“Forever,” he concurred before he moved his mouth to my chest. His tongue was frenzied as he flicked my pebbled nipple, before sucking it into his mouth and holding it between his teeth. I whimpered and he shivered. He sucked and licked before moving to the next one, giving it the same treatment.
I writhed underneath him, raising my h*ps to meet his, telling him with no words that I was ready to have him inside me.
“Not yet,” he said to my silent plea. He moved his good hand toward my jeans, but fumbled with the button. “You gotta get these off, Kitten. I’m f**king useless with this hand.”
I unbuttoned my jeans and lowered the zipper. Shimmying out of them, I watched as Jack did the same with his before discarding them on the floor. He paused for only a moment, but it was long enough for me to see him in all his nak*d glory. I wanted to freeze-frame this second and burn it into my memory. Naked Jack Carter was truly a sight to behold. From his chiseled shoulders and chest all the way down to the manhood that jutted from between his muscular thighs. This man’s athletic body did a number on me.
I pursed my lips together and reached for his length, but he shook his head. His eyes met mine before he lowered his head between my legs. My lips parted as he kissed my inner thigh, slowly, methodically. He teased me until I felt like I didn’t know how to breathe on my own. Every breath felt wrong, filled with too much effort. Who the hell has to think about breathing? Apparently I do when my husband is positioned between my thighs.
His tongue left a trail of wetness up my thigh and close to my sex before moving to the opposite leg. I wriggled and grabbed his head, trying to force him to focus his attention where I desperately wanted him to. He laughed. “Almost, Kitten,” he said, his words hot against my skin.
Just when I thought I couldn’t take any more and I considered actually killing him with my legs, his tongue found my sweet spot. My chest heaved as I released the air building within me. He licked me in soft strokes before becoming more focused, more feverish. The flicks of his tongue caused my frenzy to build as he moved from one area to another. One moment his tongue lapped at me, and the next it was diving inside of me, moving in and out in rapid succession.
I squeezed my eyes so hard I saw stars. Or maybe it was his mouth that made me see them. Who knew? All I knew for sure was that it was f**king magical. My husband was a magician with a wand for a tongue and I didn’t care who knew.
“Jack. Oh God, Jack. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop,” I shouted. “You’re like Harry Potter, oh God!”
Instantly, he stopped. Midlick, he lifted his face from between my legs to stare at me, and I swear I felt my vag**a curl up and die a little.
“Did you just call me Harry Potter?” Jack’s face twisted with humor and confusion.
“I just meant that you were magical. Your tongue is f**king magic. Get down there and perform a spell. Shut up, Jack. Just get back down there.” I pushed his head as he laughed.
“He might be magic, but he’s not real. I’m real. This is real.” His tongue resumed its magical licking as he pushed two fingers inside me. My cli**x continued to build with each flick of his tongue and every thrust of his fingers.
“Just like that, Jack. Oh yes,” I yelled as my h*ps twisted and jerked, my orgasm tearing through my body with force.
He pulled his head away from me slowly, a dimpled smile on his face. “Are you going to start calling me Harry?”
“Only if you want me to,” I panted as he positioned himself on top of me and pushed inside. The size of him filled me up and I moved my h*ps in time with his.
“Fuck, Cassie. Always. You always feel so good.” He pushed himself hard against me, reaching deeper with each thrust.
“Deeper, Jack. Go deeper,” I begged as he grabbed my shoulders and rolled underneath me, never pulling out. I pushed my body on top of his, taking him in as deep as I could. Moving up and down, I leaned toward him, kissing his chest and licking around his nipple.
My h*ps continued to move, pumping him in and out of me as his erection grew with each stroke against its length.
“Do you feel that?” he asked, referring to his growing size. His voice was tight, as if he couldn’t get enough air. “I’m gonna come, Kitten. I’m almost there.”
I nodded as my own cli**x built within me. As I worked myself up and down along him in a hurried pace, he stiffened, reaching a place in me only he ever had, and I began to shudder. Jack’s eyes closed as he exploded inside me, filling me up. I reveled in the thrill of his orgasm as another one of my own ripped through me. My body pulsed as my heartbeat throbbed in my ears. I collapsed onto Jack’s chest and lay there panting as he ran his fingers through my hair, his breathing fast and his body slick with sweat.
“Mine,” was all he said as he kissed my forehead. “Forever.”
Traded
Three weeks later …
Today marked six weeks since I’d broken my fingers. Cassie wanted to come with me to meet with the team doctor for moral support, but I told her I needed to do this alone. It had nothing to do with me wanting her there or not, but more to do with the fact that she couldn’t do anything about the diagnosis.
If my fingers were healed, then that was great. But if they were still f**ked up, she couldn’t make them better, and I needed time to process that. This was the kind of thing a man went into alone and then thanked God, or whoever, that he wasn’t alone when he came out. Cassie was great about it, completely understanding. But then again, my girl always had been.
She wished me good luck as she walked out the door for work, and I promised to call her as soon as I knew anything.
Nerves twisted inside my gut as the possibility of my career being over hung above my head like some sort of metaphorical rain cloud. I could barely eat or think of anything else as I hopped up on the exam table.
“How you feeling?” the doctor asked, all nonchalant, and I wanted to strangle him for attempting small talk with me at a time like this.
Unwilling to respond, I gave him a curt smile and a head nod instead. It was immature and unprofessional, but if he didn’t get this cast off my arm and give me a prognosis, I was going to throw up all over his stupid shiny shoes.
He grabbed a weirdly shaped contraption and started to cut through my cast. Peeling away at the layers, he gently removed it. Waving off the rank smell that accompanied it, I grumbled an apology.
“Comes with the territory, Jack. No one can go six weeks without washing an area of their body and have it smell like roses,” he explained.
He clearly didn’t know my wife. I’d bet she could. She could do anything.
I looked at my arm, which was wrinkled and pale from being holed up for the last six weeks. I had to stop myself from hitting it to get the natural coloring to return. Holding my arms up side by side, my normally strong arm looked diseased and wasted.
“How long until it looks like my hand again?” I asked the doctor.
“That’s all normal too. Now, let me see how your fingers look.” He reached for my hand and asked me to straighten it. They were sore and underused.
“That’s great, now make a fist.”
I did as he asked, fisting my fingers into the palm of my hand. Every movement felt foreign. And weak.
I was not used to being weak.
“It all looks good. The bones healed nice and straight. With about a week or so of rehab, Jack, you should be back on the mound, depending.”
“Depending on what?” I asked sharply.
“No, no.” He waved a hand in apology. “I just meant depending on how you feel, strength-wise. Everyone heals differently,” he said and I exhaled.
“Can I throw today?” I asked, determined to heal as soon as possible and get back on the mound where I belonged.
“I don’t see why not. Just take it easy.”
I fired off a quick text to my girl.
Hand looks good. Everything healed well. Off to see how it feels.
My phone beeped out a response before I could put it down.
So relieved. And so thankful. Good luck, babe. I love you.
I walked into our private indoor batting cage and grabbed a ball. Palming it, I slowly wrapping my fingers around the seams in a curve-ball grip. I couldn’t hold it as tightly as before, but I wasn’t worried. One hundred percent healing would come with time. With my heart in my throat, I pulled my arm back and released the ball, not trying to pitch it, simply warming up.
It didn’t feel the same. My grip was weak and my fingers lacked the sheer strength they had a mere six weeks ago.
After winding my way back into the doc’s office, I asked him, “Should I do strength exercises first? Get my finger and hand strength back?”
“Absolutely,” he said as he tossed me a sponge-like ball. “Squeeze this.” I did as he asked and he smiled. “Good. Now do that multiple times a day, but don’t overdo it. No more than ten reps and no more than five times each day. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but trust me. Also, make sure you flex your fingers and press them against something flat, like your table at home.”
“All right, Doc. Thanks.”
For the next week, I did as the doctor ordered, and each time I threw the ball at the field, I felt more and more like my old self. My hand felt good and when Coach clocked me, I threw between ninety and ninety-one consistently. Not as fast as before, but still fast. He removed me from the disabled list and told me I’d be closing out the next home series.
I couldn’t wait to throw again. Or get in my full uniform. While I was hurt, I only had to wear my sliding pants and a pullover. I wanted to be dressed in full gear again.
Sunday afternoon, the stands of Shea stadium were packed, an almost sold-out crowd, I was told. There was something about an afternoon game in the summer. Everyone wanted to be there, watching our nation’s favorite pastime.
When I took the mound, the cheers were deafening. I’d been missed. Thank God I’d been missed; I missed them too. The fans, the cheers, the stadium, the smell of the food cooking and the freshly mowed grass around me.
Stepping onto the mound, I scooted the dirt away from around the front edge with my toe, making a small divot. I kicked my cleat hard against the white rubber before turning to stand on it. It was crazy, but I’d missed the way my feet felt on the springy step.
The knowledge that I’d lost velocity on my pitches did little to soothe the anxiety that swirled inside me. I wanted to throw harder, pitch faster, get right back to where I was, but my hand wouldn’t cooperate. My fingers weren’t capable of gripping the ball as tightly as they once did. And when the baseball left my fingertips, the same force I once had, had lessened. I knew it because I felt it. From my arm all the way to my toes, my body reacted to the way my pitches had changed.
After sucking in a deep breath, I aimed at the catcher waiting for my warm-up pitch, and threw. The ball flew right down the center, a perfect fast-ball right down the pipe. My hand felt good and I wanted to keep it that way, so I stretched my fingers and threw ten more pitches before the first batter stepped up to the plate.
Aiming for the glove and agreeing to the catcher’s call for a first pitch fast-ball on the outside corner, I pulled my arm back and threw. The batter swung and missed. I glanced at the scoreboard behind me to check my speed as I walked back to the mound. The numbers nine-zero showed on the screen under the strike one count.