Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
“I’m in,” he says with a wicked smile that burns off quickly as he picks up the paddle and points at the net. “Time to teach you how to destroy your enemies.”
I love competitive athletes. I just do.
The ball bounces and Corbin lunges for it, serving it back to me. Of course he hits it. He never doesn’t hit it.
It’s exhausting, playing with him.
“You’re doing great,” he calls out even though I miss the next ball.
“Ha. Hardly.”
We’ve been playing for an hour and he’s giving me tips on how to serve it more cleanly, and how to hunt out weak backhands and attack them, and it’s all good stuff.
“But the reason I keep hitting it is because you need to vary your shots more,” he says.
I shoot him a doubtful look. “You’re a pro athlete.”
“But not a pro pickleball player. I can help you.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this on my day off,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Or you could let Tiffany and Brittany destroy us this Friday.”
“I have you. You’d never let that happen.”
“We’re a team,” he says, then comes around the net. “Let me show you how to vary your shots.” When he reaches me, he runs a hand through his hair, pushing a few sweaty strands off his forehead.
Hello, sweat. What would it feel like, to run my hand up under his shirt, over the sweaty ridges of his abs right now? His chest? How easy would it be to slide my hand down into his shorts and—
Oh, great. Now I’ve learned I have a thing for his sweat. And I need to stop thinking dirty thoughts about him.
“Show me,” I say.
The facility has four courts but we’re the only ones here. The best part is these courts are screened by hedges that are easily ten feet tall. At first, I joked that they meant no one could see how badly I play. Now I’m thinking this privacy will be useful in other ways. He moves behind me, wrapping his arms around me, and…oh, yes.
That’s nice.
It’s been a while since he touched me. Fine, it was only an hour ago when he looped his hands through my hair. But before that? Ten days to be precise.
His arms slide along mine, his chest brushes against my back, and my insides do the hula.
He’s just so warm and solid behind me, and that campfire-and-lake scent mingles deliciously with sweat as he reaches for my wrist. “If you want to do a two-handed backhand for power,” he begins, and the rest is argle-bargle as his hand circles my wrists, holding me tight.
As his scent wafts past my nose, enticing me.
As his chest presses against my back, tempting me.
As my restraint—already frayed—breaks even more.
“Can you do that?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, then I bump my ass back against him, testing to see if he’s affected too. And the answer is a warning growl.
“Mabel,” he says in my ear, voice husky and warm.
Cock thick and hard.
“Corbin,” I tease back, giving another pop of my ass against the hard ridge of him. There, right there. Against the thin fabric of my skirt.
“You’re being a troublemaker,” he says, holding still, keeping us in place like he doesn’t want me to move.
“I’ll stop,” I say, and I should stop rubbing my ass against his hard-on, but maybe he should stop too.
And he’s not. He’s going. He’s pressing back. Grinding against my butt, gripping my wrists harder.
“I shouldn’t,” he whispers.
“I know. We said,” I murmur.
“It was a one-time thing,” he continues, a soft plea against the skin on my neck to help him say no to this.
“I’ll stop,” I say, drawing a steadying breath. I can do this. I can stop. I will myself to inch away.
But once there’s a sliver of space between us, he growls in protest. Ropes his arm around my waist. Yanks me close in a vise. “Don’t stop.”
I sway against him. He rocks back, then dusts his mouth to my neck. He’s always been obsessed with my neck.
And here on the pickleball court on a mid-December afternoon, he leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses from my ear down to my collarbone, each one a little harder, a little more desperate than the last, like he wants to mark me.
I flash back to what he said the night we fucked in the bakery. Try since I met you, Mabel. Since I met you.
He’s been so vulnerable with me about all this longing. He was even vulnerable in a way when he asked me if I was on the apps. If I can’t have you, I don’t want anyone else to. The more he shares, the more it cracks something open in me. Makes me want to give him the same. “I wanted you too. The day I met you,” I confess.
His breath comes out ragged, stuttered. “Yeah?”