Dirty Curve

Why do I care?

“Man, Tutor Girl, you’re a whole other girl outside the library,” I pop off, falling back to the guy she looks at me and sees because why not? She’s done with me anyway, the time slot she penciled me into exceeded, and reinstating my need to get under her skin extreme, if only to remind her I didn’t want to be here anyway. That it’s whatever. That I’m forced to be around her just as much as she’s forced to be around me. “First strippin’ for me, then talking plugging and positions? What would Coach Reid have to say about such behavior?”

Her face smooths out completely, her true thoughts hidden, and she gives me that robotic tone of hers I hate. “Go over your study guide one more time tonight, but don’t look at it again after that. Not even right before the test. I’ll email you the breakdown of today’s session later tonight.”

She turns and walks away, straight out of the gate.

And like the merry-go-round we seem stuck on, I’m the dick that follows her when I should just let the girl go.

But what the fuck’s her problem?

“So, this is where slightly cool and less uptight Tutor Girl turns back into the killjoy, noted.”

She gives no reaction and I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m after. It must be because I keep going.

“To think, you almost seemed normal there for a second.”

Her pace quickens.

“So, what is it, huh? Can’t handle being around me this long, gets the juices flowin’?”

She doesn’t slow or look back at me, but there’s a small frown now marring her face.

Good, almost there.

I want her to snap, to yell or scream. To give me something.

She gives me nothing.

“Yeah, I noticed. You know, you really should take some of the money you’re makin’ off me and invest in a thicker pair of them tights you wear like pants, some that will hide the wet spots better.”

She gasps, her head jerking in my direction, a broken glare blanketing her features.

I smirk, cock my head and stare right into those brown eyes of hers.

Yeah, I know, it’s sweat coating the inside of her thighs—she’s thick in the best fucking places and the sun makes you pay for nature’s kindness in providing perfect curves.

Was I a dick to call her out on her worn-out leggings and unavoidable perspiration? Of course, I was, and later tonight, I’ll feel like a dick for embarrassing her, but I don’t yet.

I don’t because she’s stopped in her tracks and her eyes are on mine. Staring, searching, contemplating ...

Her eyes are on mine.

Why do I want to keep them there?

She swallows, whispering, “I need to go.”

“Need to or want to?”

Her lips press together, and her head begins to turn away, but my hand decides to fly up and hold it right where it is, facing me.

My gaze falls to where my skin touches hers and heat builds in my groin. “Why don’t you try to get in my bed?”

She nearly chokes, tries to escape, but I block her, and her brows cave. “I’m your tutor.”

“That’s not an answer.” I lick my lips. “I can give you whatever it is you want, do whatever you like. I’m a generous man. I’d be good to you, I promise.” I don’t realize I’m slipping closer until she’s pulling back, a tangled thought flashing in her eyes.

“See you Friday, Tobias.” Quicker than I’d have thought her capable, she’s gone.

And I’m hard as a fucking rock.

For my messy, prudey, annoyingly pretty eyed, goddess-shaped tutor.

The one girl seemingly immune to my charm.

I don’t get it, but I want to.

I want to know her. Understand her.

I kind of just want to talk to her for a while.

What kind of warped world is this?

CHAPTER 9

Tobias

With a curt nod, I give my okay, settle my shoulders, lift my knee to my waist and swing my arm around with the power of a lightning bolt. The ball came and went, hit my man’s hand with a force that could break a weaker fucker’s palm, but not Echo’s.

The crowd goes crazy, even before the ump has a chance to make his official call, because there’s not a person here who could misread or disagree about that pitch, shit was pure perfection.

Strike three, bitch. I smirk.

Get outta my house, my zone.

As we knew it would be, it’s called in my favor and the pouty fucker, with a sad size seven cleat, throws his bat in the dirt, stomping his sorry ass to the visitors’ dugout.

I didn’t even throw him a changeup. Three strikes, right down the middle, and still this guy, who didn’t strike out a single at bat last season, didn’t hit shit off me today.

None of them did.

“Yeeeaah, boi!” Echo pops up, tossing his catcher’s mask in the dirt, and charges me.

When he’s a foot or so away, I hop into the air, as does he, and we bump shoulders before hitting mitts in celebration.