Page 37 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Max

I am not mad about waking up to the sight of Palmer sound asleep beside me.

There’s a lot about it that I could enjoy getting used to—that unbound cloud of blonde curls surrounding her face and covering her pillow, the sweet smile tilting up the corners of her pink lips as though she’s dreaming something pleasant, the sweep of long dark lashes fluttering on the curve of her cheeks.

The gentle wheeze of her breath as she softly snores.

There’s also a lot about having a woman in my bed first thing in the morning that freaks me the fuck out, and it all boils down to expectations.

Hers. Mine. They’re a jumble in my brain, and I have no idea why everything seems so urgent and uncontrollable.

I scramble out of bed before I accidentally wake her up and am forced to deal with them.

The bedroom is dark with the blackout curtains drawn tight, but even if they weren’t, the sun hasn’t yet risen, and if I rely on the light from the alarm clock on the nightstand to guide my movements, I will bump into something. I haul my case into the living room of our suite to get dressed.

From past visits, I know this hotel has a kick-ass fitness center, and I take the elevator down, then use my key card to let myself in.

The room is dark and cool, and blessedly quiet.

My world will be full of noise from the minute I hit the locker room, so this is a nice reprieve.

The motion-sensor lights click on, and I have the place to myself.

I’ll get in a run and a few reps, maybe gain control over this minor freak-out that wants to take charge.

It’s nothing, right? A little apprehension about the series maybe, or concern for my play after that last disaster on the mound. It’s definitely not because there’s a woman asleep in my bed. In a hotel. In a strange city.

I’ve done that before. That has happened. Been awhile, but it has.

But it’s never been Palmer.

One game, years back, I watched from the dugout as a relief pitcher went at it with a cocky little shit at the plate.

Back and forth, they egged each other on, with little shit crowding the strike zone and reliever brushing him back.

In his final at-bat of the night, the hitter read the relief’s throw as a fastball and, waiting till the last, pivoted in for a bunt.

The hanging curveball came in hot, failed to break, and crashed into his chest. Little shit went down, and left the field on a stretcher.

That pain in his solar plexus? I’m feeling that now.

But it’s never been Palmer.

The idea alone makes it hard to breathe. Impossible to fill my lungs with air, and it’s not because I’m three miles in on the treadmill. I yank the cord for the kill switch and, bracing myself with the side rails, drag in breaths as the conveyor slows.

Get it the fuck together, Murph . Get the work in. Get your head right. Get ready. Then, get back to the room for a little more cardio . . . Palmer style. I say fuck it to the reps and do just that.

The door to our suite slow-closes behind me with an elegant snick .

I kick off my runners just inside, then reach up behind my head to tug my wet Terrors tee up my sweat-dampened back and torso, and over my head of dripping hair.

I push my running shorts down my thighs as I cross into the still-dark bedroom, then pull off my boxer briefs and socks, dropping all of it in a soggy pile, and halt. Palmer’s no longer in the bed.

Hot fog billows from the open bathroom door, which I normally would have noticed right away.

But my mind is still in a spin, so many ideas and assumptions tossing about in a fucking freefall.

The crash of water against shower tile draws me closer, and I pause to lean against the door jamb, appreciating the curve of Palmer’s form in silhouette behind the glass wall opaque with steam.

This isn’t frightening. It damn well doesn’t hurt. The sight of her, the smell and feel of her, in my space— in my life —is soothing. Restful. Comforting. It’s also exciting, and invigorating. And yes, sometimes maddening. But no, this is not scary at all. This is right.

The need to apologize to her sits in my gut like a grenade, benign as long as I treat it with caution. Deadly, if I’m not vigilant. I push myself off the wall and move toward the glass door of the oversized shower. She screams when I open it.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Max! You could have let me know you were back.”

Her hair is full of shampoo lather, her curls a soapy mass plastered to her skull. There’s some sort of white goop coating her face, and she brandishes a disposable razor like she plans to use it to take me out. I step into the arena and close the door behind me.

The voices in my head are loud, but my words are absent while I take this in. Take her in.

Why her?

She’s beautiful.

Yes, but she’s not the first beautiful woman I’ve soaped up in a shower.

What is it about her that has my thoughts short circuiting and my brain exploding?

“Hey, are you all right?” She reaches out and takes my hand, her brow pinched, her expression puzzled. “You have a good run?”

I didn’t tell her where I was going, didn’t even leave a note.

Maybe she noticed my runners were missing?

She’s not angry about it, or even impatient.

Just curious. I move in closer, crowd her against the far wall, out of the spray.

And with a slow shake of my head, take the razor from her hand. Just in case.

She shivers, but it’s from being cold. I wrap her in my arms to warm her.

She isn’t fearful, and why the fuck not?

I’m acting like a crazed lunatic. I release her and brace my hands on either side of her head, caging her in against the tile but not trapping her.

I lower my forehead to hers, and some of her goop smears onto my skin.

“Swear to Christ, Palmer Girl, I don’t know why you have me twisted in knots.”

Palmer’s sensitive. Intuitive. There’s no doubt she’s reading my mood and knows just what I need.

Which is fucking awesome, because I’m without a clue.

She puts her hands on my shoulders and stretches up to drop a kiss on my lips.

It’s soft and sweet, as though her intention is to convey emotion, not incite passion.

It’s the first one we’ve shared today, and why the fuck is that when it’s what I crave most? Like I said, intuitive.

With a bit of a grin, she ducks out of my arms, rolls around me so my chest is against the cold fucking tile, and then warms me from behind with her body.

My dick is on deck, but we’re on hold in this ump’s time out.

For now, he’s sulking in the batter’s circle, impatient to step into play. He’ll get his shot at bat.

“You know that’s what girls do, right? Fuck with the guy’s head. It’s somewhere in the handbook we’re given at birth.”

“Palmer Girl, you are crazy.” Sort of like I was half an hour ago. But it’s a good crazy, playful and reassuring.

She seems to suddenly realize she’s still covered in slime, and her hands fly to her face.

“How are you sure it’s even me you’re talking to?”

She takes a step back, turning me to face her again, then turning the tables and crowding me with her hands flat on my chest, moving forward until she’s under the hot spray with me.

“I would know you anywhere,” I say. Like a piece of my own heart.

The mask and shampoo bubbles wash away with the help of my hands wiping at her face and combing through her hair, then sliding in long arcs down her body, and especially over the sweet mounds of her tits, till it all rinses away in a slick torrent, leaving me with a grinning, fresh-faced Palmer.

“Oh, here I am,” she says. She stands under the sluicing water another moment, until she’s free of suds.

“Yeah, there you are.”

I want to say more, tell her all the things, but the words, the ones that should be flowing, creating adult conversation, they’re still trapped in my throat. One thought echoes, though, like a kettle drum beating in my head, like the only thing that matters at all, and my words spill out.

“I want you, baby. Jesus fuck, Palmer Girl, I want you, now.”

“That’s convenient, because here I am. Right here .” She speaks those last words in a long drawl as she maneuvers us into the corner. Blue steps back behind the plate and signals for the hitter. Guy’s eager and steps into the box, ready to swing.

We’re under the edge of the spray and it keeps the chill at bay. But why are we still here? Why aren’t we spread out on the bed, soaking the comforter because we’re too impatient to use the nice white cotton towels the hotel provides?

My hand rubs slow circles on Palmer’s gloriously naked hip. Her eyes on mine, she absently traces the tattoo design inked on my skin.

“See this seat right here, bad boy?”

Fuck yeah, I see it.

“I’ve been imagining all the positions I can use it to fuck you over the next few days.”

Her eyes don’t leave mine, but she adds a wicked smile. “Hold that thought.” She takes my hand from her hip and steps back. “Foot up on it.”

I’m confused. I turn to face the wall and climb to stand on the raised platform in the corner of this enormous shower.

“Jesus, Max. Get down off of there before you slip and fall.”

Now, I’m really confused. I step down, stand between her and the wall.

“The fuck am I?—”

“You’re a smart guy. Pay attention.”

She pushes me those last few inches, till my back hits the wall. Lifts my leg with her hand behind my knee, then deposits that left foot flat on the tiled seat.

“Palmer, I’m feeling a little vulnerable like this.” My dick is bobbing, my balls dangling in the cool air and threatening to shrivel like raisins.

She tugs the thick towel from where she slung it over the wall of the shower. Folds it in layers on the wet floor in front of me, and drops to her knees.

I’m no longer confused.