The Pitcher's Assistant

I slide my fingers out of her quickening pussy and focus my attention on her clit, fondling the hot little nub and groaning over the way she responds, bucking, arching her back, lifting her perky tits out of the water, moisture dripping off her nipples. “I’m giving you an orgasm,” I say raggedly, my cock so stiff I wonder if it’s possible to pop off just like this, no friction, just watching my girl come. “Fuck,” I grit out. “My balls are hard as a rock.”

“Is that b-bad?” she stammers, chest heaving, thighs restless.

“Hell no. It means I’m locking you down. You and this pussy. For keeps.”

“For keeps,” she whispers unevenly, her body straining, mouth falling open. “Cort!”

As Pippa hits her peak and screams, I continue to pet her clit in fast, light circles, but I can’t stop myself from sneaking my pinky into her cunt, growling over the exquisite pulses, imagining she’s fully seated on my cock and milking me dry. It takes all of my willpower not to bust in the bubbling water of the hot tub, but God help me, I’m not wasting a drop. Not unless I’m putting it inside of her. I’m panting by the time she’s finished, her body falling back limply against mine, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Rocked by a surge of affection, I stand up and carry her limp, wet, naked body into the house and prepare for a night ahead of making her mine forever.

4

Pippa

Twenty minutes later, I’m still coming down from the most intense physical experience of my life. I’m not sure I’ve been able to string one sensible sentence together between now and our time in the hot tub of wonders. That was an orgasm? I don’t know what I assumed it would be like. Definitely not that mind blowing. Definitely not life changing.

I doubt I could pull it off alone. It was the whole package that pushed me over the line. It was Cort’s voice in my ear, the intensely personal words he said to me, the feel of his thighs and lap and chest. All of those things combined brought me to a fever pitch I never could have imagined and…

I’m having a very hard time remembering the fact that I’m here for an exclusive interview. Like, I’m standing in Cort Mulloy’s kitchen, wearing one of his massive T-shirts. My attire—and the fact that he can’t seem to stop touching me—make it very hard to be professional. But I cannot let this opportunity pass. His past is so much more interesting than anyone knows. And I very likely don’t have a job anymore to fall back on if I can’t pull this off.

That means I have no way to pay bills. Pay rent. Eat.

I can’t completely lose my senses here, let this man overwhelm me and regret it later.

Besides, he’s a famous, handsome athlete.

And I’m a naïve virgin with zero experience with men.

For all I know, he has spun a sensual web around countless other women. Maybe he’s been discreet, unlike his teammates with their headline-making exploits. Haven’t I been told by fellow females all my life that men will say whatever it takes to get a girl into bed? Maybe he likes me, but the spell could be broken when we have sex. He could lose interest. And then I’ll be left without my virginity and without a career-making story.

Cort walks past me on the way to the coffee maker, dragging the calloused palm of his hand along the slopes of my bottom and I cinch my thighs together, heat rolling through me like a summer storm. I’ll never forget the power behind that orgasm. The way it picked me up, owned me and shook me, the confidence in his touch, the ownership.

Do I want to be owned by this man?

A hot shiver snakes down my spine remembering some of the things he said to me. In a perfect world…yes, I think belonging to Cort Mulloy would be incredible. My body already feels the stamp of his possessive touch. But if I’m going to be a journalist, I have to live in the real world. I can’t let my head float up to the clouds and miss the opportunity in front of me. Even if the idea of exposing Cort’s personal story to the world is already beginning to make me feel…guilty. Really guilty.

I chew hard on my bottom lip and consider the man across the room, standing shirtless in sweatpants, making us coffee. Reporters aren’t supposed to feel guilty. It’s not in our DNA.

Right?

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “So, um. Back to my questions.”

“Three.” He holds up a trio of fingers without turning around. “You know what happens after that.”

“Yes…” I close my eyes and take a deep breath, painfully aware that I’m not wearing underwear or a bra underneath this T-shirt. Being that I didn’t have time to plan this interview, I have to think on the fly. What would I want to know about Cort Mulloy?