Chapter 2

2

Pippa

Was I crazy to agree to this deal?

Sitting in the passenger side of Cort Mulloy’s truck, I seriously wonder if I drank insanity juice this morning for breakfast. Not only have I lost my highly-coveted job, I am now the assistant to baseball’s most famous—and mysterious—player. And I came willingly!

On one hand, Cort has handed me the keys to the sports-reporting kingdom. An exclusive from this man will put me on the map. No one has ever even come close, and for some reason, he’s chosen me on whom to bestow his private confession. An interview with the tall, dark, handsome and tight-lipped pitcher will fast track my career in a way nothing else could.

However, the second half of what I’ve agreed to is terrifying.

You’re going to learn how to get yourself off. Using my body only.

I wasn’t lying when I told Cort I’ve never had an orgasm. I tried a few times when I was in high school and I just felt nervous. I don’t want to lose control of my body. I don’t want some euphoric feeling to take over. I’m fine the way I am, thank you very much.

The word throes is so alarming, isn’t it? The closest to the throes I’d like to get is watching a grand slam sail out of the park.

Or at least…that’s what I always thought.

Cort’s voice slides into my ear, making me shiver.

I’ll launch your career as a reporter.

But so help me God, I want between your legs for it, little girl.

And apparently, when he gets between my legs, he wants to get me off. Not himself.

Why?

I didn’t understand men when I woke up this morning and there’s no hope of remedying that when Cort Mulloy is the one who I’m going to be learning from. He is getting nothing out of this deal of having me as his assistant. Is he?

Narrowing my eyes, I study him across the seat.

Our gazes lock, his expression heating and—not for the first time—he adjusts the distended fly of his jeans with that big pitcher’s hand, turning my brain to mush.

Now, I watch a lot of baseball, so I’ve seen many jock adjustments. I always kind of thought of them as a biological necessity. But it’s different with Cort. I’ve felt that large part of him against the juncture of my thighs. Felt it beating. Stretch. Thicken. And I liked it. I liked the ticklish feeling it produced when there was just enough friction. The melting sensation that happened in my belly. I liked how he pushed it up against me as if…as if he owns me. As if he knows exactly what I need.

Little girl.

I bite down hard on my lower lip and try not to be obvious that I’m covered in goosebumps. Why do I like being called that name so much? If anything, I’ve always wanted to be grown up, independent. It doesn’t track that I’d like this feeling of being…cared for. Possessed. But I do like it. I like even more the way he stood up for me to Randy. A hero stepping in to save the day and slay the villain.

We turn onto a long, dirt road and I tear my attention from Cort to see the ranch in the distance. It’s a lot bigger than I imagined. The house is long and low against the horizon, bracketed on both sides by long, white fences that stretch further than my eye can see. The last dregs of a sunset turn the sky purple and give the ranch a pleasing outline. Lanterns flicker over the porch, as if beckoning us home. And an odd sensation infiltrates my middle, a layer of comfort sealing to the lining of my stomach. As if…I’m supposed to be here.

A few minutes later, Cort has parked the truck outside in the circular driveway. He comes around to the passenger side to help me out…and he makes a meal out of it. His mouth comes within in an inch of mine as he reaches across to unfasten my seatbelt, his palm skimming roughly over my belly, hunger darkening his eyes.

His steel forearm wraps around my back and he draws me out of the vehicle, up against his big body, leaving my feet suspended in mid-air. That part of him that needed so much adjusting on the ride home is pressed up tight between my legs and I whimper when he rolls his hips, his eyes latched onto my face, watching my reaction.

I’m pretty sure I’m cross-eyed from the building need inside of me.

My high heels fall off and I lift my thighs, wrapping them around his hips, his answering growl sending heat passing through me in waves. “We’ll leave the shoes here. You won’t need them inside.” He kicks the passenger side door shut and walks toward the house with me clinging to his strong frame. “You won’t need the clothes, either.”

“But…”

He seals his mouth over mine, cutting me off.

Pleasure blooms…everywhere at the contact. Between my thighs, in my chest, in the buds of my breasts. I’m pressed roughly to the front door of Cort’s house, his tongue trespassing between my lips and taking ownership of me. Of everything I am. He drags his tongue against mine, over and over, our lips slippery and eager, and uses his hips to prop me against the door while his hands strip the clothing from my body.

First comes my jacket. It’s tossed away without ceremony, his palms skating up and over my breasts, kneading them with a sound of possession. My blouse is ripped clean off and it’s still fluttering to the ground when his fingers go to work on my bra, fumbling with the front clasp and baring my breasts to the nighttime, our mouths still mating feverishly.

“Damn right I’m about to carry you into my home for the first time with bare little titties and a wet pussy.” His hips surge up between my legs. “Your body knows this is where you come to get well fucked. Isn’t that right, Pippa?”

“Yes,” I whine, shocked to find how right it feels to be naked before this man. I always thought I would die of self-consciousness if a man ever saw me without clothes. But this moment with Cort only seems inevitable. Perfect. Even his coarse language appeals to me because it’s so honest. So him. The rasp of his shirt against my nipples sends a thrill of exhilaration across my skin and I pout until he kisses me again, as if I’ve been reborn into a new personality. One that only exists when this man touches me.

But I have to remember why I’m here.

I can’t let this man’s touch rob me of my brain cells so thoroughly that I forget everything I’ve spent the last four years working for. I’m here to get the most coveted interview in professional sports. I can’t let this man overwhelm me and lose sight of that.

With a concerted effort, I break the kiss that leaves both of us panting. “I came here to ask you questions,” I wheeze. “So. Um. Th-that should come first or…”

“Or what?” Cort rasps against my mouth.

“Or you might make me forget,” I whisper. “Is that your goal?”

His lips curve up, a devilish light momentarily flashing in his eyes. “Work before pleasure. Is that the way it’s going to be?”

“Yes,” I say sternly, although the effect is ruined by my toes curling lustily against his thighs. “I am a professional, after all.”

“Then I guess we better get started,” he drawls, unlocking the door and pushing it open, carrying me over the threshold into a house that smells minty and manly, just like him. “But you’re going to have to ask your questions while I’m in the hot tub. Post game ritual.”

“Hot tub?” I stammer, very aware that I’m topless and being carried by baseball’s greatest pitcher. “I don’t have my bathing suit.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t have one, either.”

I gulp.

As Cort carries me to through his living room, I can’t help but gape. It’s extraordinarily masculine, everything in grays and blues and whites and blacks. Chrome. Expensive. But so tasteful and comfortable-looking, I find myself anxious to snuggle down into his big, oversized couch. To dig my toes into the shaggy white rug and wiggle them around, maybe take a nap in front of his floor-to-ceiling fireplace.

Before I can catalogue everything in the living room—for my article, of course—Cort is carrying me out onto an expansive back patio that overlooks a swimming pool and the horse corrals beyond. The sun has gone down completely now, but frosted lanterns dance to life as if sensing our presence, painting the whole backyard in a golden glow.

And there is the hot tub.

It’s enough to fit a whole baseball team, let alone one pitcher and a reporter who is quickly forgetting her lifelong goals in the presence of this magnetic man.

Pull it together, Pippa.

I wiggle around until Cort sets me down, smoothing my hands down my skirt, which is all that remains of my clothing. And I do my best to look dignified. “Go ahead with your post game routine. I’ll just ask my questions while you—”

He strips off his shirt and my words stutter to a halt.

They don’t show this part on television.

Cort Mulloy is strapped with muscle. His shoulders are corded slabs, broad and capable. The movement of taking off his shirt causes his pecs to lift and flex, the brown discs of his nipples pebbling in the cool night air. And I have to assume mine are pebbling right along with his, because his pants come off next and oh, Jesus, he isn’t wearing any underwear. One flick of his famous wrist reveals a thatch of black hair and the thick root of his manhood.

“You were going to ask your questions?” he drawls, dropping his jeans.