9. Trick

Sinclaire has no clue what really goes through my head when I look at her. I need to warn her more clearly. I need to show her exactly who I am.

She thinks she's a grown up now?

Then it's time for us to share grown-up secrets.

Her breath pants in warm, shallow little bursts next to my cheek as I reveal parts of myself I assumed would forever stay locked tight. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, pet. But I am a man who picks your panties up off the floor and breathes in the perfect, innocent scent of your off-limits cunt before I start hunting you down. Are you sure you want to spend the night in my room? Celebrate with me?"

There's a pause, understandable hesitation, before she nods. "Yes."

Clearly, I haven't shown her enough of me, then. "There's only one reason why a young woman gets naked in an older man's hotel room. You doing that, and then putting on my jersey? Rifling through my stuff, looking for something that smells like me? You were horny. That's why you're wearing my jersey. And maybe I interrupted your play, and that's why you want some champagne. Yes?"

"No," she pants. "That's not where I got?—"

"You don't need to lie, little mouse. Tell Daddy the truth."

She sucks in a gasp.

I keep going, my blood pumping furiously now. "Did you touch yourself right here on my bed?"

I trail my fingers up her soft, bare thigh, stopping just short of her panties.

She moans.

My heart squeezes so hard at the sweetness of that sound. One I don't deserve, one I won't hear again.

Part me wants to say fuck it, and just be whoever she wants tonight. I will keep all of her secrets, forever, no matter what.

But I can't let her give herself to me without knowing who I truly am.

She needs to know that from the moment she skipped back into my life, I've been obsessed with her. It's like she's a completely different person. Not the little girl I once knew. Not my friend's daughter. But a vision and a temptation I can't get out of my mind.

So instead of softening my voice and making her moan again, I move my hand up to press against her stolen jersey—and her quivering belly beneath it. "Did you wrap yourself in my number and sink your little fingers into this hot wet pussy the way I've imagined you doing every single day since you crashed my pre-season interview?"

For emphasis, I press the heel of my palm against her mound.

She twists her head so we're staring at each other. Time slows, then she sobs and lifts her hips, rocking up against my touch.

I yank my hand off her body as if I've been scalded.

"Trick," she breathes. "Please."

I stare down at her. Her wide eyes are soft and shimmering with desire. Her perfect, lush little mouth is parted and swollen. How many people have kissed her? Tasted those lips, and the wet heaven between them?

A wild possessiveness surges through me. I want to be the only man to ever know that pleasure.

And for no other reason than that, I should remove myself from this hotel room immediately.

I don't.

Chest heaving, I stand again and open the bottle of champagne as efficiently as I opened the one at the ballpark.

"Yessss," Sinclaire says, her face sparkling as if this is some kind of victory for her.

I take a big drink directly from the bottle, and her eyes flare, darkening.

"Trick, I like this side of you." She licks her lips. "Can I have a sip?"

"I'm not getting you drunk," I growl.

"Just a tiny sip." She sucks in a breath, her chest rising and falling beneath my jersey, and I'm reminded that she couldn't find her bra. She's not wearing anything under that, and her nipples must be scraping against the fabric.

"Take off my jersey." It comes out as a harsh order. Good. Let her think that I'm bossy and demanding, rather than knowing the truth, that I would fall on my knees and beg her to show me her secrets.

"I'm naked under here."

Now it's my turn to lick my lips. "Not fully. I gave you back your panties. Made you cover up that hot little cunt because it was too tempting for me."

She physically reacts to my harsh words. Hot little cunt.

"What did you want to do?" Her legs shift restlessly, and my attention drops back to where the black cotton is peeking at me again from under the hem of the jersey.

"You want to know?" I take another swig of champagne.

"I don't want you to tell me." She rocks her hips up into the air. "I want you to show me."

"We all want things, little mouse."

She scrambles to her feet, taller than me because she's standing on the bed, so when she swipes for the champagne, I can't hold it out of reach. I swing it behind me, but that just means I'm there for her to grab instead. She tries to hook my shoulder, then fists the front of my dress shirt.

We both stop, breathing hard.

"I told you," I rasp. "If you want a sip of champagne, you have to take off the jersey. I want to see your ripe little tits."

"I think you're trying to scare me," she says breathlessly. "And it's not going to work. Maybe I want you to see me naked. Did you ever think of that?"

"Only every day since spring training," I growl. "You want to know what I did first thing this morning? I stalked your Instagram account and stroked my cock. Every fucking day, Sinclaire. Okay? I want you. I want you so fucking much, and it's a fucking miracle that you didn't figure it out sooner. But in the morning, you won't want this to have happened."

"Yes, I will." She leans in and presses her nose against mine. "I'm not scared of you, slugger."

The sweetness with which she says that makes me go still. "You should be."

"Why?"

"Because I'm scared by how much I want you."

"Oh." She gives me a little, crooked smile. "Is there such a thing as wanting someone too much?"

"Yes." I swallow hard.

"Why?"

"It would be all consuming."

A sharp awareness flashes in her eyes. "Ah." She inhales and nods. "Can we maybe just have tonight, then?"

And before I can stop her—no, we can't just have one night, I need so much more than that, I need forever—she releases my shirt and straightens up. Her fingers fly to the buttons down the front of the jersey.

Tongue-tied, I stare as a sliver of her chest is revealed, then more. The curve of one breast, then the other as the jersey falls open. And in the shadows, two tight nipples, right at eye level for me.

All of my attention narrows in on this part of her I shouldn't be seeing.

I hold my breath as I reach for her. My free hand slides between the jersey and her warm, soft skin, and I wrap my fingers around her ribs. She shudders at my touch, and I squeeze her reassuringly, as if to say it's okay, pet, but I don't know if it is.

I don't know anything for sure.

"You promised me a drink," she whispers.

I hand her the bottle of champagne and watch as she takes a sip. "Mmm," she says, licking up an errant drop that clings to her lower lip. "Hey, you know what?"

"What?" My voice sounds hoarse.

"You won the fucking World Series." She passes the bottle back, but I don't want to drink from it again.

I want to drink from her.

I set it down, then push the jersey off her shoulders. She stands on the bed in front of me like a nude goddess who should be out of reach, but through some miracle of circumstances, is right there.

I just have to grab her.

But if I lay hands on her again, I'm never letting go.