Page 43 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Palmer

How am I supposed to act calm after a statement like that?

I want to fuck my wife , he says in the lower timbre of his controlled, confident voice, like he’s been planning the moment in his head all day.

He’s still wearing his suit pants and dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his colorful tattoo sleeve on full display and drawing my eye.

His hands lay casually on the steering wheel, the muscles in his bare forearms flexing with every minor course adjustment.

Every nerve ending in my body is exploding with tension and anticipation, and we still have some time till we arrive at his neighborhood.

Our neighborhood . If you can even call it a neighborhood.

I’ve seen the random luxury car come and go down the tree-lined street, but if anyone is out walking their dog or grabbing their newspaper from the driveway, well, between the shrubbery and the length of the driveways, nobody gets close enough to see that.

Unless they’re using a drone .

“So, what’s the reason you always eat so healthy?”

It’s a dumb question, leading to what I hope is a boring exchange about eating habits.

But we have to kill a few minutes with random conversation or I’m going to crawl over the console of this enormous, luxurious, not-compensating-for-anything SUV and test how easily we both fit in his seat.

And how easily he can see over my shoulder while he’s driving and I’m grinding on his lap.

And if we can pull that off without having a random video posted by a fellow traveler—or getting pulled over by a cop.

Not something I want to discuss in calls with our children. Later tonight. After fuck my wife .

“What? What do you mean?” He jerks his gaze from the road, like his mind was somewhere far away and has to take a detour to catch up. “You want to know why I eat healthy?”

So far, so good, in the distraction department. Though, at this point, he must think the pinball in my brain is just pinging randomly.

He puts on his traffic signal and exits the highway, and thank God, since this means we’re closer to home.

“Yeah. I mean, even when we go for pizza, you have a huge salad, low-fat dressing only, and you only take one slice. I know you’re an athlete, but sometimes, don’t you want to eat whatever you want?”

He navigates a right-hand turn, and a stop sign, and then a turn to the left before he answers me.

“I’m playing the long game. I take care of my body, and my body takes care of me. We have an arrangement like that. It helps me stay in baseball.”

I understand discipline. But it has to bother him, at least, a little, doesn’t it?

It would piss me the hell off. He pulls the SUV up to his driveway gate and presses a button on his visor rather than punching the code in the box.

We’re close, so close, and my body senses it.

I’m on edge again, my hands trembling against my thighs.

A couple more minutes, Palmer. Hold it together.

“But you don’t mind? It doesn’t bother you that you can’t eat whatever you want?”

Max pulls up to the house, shuts down the vehicle, and moves to stand in the lee of my open door before I climb down.

“Sometimes I mind, Palmer Girl. Sometimes I cheat with a piece of pizza or a small piece of something sweet. Today, though, before I think about my stomach or any other part of my body?—”

He scoops me from my seat and into his arms, and carries me the short distance to the front door. I wait for him to set me on my feet so we can go inside, but nope, the man opens the door and pushes in, then kicks it closed with his heel.

“Today, I’m carrying my wife over the threshold of our home .”

My heart melts and I tighten my hold when he pauses in his—um, our —downstairs ballroom to kiss me without lowering me to my feet. Then, we’re off again, and he’s striding through the house like a man with an agenda.

“Max, where are you taking me?” I ask as I bounce along with him. My shoes jostle from my feet and clatter to the tile floor. “Are we going into the kitchen?” I’ve totally lost the plot. I thought he was all about the fuck my wife , but now, that doesn’t seem to be as urgent.

“Thought I’d get myself a snack. You know, something healthy and natural,” he tells me, and sets my ass on the kitchen island.

The granite is cold through the thin gauzy fabric of my skirt, but his eyes are hot, burning for me, and the lust I’ve tamped down with random thoughts and inane banter erupts inside me.

“Now, be a good girl and lay back,” he directs, and his hand goes to the back of my head to act as a cushion before my head hits the counter.

His other hand tugs at the elastic neckline of my top, pulling it down my arms so they’re tethered at my sides, then reaching behind me to unclasp my bra.

The cups lay loosely over my breasts until he pushes them up, into my neck.

“Look how pretty you are, wife.”

It’s not sexy, at all , from my point of view, but I’m a little in love with the way he calls me wife . He latches his lips around a nipple and sucks, and the shaft of pleasure that darts directly to my clit makes me gasp.

“Jesus, Max, do that again,” I cry out, because that was sexy as fuck. He does do it again, and then he moves to the other breast, sucking and abrading it with his tongue.

“Count on it, babe, I’m going to do this all night.”

He gently removes his hand from my head so he can use it to tweak the tender skin of the nipple he just abandoned.

He’s laying over me, his elbows braced against the counter, his hard, heavy erection rocking against my center. My hips writhe beneath him.

“I’m going to do this, too,” he says, and that’s the only warning I get.

He stands, takes my bare feet in his hands, and sets them on the counter. My knees are bent, my skirt drifting down my thighs to puddle at my waist, the tiny lace panties I’m wearing the only thing keeping my bare pussy from him.

And then, my panties are gone.

“You ready for this?”

Max takes my ankles in his hands and slides my legs apart, widening his access. His mouth lands on my swollen folds and he kisses me almost desperately as his finger joins in and slides through my damp slit, spreading the moisture over my clit.

Am I ready? I couldn’t be more ready. My body is on fire for him.

“Yes, yes. I want you. I need you to fuck me, Max.”

My hips buck, needing more of the friction he’s causing. Without removing his busy mouth, sucking and licking, he removes his hand and brings his finger to my lips, painting them with his fingertip and my moisture.

I hum as he does it, then suck in his finger and stroke it with my tongue.

“You don’t play fair, Palmer Girl,” he murmurs with his mouth full, and his voice is strained.

Good. Now we’re both suffering . . . in the best way ever.

“What are you going to do about it, bad boy?”

But he’s still on the move, going down on me in the most literal sense. His lips and tongue haven’t stopped since he arrived, kissing and sucking, licking and nipping. I still have possession on his finger, which is only fair.

My tongue stops swirling around his finger, my attention focused on Max and his glorious mouth, and what he’s doing with it. He presses his free hand firmly into my tummy before he sucks in my clit, and it probably keeps him from getting a broken nose.

Appendage fractured by thrusting pelvis—is that a thing?

He lets out a gusty breath of air, like a laugh that’s exhaled around a mouthful of clit. Then, he swipes his tongue the length of my slit and I let out a keening wail. Jesus, he’s good at this.

“I like your enthusiasm,” he says around a chuckle, which only causes a vibration to roll through my pussy. My orgasm is building, gaining strength and power, like a fast-moving storm.

“I love when you . . . everything . . . keep going.”

I can’t stay focused enough to think . I’m engulfed in feel.

He does continue, without a pause for me to catch my breath, his tongue stroking my inner walls, his thumb focused on my clit, one finger, then two, entering my channel and sweeping upward. My world explodes.

Everything is quivering—my thighs, my inner walls, my heart.

Max moves up so his body is over me, around me, holding me tight while the pulses and tremors dissipate, and gradually cease.

When my body is stable, he helps me up and fixes my blouse, and I sit on the edge of the granite counter with my thighs spread wide and him hugging me from between my dangling legs.

“Is there anything you’re not good at?” I ask him, because the guy is every baseball fan’s man crush, every little boy’s hero, and honestly, a top tier addition to any woman’s pleasure vault.

He releases me and hops up so we’re sitting side-by-side.

“I’m not good at everything.” When I scoff, he continues. “I can’t cook, which is mostly because I don’t have time to get creative in the kitchen.”

I cough out a laugh and raise my hand.

“I beg to differ, sir.”

Max’s cheeks actually go pink. He hops to the floor and turns to guide me down.

“All right, wife . You got me. This is what creativity looks like when it doesn’t include a chicken breast and a bag of salad. Let’s find something for dinner. I have a feeling we’ll do better as a pair.”

“Better as a pair, in the kitchen ?” I ask, to be sure we’re both talking about the same thing.

He smirks and comes up close— real close —till our chests are together, his muscular pecs pressed against the softness of my breasts. He splays his palms over my hips and pulls us flush there, too.

“In the kitchen, in the bedroom, bent over the couch. In the shower. We make a pretty good pair wherever we are. And might I remind you that this is our last kid-free night? Your son returns tomorrow, and I guess we’d better decide which room he’s in.

And once we do that, we should take advantage of all the soft surfaces in the rest of the rooms.”

“Agreed. We should definitely do that.”