Bad Boy Prospect (Alpha Bad Boy Book 2) (4 page)

"We're fine." Blondie's attitude is going to get her in trouble. I'm only gracious for so long.

We sit around, waiting for the cab to get there. I sweet talk both of them into not feeling so bad about not staying the night. It's the usual. Mom is out of town and needs me to go by and check on the pets, watch the house. Then I have to go to practice.

It's surprising they are buying into this. Tomorrow is Sunday and I'm a minor league baseball player. What are the odds I am from their city? This is why it's best they leave. Not to mention the fact I am under a microscope right now. I'm surprised the media didn't break in and film our little ménage.

There are scandalous women out there who want to swipe whatever they can get their hands on from my apartment. Take photographs with a naked celeb and sell them to the highest bidder. Some of them want you to get them pregnant. No, no, no. Women don't stay the night.

The cab finally arrives, thank fuck. I walk the ladies out and even give Blondie one of my jackets because it gets cold here at night. "Keep it." She smiles and seems happy to have a souvenir and a tale for her friends. I wave to the cab as it disappears and walk back into the house.
Fuck, I needed that.

ELIZABETH

I look across my desk at Coach and sigh. I haven't seen him in a few years, other than when I catch glimpses of him at the ballfield. "I'm really busy and I'm supposed to leave for a vacation in a week. Is there nothing else you can do?"

"Doc, I have exhausted all my options. He's a good kid. He just needs someone to get through to him."

"And you think that someone is me? Really?" It is rhetorical but he will answer me anyway.

"Yes. You're the best. You work with all the pros, right? He will look great on your resume."

"I don't need my resume to look great. It already is."

I can hear his foot tapping the ground. Jesus, I'm such a pushover. "Fine."

His eyes light up.

"But if he gives me any shit, he's gone."

"I think you're going to have fun with this one. He's a mystery. He won't be easy either. Don't let his demeanor fool you. He is sharp as a goddamn tack." His smile irritates me, but at the same time I can't help but return one back to him.

"You're lucky you and Mom go way back."

"I know. I know. Stay in touch, okay? You need tickets, just call. Family, friends, anyone you want."

He walks to the door and turns back to look at me.

"Goodbye, Coach." I draw out my syllables, but chuckle in the process.

"Bye Liz."

***

This guy is ten minutes late and I'm plotting the different ways I can murder Coach and not get caught. He's older so natural causes are plausible. I decide some type of poison that is undetectable would work best when my phone buzzes and I damn near smack my coffee cup off my desk.

"Doctor Keller, Gavin Markoff is here to see you."

I have to get the speaker on this thing fixed. I press the button, sad that it won't have the same effect on my secretary as it did on me. "Send him back."

I go over and open the door to my office, then mosey back to my chair, glancing to my degrees and thinking about all the work I did to put up with some prima donna man-boy. Most of these minor league ballplayers are fresh out of high school with baby faces. I mean, they're cute and all, but they are boys. I'm twenty-nine years old and worked my ass off to get where I am. I will continue to work hard the rest of my life. They play a game and have a shot at being millionaires by their twenty-first birthday. It is difficult sometimes to take them seriously, but it's my job.

I took an oath and all that. I'm a psychiatrist, but I went to med school first. So I am bound by it.

What is taking him so long?

My nails are clacking on the desk and my lips are mashed into a thin, flat line. I'm about to go look to make sure he didn't get lost when my chest decides it might cave in on me, and my heart comes alive against my rib cage.
There is no way. It's not possible.

I see large, well-built athletes every day, but this man is a different species. He has to be. He fills the entire door frame, width and height. He has short, brown hair that's neatly trimmed and his eyes are a light blue swirling with a smoky gray like a thunderstorm is building in them.

"Doctor Keller?" His voice is a soft baritone that is easy on the ears.

He is twenty. He is twenty. Focus, Liz.

I feel like a school girl wanting to worship a member of a boy band but I manage to compose myself.

"You're late."

I use a bitchy tone when I tell him that, but it's not because I'm flustered. It's like the way a girl is mean to a boy on the playground because she likes him.  I brush my palms down my charcoal pencil skirt. "Come in and have a seat."

"Aren't you guys supposed to have a couch or something? Thought that like came in a—" He gestures his hand in a circle with a cocky grin plastered to his gorgeous face and chiseled jawline. "—shrink kit?"

"Very funny, Mr. Markoff. I don't have a lot of time and this is a favor for Coach." I don't even bother to look up at him. Mostly because my panties might spontaneously combust and melt into the floor if I check out the rest of his body. "Let's just get down to business. Coach says you're having issues—"

"Look, why don't we save each other the time and you just sign off on whatever it is we're doing here. I'll be out of your hair." Gavin smiles. He has dimples. Those dimples. I want to put my fingers on them.
Pull yourself together, Liz.

"I don't think so. Why do you think Coach wants you to meet with me?"

"Really? Come on Freud. The reason I'm here is because they've exhausted all other options. The reason I am here is because Coach doesn't see the big picture for me and the organization as a whole. He thinks me getting thrown out of a minor league game somehow equates to blowing my temper during the World Series. He's a great guy, but he's not always the brightest. He knows baseball, sure. But he is sitting at a fifty foot level. I'm at thirty-five thousand feet. The bad boy image, fucking girls, fighting — it helps paint me in a certain light, that I use to my advantage on the field."

That gets a laugh out of me. "How so?"

"Intimidation. Fear. If a hitter fears me, knows I'll throw at his head, it throws off his reaction time. It doesn't take much to get a hundred mile an hour fastball by someone. Fractions of a second. Every advantage I get, I am taking."

"And you think you're more qualified for that type of analysis, at twenty years old?" I need to make him more comfortable if I'm going to insult him. "Please, sit down. Let's just have a quick chat."

He hesitates for a moment, but then sinks into the chair across from my desk. I get up and walk around to the front of my desk and sit on it in front of him, crossing my legs. I'm starting to realize it looks more like a move from a porn movie than an act of comfort, opening him up to me. But what is done is done.

He looks uneasy, like he didn't like the question. Interesting. I think I will push harder. Maybe it will get him to spill some useful information.

"Where is your degree from? Are you an expert in sabermetrics? Or public relations for sports figures?"

"I didn't go to college. You surely know this already." He rubs his hands on his pants and I notice his neck muscles starting to bulge at the collar.

"Well, let's see, if you hadn't been a number one draft pick, where do you think you would have gone to school? Or would you have gone to school at all?" I scoff, knowing I'm making him a bit uneasy. It's unprofessional, but his comment about the stereotypical layout of a shrink's office is still grating on me. Someone needs to put these boys in their place. They know they're not physically inferior, so going after their intelligence usually works.

"I was accepted to the two colleges I applied to."

"Oh, and what schools were those? Community colleges accept everyone, Mr. Markoff." That should get a rise out of him, especially if he's smart like Coach implied.

"Harvard and MIT."

A laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it.

"I have the letters at home." He stands up from the chair and towers over me. His neck and chest are tight but he has a smile on his face. His large presence casts a shadow across both of us and has my knees knocking together ever so slightly as I take in all of him up close. I see his eyes dart down and notice.
Damn it.
I can't lie. I would let this twenty-year old do bad things to me.
Wait what? No, no, no Liz. You put that idea out of your mind.

I'm staring straight into his stomach as he towers above me and a wave of heat swarms my core, radiating to my clit. I dig my nails under the ledge of the desk and try not to bite my lip. Then I look down to see his huge length sitting tight against his leg. I'm not sure I could wrap my hands around it. I want to hold my hand out to get a better view of the fingers-around-cock situation, but it would alert him to my filthy, inappropriate thoughts. Maybe if I pretended to look out the window and formed a little telescope with my fingers it would throw him off enough to get away with it. I chuckle at my silly thoughts.

"So let me get this straight, Doc." His voice is like sex in my ears, and my face flushes with heat. The temperature is rising to Sahara-like levels around the collar of my blouse. "A guy can't be a number one draft pick—" He leans into my ear and my eyes are locked on the huge imprint of his dick in his workout pants. "—and know what a Fourier transform is? See, you judge people based on appearances, using your pseudoscience, and it's laughable. Do you want someone using non-empirical observations and applying them to you? Defining you by them? Psychoanalysis? Hah! It's more like creative guessing. One might go so far as to say you're on par with the psychics who claim they can talk to dead people." He smirks. "Just a swindler."

I clearly struck a nerve by questioning his intelligence, but he has me too flustered to capitalize. He brushes my hair back behind my ear and his touch has turned my cunt into a sauna. "How about we psychoanalyze you? Would you like that, Doc?"

My pulse is racing. My blood starting to boil and I still stare at his cock and find myself fully aroused by him.

"I see all these family pictures on your walls and no father in any of them. What's the story behind that? Daddy issues are
so
fucking hot."

His words are warm breath on my neck, making me simultaneously rage and squirm on the inside. He knows right where to cut, and he does it with the technique of a master surgeon.

"Maybe he left. You probably thought it was your fault. You had something to prove. Yeah, look how your degrees are framed in these huge ornate displays, all of your accomplishments, your superiority, your hard work contained within a fucking piece of paper. Yeah, you stuck it to the old man, didn't you? If he was here he probably wouldn't even care. He'd tell you that you could've done better. Better school. Higher starting salary."

He's right. Not about my father. But I shouldn't have assumed he was a dumb jock. I try to speak and the words catch in my throat and come out garbled. "I'm sorry."

"Goddamn right you are. You don't know a fucking thing about me, and I don't know shit about you."

His growl in my ear, the angst in his voice, has my head spinning a million miles an hour. The cocky ass twenty-year-old phenom has a genius IQ apparently. I should hate his guts for what he said, and yet I understand exactly why he did it in the cold and calculated manner in which he did. My nails dig into the desk once more, and I actually bite my lip for him to see this time.

I want him to throw me over the desk and spank me for my uncouth behavior. I want him to take me until I scream his name. He just went from horny play toy to intellectual sex god in three point five seconds. He's still in front of my face, encapsulating my body with his presence. He places his palms on the desk, caging me inside his huge wingspan and broad shoulders as he looks me in the eye.

"Don't worry about it, Doc." He smirks and it makes my pussy quake.

I'm at a loss. I don't know what to say. "M-maybe we should, umm, end this session."

"Yeah, I think that's what we both want. Isn't it?"

His fingers graze my arm and a shudder shoots through me.
Don't do it, Liz. Just don't.

I look up into the storm that constantly brews in his eyes. "Y-yes."

His head moves to my face and his lips ghost across mine, before moving to my neck. "Well then, I think I should be going." His words fall down my neck.

"Yeah, I think you definitely should." It comes out as a moan. I'm going straight off a cliff and I can't stop myself.

He is breathing down my collar bone and it runs under the cut of my white button up blouse. My thighs stick together from the supercell building in my core as I try to adjust. Then I feel his nose against the side of my head, his face in my hair, his breath penetrating my ear as he exhales into me. His large hand runs up the back of my neck and into my long locks, his fingers raking into the messy knot my hair is tied in. I gasp. How does he know how to own me like this? Touch me like this? Fingers in my hair is my kryptonite.

The sting of my scalp when he grips me sends an electrical jolt through my body, heat coursing through my veins, as he grasps my hair firmly and his knuckles bear down in the back of my head. His other hand reaches up my skirt and cups me full in his palm. Then he runs his fingers over the top of my panties hard enough to slide them between my hot folds.

"Mighty wet down here, Doc." He smirks. "Just like I thought." His fingers slip under my panties and pull them to the side. His name escapes my lips.

"Gavin." It's a whisper-like moan.

"Don't go screaming my name just yet, Doc. People might hear."

God, his words make me hot under his touch as he strokes his fingers back and forth on me. I'm about to come and he has barely even touched me. My breasts heave up and down with each huge breath I take as I stare up into his eyes.

"You want me to make you come?"

No!
I nod anyway, unable to control my inhibitions.

"That's what I thought. You want my fingers in your hot little cunt. Don't you, Doc?"

"Mmhmm." The way he talks has my hips grinding against his fingers. The sound comes out whiny and needy. Because I do need this kid's fingers. I don't see a kid when I look at him though. I see a grown man who needs to pull his dick out of his pants, shove it inside me, and spank my ass.