating slightly before it falls to the ground, leaving her in nothing but a pair of white cotton panties with a pink rosebud in the center.

Jesus Christ. I almost come at the sight of her. At the damp, see-through material clinging to her virgin slit. At the low waistband hugging her hips. All of her is made of goddamn magic and I want to spend my life worshipping at her altar.