Page 31

twenty-seven

. . .

[Declan]

The last month has been a blur of India and I in my bed or hers when I’m in town.

Even out of town once when we played in California with a getaway day between road games.

We spent a few, rare free minutes with Isaiah and Penn, where we revealed our relationship and they updated us on their status.

Their anniversary trip is planned for the fall, but they have a weekend away in Colorado coming up, sending the kids to Penn’s parents for their spontaneous romantic getaway.

Thankfully, fences are mended and love restored in their backyard.

The Tennessee Terrors just finished a week stretch in Michigan and then St. Louis, and we are finally back home. Unfortunately, after our first game against Texas, India isn’t available during or after the game, having a special meeting with her crew.

On Friday, after our day game, I’m nearly bursting to see my best girl and be near her; however, I have a function at the children’s hospital.

Contributing to childhood cancer research is one of my fundraising goals every year because of India’s history.

In addition to my donation, I make an appearance at the local children’s hospital’s annual fundraising event.

India will be attending as well as a guest speaker and I wish we could be going together.

I love all our private time, for just that reason, it’s private. We’re secluded in our little bubble after hours of being surrounded by my enthusiastic team. But on these rare occasions where I need to be public, it’d be nice to be holding her hand.

Instead, I’m holding a drink, slowly sipping the sharp whiskey and counting down the minutes until I see her, even if it is across a crowded room.

The second she enters the ballroom, it’s as if I sense her presence. My head turns, searching in various directions, until one of my pitching coaches, Eddie Ramirez says, “India Baker sure cleans up nice.”

Glancing in the direction Ramirez’s eyes are trained, I narrow in on my girl.

She’s a vision in red. That wild hair of hers is pinned up, exposing the column of her throat and the edge of her shoulders. Her dress is held up by the thinnest straps while the rest of it flows to the floor, cascading over her body like a crimson waterfall.

“Excuse me,” I say, drawn to her like a ball pitched toward a bat, suspended in midair, gliding across the wind, breaking through the velocity until impact redirects the energy. Only, I don’t want to be a loose ball, hit and repelled . . . from her.

She’s nodding at someone near her when I break through the barrier of people between us and pause. My heart is in my throat. My lungs collapse. She’s stolen my breath. She’s fucking stunning .

“India,” I choke, unable to regain my composure. I’m certain I’m vibrating because everything in me wants to wrap my arm around her, claiming her in the presence of all these donors. I want to kiss her and slip that dress from her and— “You look lovely.”

I step closer and lean in for a polite, societal kiss to her cheek, only her winter-fresh, snowy scent fills my nose, and I stall, inhaling deeper.

I want to fuck you , is on the tip of my tongue. Along with, I love you, let’s get out of this place .

Only a week apart and I’m crazy over her. How could I have missed her so much?

As I pull back and her eyes catch on my face, her lips slowly curl in that lazy way they do, and I have my answer. I miss the way she looks at me. The way she smiles at me.

I miss her laughter and her kindness.

Weeks ago, she suggested Montgomery shadow her in the camera well, something I’ve never seen done before.

While my daughter couldn’t be present for the entire broadcast, India gave Montgomery an extended tour and even allowed her to stand in India’s place, in front of the camera, and act out an interview with one of the guys on the team.

Montgomery could hardly come down from the high.

An idol of hers treating her with so much attention and respect. India was adorably kind to my daughter.

And I wanted to shout: “That’s my girl with my girl.”

But I couldn’t. And as much as I understand the need, the public separation is debilitating at times. Like right now when I want to drag her out of this ballroom and up to a hotel room.

“Coach Wylde.” Her tone is reserved with her typical field reporter distance, a little bit stilted and a lot off-putting as she glances over her shoulder, away from me.

She isn’t cold-hearted; she’s anxious. And while I’m hungry to nip at her exposed shoulder or press the softest whisper of a kiss there, I rein in my emotions.

“I need to make the rounds,” she admits, drawing her gaze back to me. Her eyes are cautious, apologetic even.

“Do your thing, superstar,” I whisper, taking a step back, like I’m presenting her forward. Allowing her to shine.

When India finally gives her speech, she’s fucking brilliant as she talks about the importance of donors like those in the room supporting the ongoing research of childhood cancers and other medical conditions, hammering home how advances in medicine give children the chance to be whoever they want to be, possibly even professional athletes.

Or a field reporter.

Her speech is an introduction to the evening’s meal, but I’ve lost my appetite. I only want a bite of her, and when she exits the stage, and then exits the ballroom, I follow her.

Quickly, I find her in the hallway and lead her away from the ballroom. She trembles beneath the gentle touch of my hand at her elbow.

“Are you okay?”

“That was nerve wracking, but also—” She cuts herself off when she abruptly hooks her hand in my elbow and pulls me down a smaller hallway that ends with a wall of windows. Just shy of the windows, she takes my hand and practically drags me into a smaller conference room.

“Indie, what the—” I’m cut off with a kiss before the door to the room closes behind us.

I am not complaining—not one bit—but it’s all so sudden, I feel off balance. The kiss is sloppy and unpracticed, until I’m cupping the back of her neck and spreading her lips with my tongue. Until I spin her, pressing her against the wall.

“God, I’ve missed you,” I admit, not interested in holding back my feelings.

It’s been a long seven days, and one late night of phone sex was not enough to quench my desire for her.

But it’s so much more than fucking. I want to be around her.

At the end of a long day or before another extended one starts, I want to be near her. Hear her voice. Hold her in my arms.

“I’ve missed you, too,” she mumbles against my mouth as my hand skims down the silky fabric of her dress, finding a slit toward the front, over her upper thigh. My fingers easily dip between her legs, discovering the thin scrap of fabric between them is saturated.

“Declan.” My name is an exhale of desire and a warning. “We shouldn’t do this here.”

But my fingers have already slipped around the drenched panty to breach her soaked seam. As I slide one finger inside, her breath hitches.

“Just let me touch you,” I beg, needing to feel her come apart.

Her breath catches again as I add a second finger. In her high heels she’s already on her tiptoes, but she tips even higher, her arms clutched around my neck.

“That’s my best girl,” I murmur to her neck, ghosting her with my breath while stealing hers.

“Your girl,” she whispers, not surprised but pleased as her legs spread wider and stiffen. Her hips rock gently forward, using my fingers to bring her relief and wash away the nerves.

Instead of crying out, she leans her head into my shoulder, whimpering while she breaks. The sound of my fingers gliding into her mingles with her silent cry.

When she slumps back against the wall, I gently remove my fingers from her and bring them to my mouth, sucking on both of them.

India leans forward and licks my knuckle, and my fingers move from my lips to hers, where she sucks at them as well.

Her hands seek my waistband, but I stop her. “This was all for you, wildfire. My brilliant, radiant girl. Plus, I don’t want to mess up that pretty mouth or muss your beautiful hair.” Not when I know she has an appearance to keep up.

Later, I won’t hold back. I’ll force her to paint my dick with that pretty lipstick and wrap her hair in my fist.

“But I want to reciprocate,” she whines, giving me a false pout.

“Later.” I lean forward and kiss her once more, gentler than the first time. Pressing my forehead against hers, I say, “You did amazing up there.”

“I was so nervous.”

“Why?” I pull back to scan her face as best I can in the dark room, illuminated only by emergency lights above the exits and near the sprinkler system.

“I don’t know. I can yammer in front of a camera but give me a crowd, and I’m shaking.”

“I noticed.”

“You did?” she screeches.

Rubbing my hands over her shoulders and down her arms, I try to calm her. “Not while you were on stage but when I caught up to you in the hallway. You were trembling.” I pause when I capture her hands and bring both up to my mouth, kissing the inside of each wrist. “Where were you running off to?”

“I just needed some air.” She watches as my mouth lingers on her wrist and then she catches on my eyes as I pull back. “And I was hoping you’d follow me.”

“I told you I’ll follow your lead.” I’ll go wherever she wants me to go. And I kiss her once more, swiping my tongue against hers before breaking free before I wind us up again.

With a heavy sigh, she says, “I guess we should go back.”

“Do we have to?” I pout.

She chuckles, light and easy, proving her anxiety has vanished. She presses up on her toes and gives me a quick peck before stating, “I’m afraid so. ”

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s finish this. One more hour and then your place.”

“Oh, are you inviting yourself over?” she teases.

“Absolutely.” I love her cozy house more than my cold apartment which feels extra empty when she isn’t there.

I reach for the door of the conference room and set my other hand on her lower back, guiding her out of the place.

Only, the second we step into the hallway, we come face to face with Eddie Ramirez.

India stiffens, her back ramrod straight a second before she steps forward as if my hand on her back is scorching her flesh.

My touch isn’t wanted. Not in front of others and I try to ignore the sudden hurt near my sternum.

“Ramirez,” I address my pitching coach, who looks almost as awkward as I feel. He tips his head, forcing his eyes to stay on my face and not look at India.

“Wylde.” He swallows hard, eyes losing their fight and shifting to India for the briefest moment before slinging back to me.

“If you’ll excuse me,” India says without giving me a second glance or even looking directly at Eddie. Then she’s slipping away from me, rushing down the hallway while swiping at her cheeks.

Fuck . Everything in me says to chase like I just promised her I would, but I can’t. Because she doesn’t really want me to do that. Not here where others can see us. Not in front of a fellow coach.

“I was just—” There’s no right way to explain myself. India Baker, a field reporter from The Den, and a colleague considered off-limits, and I were just coming out of a dark conference room. There really isn’t an appropriate explanation.

Eddie taps at the collar of his shirt, just above his suit .

“What?” I ask, not interpreting the hand signal when I’m a man who lives by passing them out to others.

“You have lipstick on your collar,” he states.

And as I stare at him, then drop my gaze to where he signaled that I have lipstick on the collar of my shirt, I notice something on the side of his neck.

“So do you.”