Chapter 24

Brooks

I can't get enoughof Mackenzie.

Her smile.

Her devious side.

Her belief in the team.

Her belief in me.

The hot, slick caress of her tongue on mine.

Her legs wrapped tight around me and her sweet pussy cradling my dick.

Fuck me, I want this woman like I've never wanted anything else in my life, but if I don't stop kissing her, and we lose the game today, I'll lose her forever.

I wrench myself out of the kiss. "I want to strip you naked and lick you from head to toe."

Smooth, Elliott.

That'll help the don't lose her forever situation.

But her eyes cross and she tilts her pelvis into me, rubbing me with her body. "Oh my god, yes."

"I mean—shit. Mackenzie."

"I don't care." She squeezes her eyes shut. "I know I should, but I don't."

She smells like Cracker Jacks, and she's wearing a Fiery Forever T-shirt, and I want to make love to her until I can't feel my cock anymore, but she needs me to keep my hands to myself.

But—

I slide her to the floor and make myself step away, reaching back and yanking my shirt over my head. "Take your clothes off."

Her cheeks are roses. Her lipstick is all smeared off, which means I'm probably wearing it, and fuck if that's not turning me on more. Her eyes are glittering jewels of pure blue lust complementing the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

And right when I think she's going to bolt, instead, she meets my gaze while her hands drift down her breasts, cross over her belly, and grip her T-shirt hem.

My dick's so hard it could smack the seams off a baseball.

And that's before she slowly lifts that shirt, exposing one tantalizing inch of skin at a time. Her belly's sporting the same rose glow as her cheeks, and I want to know where else she's hot and bothered.

I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't move.

She's not wearing a Fireballs bra.

She's wearing a red lace bra.

She finishes pulling her shirt over her head and tosses it aside. It might've landed on the floor, or it might've landed on the stove and be in imminent danger of catching fire, and I don't care.

She has a Fiery belly button ring.

And I have the hardest hard-on in the history of hard-ons, and the brainpower to go with it. "I want to touch you so bad."

"I fantasize about your cock when I masturbate."

That. Mouth. "Show me."

She bites her lower lip, her electric blue gaze skimming my bare chest and making my skin light up like fireworks after a night game.

And then she trails her pink-tipped fingers over the edge of her lace bra, and I. Am. Dead.

Pick me up off the floor dead of over-arousal.

Pretty sure my dick would like to detach itself and clobber me over the head until it bashes my brains in for all of these years of denying it sex.

It can shut the ever-loving fuck up though, because if my reward for my patience is this woman, then it's all been worth it.

Forget baseball. Forget winning. Forget everything else.

I want this woman whose neck is arching back and whose eyes are sliding closed while she pinches her own nipples through her red lace bra, and I would wait a hundred years if I knew she was the light at the end of my tunnel.

"Mackenzie."

She peers at me through lowered lids. "I want to see you."

I'm not in my ugly-ass kitchen with Mackenzie framed against the backdrop of an olive fridge that's making noises like a dying rhinoceros.

I'm standing firmly in my own fantasies come to life where a crazy-sexy woman with mussed hair and bedroom lips and the breasts of a goddess is slipping a hand into her pants while asking to see me naked.

I strip out of my sweats and boxers and toss them, only hazily noticing my dog's bark and the subsequent "Dickhead!" translated by his collar.

So, so fucking accurate right now.

Mackenzie's gaze drifts to my morning salute, and she licks her lips.

I fist myself, because if I don't, I'm going to ask her to, and I can't.

I can't take that chance. Not if it'll make her feel responsible for anything else that happens the rest of today.

"You would feel so amazing inside me." Her breath is coming faster, and it's not enough to watch her hand disappearing under her leggings.

I want to see her too. "Take them off."

She bites her lip again. Looks down at my dick, which I'm stroking as slowly as I can.

Must. Maintain. Control.

"Show me your sweet pussy, Mackenzie. Show me what you're doing with your fingers."

Show me what I'm missing.

Her fingers are wet when she pulls them back out of her pants and teases me with lowering her pants even slower than she took off her shirt.

Half an inch down one hip. A quarter-inch down the other.

I jerk harder.

She smiles triumphantly, and I make my fist slow.

Torture has never been this enjoyable.

"Do I do that to you, or is it any red-blooded woman?" she whispers.

"It's you."

Her gaze demands my full attention while she continues to peel those tight leggings off her hips and down her thighs, and not even the matching red lace bikini panties can distract me from the demand that I prove to her I'm telling the truth.

She's seen me at my lowest.

Hitting on anything that moved.

Actively hating being here in Copper Valley.

Trying to sabotage her favorite team. The team that I get paid to play for. Not her.

"From the minute we met, I haven't been able to look at another woman without thinking of you."

"I'm a hot mess."

"You're a spicy taco with extra guacamole."

She laughs, and what little blood I have left in my brain surges straight to my dick. The sight of her with her eyes sparkling happily and her skin flushed and that wide mouth spread in a smile will fuel my next four dozen jack-off sessions.

At least.

Her gaze lingers on my cock, still fisted in my hand, because I have this erroneous assumption that I won't have a premature issue here if I hold myself still.

She licks her lips again. "You're very big."

"Pent-up frustration."

"Stroke yourself."

"You first, Kenz."

Our eyes lock once more. "Where?" she whispers.

"Touch your pussy. I want to see you touch your pussy."

"Like this?"

It's a good thing I'm already dead, because watching her slide that lace aside, part her legs, and stroke a finger into her blond curls would've finished me off.

"Pinch your clit." I can barely talk, but I force the words out, and I'm rewarded with her doing exactly as I ask.

Her lips part. Her eyelids lower. And a soft moan of pleasure fills my ears as she plays with her nub.

I'm yanking my cock erratically. I can't control my fist, and I don't want to. "More, Kenz. Put your fingers inside yourself."

She groans as she obliges, and watching her jerk her fingers in and out of her wet channel is taking me to the edge of control.

"I don't…usually…have an audience," she gasps.

"Usually?"

"Ever. I've never…done…this."

"It's hot as fuck." And I'm gonna come. I'm gonna spill everything right here in my porny kitchen before she gets off. "You're the sexiest fucking woman in the world, and one day, that'll be my dick you're riding. I'm gonna take you so hard we'll both go blind, Kenz. So fucking hard. All night long."

"Oh, god, Brooks, oh, god, I'm coming."

Thank sweet fuck.

Her head arches back. She braces a hand on the fridge, and she moans, her fingers buried deep in her pussy, and the sight of her getting herself off pushes me over the edge.

I come in my hand, roaring out my own release at how fucking good it feels to not be alone, to be watching her ride out her orgasm while mine rips through me with the force of a hundred-mile-an-hour pitch splintering a baseball bat.

I can't catch my breath.

I can barely stand.

I have to hit a damn grand slam every time I step up to the plate today if I ever want to get close enough to touch Mackenzie again.

But fuck, it's all worth it.

Every bit.

I grab a paper towel and clean myself while she sags against the olive green fridge, panting, eyes squeezed shut.

And that's not a pretty rose making her whole body blush.

It's red blotchiness.

Like her skin itself is telegraphing the regret already sinking in.

I toss the paper towel and step beside her, gripping her chin until she looks up at me. "I'm gonna have the best fucking game of my life today. And when I get back from this road trip, we're doing this again."

She visibly swallows. Her gaze wavers, and fear settles in the deepest pits of my stomach.

"And we still need pancake sandwiches," I add as I release her chin.

It's normal.

It's what we do.

We eat Nutella-bacon pancakes.

And the Fireballs win.

Regardless of how I play.

"I like you," she whispers.

I grin. "Thank god, because I'd hate to see what you do to someone you don't like."

Coco Puff barks, and his collar does its thing. "Fuck you all, motherfuckers!"

"Oh, is someone feeling neglected?" I glance at my dog, realize he's made himself at home right in the middle of Mackenzie's discarded shirt, and suddenly have images of him peeing all over her clothes.

Which would mean she'd have to wear one of my shirts on her way out the door.

Huh. Suddenly can't see the downside.

I grab my pants, because I don't really want to risk going on the injured list for cooking injuries sustained to my junk. I survived getting head-butted in the cup by a goat, but I'm not wearing protective gear right now. "Extra Nutella for luck?"

She blinks at my sweatpants and starts smiling like she knows what I'm thinking, and the entire world rights itself back on its axis. "Only for me. You need everything else to stay the same this morning."

I stagger with a hand to my heart. "Cruel, cruel woman."

Something wavers in her gaze again, and I know we're walking a fine line.

But she doesn't run away.

And an hour later, when she's on her way out the door to get ready for handing out Fiery Forever buttons at Duggan Field before the game, she slaps my ass. "Play good today, tiger."

Good.

Fuck that.

I'm giving her my best.