He read the quivering in her taut muscles and held her body firm against his mouth as he brought her to the cusp and then pushed her right over the edge into a body-melting orgasm. She bucked, biting the sensitive skin of his thigh. When she stopped shuddering, she lay still, limp on his body, dragging in ragged breaths.
“You good?” he asked, smoothing his hand over the rise of her ass.
She brushed her hair back off her face, honeyed strands sticking to her brow from the sheen of sweat.
“I didn’t finish you,” she replied, her tone apologetic.
He placed a kiss on her bottom and gave her a playful smack. She rolled off him and pivoted so she could nestle in against his chest, bringing them face-to-face.
“We’ve got all night.”
“Is that a promise?”
Tucker could have easily offered to let her stay for the rest of her life. But if a night was where forever started, he’d take it. “Yes.”
“Good.” Her breathing softened, drifting towards sleep. “I’m starting to like your promises.”
Chapter Thirty
Emmy couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so wildly, head over heels, stupidly distracted by a man the way she was enamored with Tucker. She found herself staring off into space and shivering with recall over the way he touched her.
Now that they were on the road, things were in a cool-down phase. They were going to be away from San Francisco for thirteen games, taking them from Cleveland to New York, west to Seattle and back to California for a four-game stint in Anaheim.
It had only been a week since she’d started sleeping with Tucker, but in that time she’d barely seen her own bed. With the road games, though, there was a wrench thrown in their newly established honeymoon-phase sex life. It would be almost impossible for her to get into his room, or him into hers, without the risk of bumping into other players or staff from the team.
Road games were like high school field trips, boisterous boys trapped in a hotel that was never big enough for all the ego. Some of the men had their wives along, but most of the players were single and took being on the road as an excuse to act out.
Which meant they’d be coming and going at all hours, even though she’d requested everyone get a solid eight hours of sleep before the games. But she wasn’t sure she could deal with running headlong into Chet or Ramon while leaving Tucker’s room with her hair rumpled from a roll in the sheets.
Tucker seemed to be quite the expert at making her hair tangle into a rat’s nest of epic proportions, to the point she joked it had been tuckered. Emmy suspected it wasn’t so much that he aimed to muss her hair, but rather that no man had made her thrash around nearly as much. She’d had orgasms—at least she’d once believed she had—but nothing like what Tucker did to her. If orgasms were poetry, Tucker was the Walt Whitman to Simon’s teen-angst couplets.
She might have expected from his tapered pitcher’s fingers that he’d be good with his hands, but nothing could have prepared her for Tucker. Not sexually, not emotionally.
“That’s a ten-yard stare if I ever saw one.” Miles pulled up the chair beside her at a table in the hotel dining room. Her fork clattered against the plate, sending a fluffy yellow ball of egg flying onto the tablecloth.
“I think the phrase is hundred-yard stare,” Emmy corrected, picking the egg up and putting it on her side plate.
It was early, but a few other players had gotten up and were helping themselves to a five-star continental breakfast.
“Oh yeah. I never remember those sayings right.” He pushed a sausage link around on his plate, leaving a trail of amber grease on the white dish. The table was too clean, too white. Everything in the dining room was begging to get dirty. “What’s got you thinking so hard?”
“Tuck—” Emmy stopped herself abruptly. “Luck.”
“You got any superstitions?”
“I don’t play.”
Miles snorted and stuck the sausage into his mouth with his bare fingers, bypassing the flatware altogether. He continued speaking with his mouth full. “Doesn’t matter. Everyone has superstitions in baseball. Did you know Emilio—the janitor at home—has Felons socks he bought in 1965? He wears them every single home game.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. He says his wife has had to patch them like…forty times or something, but he keeps wearing them.”
“Crazy.” She speared a piece of pineapple with her fork, wondering how fresh fruit in Cleveland would compare to that in California.
“So what are your superstitions?” he asked again.
“I don’t think I put much thought into it before. Philz coffee before home games? But that’s more of a life essential than a superstition.”