Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“Good news. You don’t have to pay to see me dance,” I say, since I want to share my family and our traditions, old and new, with her.
“So we’re doing it? An Irish step dancing class?”
“You bet we are,” I tell her since it’s a gift to learn all about her family, and I want her to know about my family, too.
After we finish, the waiter brings a plate of fortune cookies, and Jillian grabs the one pointed at her, cracking it open. Her eyebrows wiggle as she reads. “Ooh, this is a good one.”
“What does it say?”
“It says, ‘You have the hottest guy in the city wrapped around your finger.’”
“Sounds less like a fortune and more like the truth.”
“I speak no lies.”
“What does it really say?”
She takes a breath. “It says, ‘Good things come to those who wait.’”
I scoff. “That’s kind of vague.”
“I don’t know. I waited for you.”
“Did you?”
“You know I had my eyes on you for a long time.”
“I had my eyes on you for even longer. So much so I was always getting naked in front of you. Why didn’t you have your eyes on that?”
She laughs. “I’m making up for lost time,” she says, then tips her chin at my cookie. “What’s your fortune?”
I break the cookie and fish out the white strip of paper, reading the words aloud. “‘May your life be as steadfast as the mountains and your fortune as limitless as the sea.’” I nod, taking in the sentiment, letting it roll around in my head. “I like that. In fact,” I say, folding the slip of paper and tucking it into my wallet, “I’m keeping it with me.”
“Like a good luck symbol,” she says knowingly.
“You know luck and me are like this.” I twist my middle and index fingers together.
That’s why before every game, I follow my ritual. I eat a pomelo, whether home or away. So far, it’s been working. We’re only a few games into the season, but we have a winning record.
The record that matters most to me, though, is the one I have with Jillian. Every night I tell her I love her. Every morning, too, and usually several times during the day.
What can I say? I text her a lot. Many are naughty. Many are not. But she’s never far from my mind, or my body, since I’ve convinced her to spend nearly every night with Cletus and me. I have a big appetite, and I find the one streak I don’t want to break is having her every damn day.
That’s what I plan to do tonight.
Out on the street, I pull her in close and kiss her as we wait for a Lyft. Someone walking by mutters my name. Maybe that someone takes a picture. Maybe it’ll show up online. Maybe it won’t. Whatever happens is all good because I don’t have to worry anymore. I’ve learned the best way to rehab a reputation is to be a good guy and to fall in love with a woman who makes you want to be even better.
40
JILLIAN
My boss was right. Being involved with a ballplayer means you’re under scrutiny. A lot of gossip papers wanted to know why her? Let the press speculate. I know what I have—a guy who declared his intention for me, and then declared it again and again and again. I have a guy who has a heart as big as his hands.
And, well, a certain other part.
I do love when he uses that part on me.
And when I watch him use it for himself.
I still have my fantasies.
But now, they’re my reality.
Like tonight, when I told him I wanted to come home from a long day at the office to find him in bed, a sheet riding low on his hips, a hand wrapped around his hard length, stroking absently. I drop my purse in his living room, kick off my shoes, say hello to Cletus, and head to the bedroom.
The light is low. Only the rays of the moon streak through the window. I stand in the doorway, and a shiver runs through me as I savor the view.
His eyes are closed, his muscles ripple, and his right hand grips his erection. I bite my lip as I watch him, like the voyeur he lets me be. Everything about this turns me on wildly, especially the sounds—his groans, his grunts, his heavy breathing. The pants as he strokes faster. The moan as he grips tighter.
Most of all, how he always says my name.
That always breaks me.
Tonight, when he utters it in a raspy, needy voice as his hand shuttles up and down, I strip off my skirt and yank off my top.
My panties are gone in seconds, and I climb on him.
I know why this turns me on so much.
It’s because he’s getting off to me, even when he’s by himself. I think that will always turn me on because it makes me feel so wonderfully wanted.