Page 38 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

She peers up at me from her perch, her hair slicked back, her nipples hard and at attention, her pussy peeking out from between her thighs. Every goddamn thing below my waist clenches in anticipation.

At the first flat swipe of her tongue against my balls, my head flops back against the wall and my breath stutters. My hands tunnel into her hair and hold on.

“Jesus fuck, Palmer.”

Her next swipe is at the head of my cock, licking away the pre-cum before sliding her lips over it and encasing it with the sweet heat of her mouth.

“Like that, do you?” she teases in a mumble. She’s wrapped around my thickness, sucking me in before dragging me back over her tongue, and then suctioning me back in as far as she can.

It takes most of my concentration to remain upright, to not let my knees buckle so I collapse to the floor beside her. I could guarantee that outcome using all of my awareness, but I need a reserve to enjoy Palmer’s mouth as she sucks me off.

Then again, when she draws me in until my tip bumps the back of her throat, there’s no need for thought. Right now, my words don’t stop.

“Damn, girl, yes, right there.”

My world revolves around sight, and feel—her lips grazing my erection as she suctions me deeper.

“Jesus, you do this good.”

Her soft fingertips massaging my aching balls.

“Fuck, Palmer, I’m on the edge.”

Her reaching back to gently massage that one place that makes my balls draw up. I cry out.

“Jesus, I’m coming!”

I push her head back. Try to pull out, but she holds me tight. Her throat bobs as she swallows me down, and holy hell . . .

“Babe, that’s—” What words are big enough to describe how I feel?

I turn off the water and sink to the floor. Draw her over my limp, sticky cock and into my lap. She lays her head to my chest and I wrap her up tight in my arms. And taste myself on her when I crash my lips to hers and fuck her mouth with my tongue.

With the water off, the air is chilly. Palmer shivers against me. We’re both still soaked.

“You okay? Can you stand?” I ask her. Because at least one of us needs to do that.

I suck it up, use those muscles I spend so much time perfecting, and pull her to her feet. I have her splayed on the bed in seconds, feasting on her body like it’s my last meal. Her hands plow through my hair as I thrust into her, devouring the sweet moans that pass her lips.

I want to give her everything she gave to me, and more.

Make her feel it all. Two of my fingers are assigned to her clit, rubbing and stroking.

Scissoring that plump nub and making her squirm, cry out, buck against both my hand and my cock with abandon.

Her lips search mine out, fuse with mine, and we share a breath.

When I pinch her nipple between two fingers, she throws back her head and claws at the sheets with a long, sweet gasp.

I’m stretched out on the king-sized bed, holding Palmer against me after demonstrating just how much energy this old man really has. Her skin is flushed and rosy, damp and glowing. We’re both going to need another shower.

The sun is high when Palmer pulls back the curtains on Sunday morning.

The last two days have been packed with baseball and sex, a little sightseeing, and a little more sex.

It was past curfew when our light went out last night, and I was long past worrying about a fine by the time we went to sleep.

She’s already dressed in jeans, a black tank, and my black and white home jersey, even though it’s hours till my game and we’re hundreds of miles from Nashville.

Our bags are packed and waiting by the door, since our flight home is tonight after the game.

Our carry-ons, though? That shit’s strung all over, and housekeeping’s already knocked twice.

I’m finished showering, so she goes into the bathroom, sitting on the wide marble counter and leaning into the magnifying mirror with a mascara wand at her eye, when her phone dings on the nightstand.

“Hey, babe, can you check that for me? I’m still waiting for my son to send proof of life.”

I pause in centering my tie and look around. Babe? My grin erupts like Kilauea, and sticks to everything. I’m babe, too.

Her phone’s still tethered with the charging cord, so I tug it free and open her messages app. One from Dylan, and another from some company. Damn telemarketers.

“You’re in luck, it’s him. Want me to read it to you?”

“Please. If I stop now, I’ll forget I only did one eye and I’ll walk around lopsided all day. It’s not a good look.”

I shake my head and hold back my eyeroll. But I do it grinning.

“Everything’s fine. I’m having fun. Don’t worry.”

“That’s it?”

“Verbatim.”

“ Don’t worry , he says. When’s the last time he was a mom?”

“Do you at least feel better that you heard from him?” I move on to tying my dress shoes.

“Somewhat. It’s better than radio silence.”

“Marginally. You’ll have to beat the details out of him after he gets home.”

She scoffs lightly, but she’s distracted, concentrating on her eyebrow now.

“Hey, what’s West Coast Connection? Did you order something?”

It’s nosy, and I don’t make a habit of invading her privacy, but I’m babe now.

“What’s who? What do you mean?”

“West Coast Connection. You have a message from them. Just curious.”

I’m more curious when she pauses. Turns away, then takes a deep breath.

“It’s . . . uh . . . Alejandro.”

My grin drops, and trickles into the wasteland.

“I thought you got rid of him. What does he want?”

She picks up a makeup brush and scrubs at her cheeks hard enough to remove skin cells.

“Babe?”

“I haven’t opened it yet.”

“I see.”

That’s a fucking bullshit response, and uncalled for.

“I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “That was?—”

“Right. You were right. I should have opened it days ago, but at first, I didn’t want to deal with it, and then, I didn’t want him to spoil the mood.”

She marches into the bedroom, yanks up the phone, and drills into the button that opens the app.

Her eyes flick side to side as she reads the message . . . and drops to the edge of the mattress.

“Oh, fuck.”

Wordlessly, she raises the phone toward me and I take it to read. Alejandro is coming to Nashville in a few weeks for some sort of business conference. He wants to see Dylan. Wants to meet the man she claims is her fiancé. Disappointed she cuckolded— yep, his word —her lawful husband that way.

I sit on the bed beside her and pass her phone back. When she peers up at me, her expression is distraught and her eyes are glassy. I move my arm around her to pull her close.

“The guy has brass balls to keep coming at you.”

Her body is still, but I imagine her thoughts are whirling.

“Why won’t he leave me alone?”

“Arrogance, greed, boredom. Take your pick.”

“Well, it’s bullshit.”

Yeah, it is. And she doesn’t deserve this after all she’s been through.

“No argument from me.”

“Can’t I just say no?”

“Yeah, I think you can. But . . .”

What if this is a catalyst rather than a threat?

“But what?”

“What if . . .”

An idea is materializing in my head. It’s a little impulsive, but not any more farfetched than our engagement. Would she go for it? Only one way to find out.

“Damn it, Max! You want to share with the class?”

I reach for her hand and link our fingers. I don’t want to stop being babe .

“What if you say yes?”

Her wide eyes shoot up to meet mine.

“ What? ”

“Hear me out. What if he comes? He hasn’t seen Dylan in years, right? Let him see what a great kid he is. And have him meet . . . your husband ?”

She flies to her feet and plants her fists on her hips.

“Max, what the hell are you saying?”

I get up, stand beside her, take her left hand in mine and rub my thumb over the base of her third finger.

“I’m saying the same thing I said before. Marry me.”