He glances at me and grins evilly. “That’s right, sweetness.”
I grind my teeth at his choice of endearment. He knows it pisses me off, too, the smug bastard.
“I’ve, um, seen you play. You’re very good. My father considers you one of his best assets,” she adds rather strangely.
Assets?
“Babe, what are you talking about?” I ask her.
She lifts a hand to her mouth and clears her throat before looking down and away. “Um…”
“Oh shit!” Trent curses. “You’re Honor Carmichael, Timothy Carmichael’s daughter.” He rubs a hand through his hair and then laughs. “Feel like I’m speaking to royalty. Shoot, your father’s the reason I’m considering another three-year contract.”
He was considering leaving pro ball? What?
“You quitting ball, man?” Atlas jumps in on that last admission, the same way I do, but for me it’s more internalized.
Honor’s father is Trent Fox’s boss? What the everloving fuck?
“I’m not exactly following. How is he responsible, and why didn’t you mention the fact that you’re considering leaving baseball to your best friends?”
Trent groans, lifts his soaked tank, and wipes his face with it. “Yeah, her dad owns the Ports and a couple other teams, but in the NFL, if I remember correctly?” He leaves the question open for Honor, but she just shrugs and twists her fingers around one another.
Shit, she’s shutting down.
I wave my hands between the crew. “How’s about you go back to the part about you quitting?”
“Ugh, I don’t know, guys. Viv and I are talking about it. She wants another baby; I’m not getting any younger, and the game is tough on the body. I miss my wife and kid when I’m gone. Not to mention, my leg has been acting up again, and I don’t know…” He lets out a frustrated breath. “Just getting old. But Tim, your dad, really wants me in for another three years. And he’s offering me a truckload of dough, making it hard to turn down.” He winks.
“Yeah, my father is good at throwing money at the things he wants. He never loses.” Her voice is flat, devoid of emotion. Suddenly, she turns to me and runs her hands down my chest. A zap of electricity rips through my overtaxed muscles.
“Um, I’m glad I got to meet your friends, but I think I’m going to go.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder toward the door. Her entire body is ramrod straight and strung so tight, I feel her muscles bunch and jerk at her back.
I hook my arm around her waist and bring her up against my sweaty shirt. “Dove, you just got here. I want to show you around my place.” I look up at my friends but keep her next to me. “Guys, we’ll catch up later, and Trent, let us know what you end up deciding. Yeah?”
“Yeah, cool. I will. Honor, tell your dad I said hi, and I’m thinking about it. Okay?”
She gives a noncommittal “Mmm-hmm,” which is more of a mumble.
The rest of the crew disperses while I lead Honor by the hand back to my private office. When I close the door, the sounds of the clanking weights, the men pounding the punch bags, and the normal hubbub fades away. Everything narrows down to one thing… Honor.
“Nick, I…” Honor starts, probably planning to give me some spiel about needing to flee, but I’ll have none of it.
“Get your ass on my desk. Now,” I growl, my need for her ramping up to a thousand degrees.
She widens her eyes, swallows, and then runs her fingertip along the black, beat-up desk, littered with paperwork.
“On top of it?” She leans both hands on the desk behind her while I hold my position.
I cross my arms over my chest so she can see them flex. Her eyes go right to the movement, and she licks her lips.
“Ass to the desk. I won’t repeat myself.” My words brook no argument.
She trembles but, shockingly, leans back, curls her hands around the edge, and shifts her weight on top. “Then what?” Her voice is breathy, sultry, and I can tell from here she’s turned on, practically panting for it.
Commanding her was something I’d been toying around with. From our calls, her timid ways, and shy demeanor, I’ve figured out she needs a little push toward moving outside of her clearly defined box. It’s part of why I don’t think she knows what she wants to do with her inheritance or her life in general. I get the feeling my girl is floating in a place of uncertainty and unease. I want to be the one who breaks her of that. If me taking control, ordering her to get out of her head a bit, will ease the tension I see in her face and body, then, by God, I’m going to give it to her. With pleasure. Hers and mine.
Of course, it doesn’t hurt that the idea of me telling her what to do and her doing it makes me hard as granite.
“Slip off your sweater.”
She lifts her pale, shaking hands, unbuttons the single button, and shrugs her shoulders until it falls to the desk behind her. “And?” Her voice is rougher than normal, almost gritty.
I smile. “Lift up your skirt and open your legs so I can see your panties.”
Her doe eyes seem to get bigger as her hands move down her thighs in a slow caress that spears me straight in the balls.
“Do it,” I goad as my nuts swell and then tighten.
She’s not unaffected either. Her chest is moving more rapidly with her increased breathing, making her tits stretch against the cotton of her simple girly dress, showing me a nice pair of erect nipples pushing against the fabric.
“You like me watching you do what I say, don’t you? Teasing me with your gorgeous body in that flimsy dress?”
She bites her lip and lifts her chin as her fingers curve around the hem of her dress and drag it up her creamy thighs. A triangle of
