Sliding Home (31 page)

Secluded within the slabs of granite, she worked his shirt, undoing the
buttons, sneaking her hands inside. His chest was solid, all virile strength
and strong muscle. His arms were hard sinew.

She undid his belt, unzipped his pants. Her hands shook as she pressed
her palms to his bare stomach. When she dipped under his waistband, his dick
made her acquaintance.

All the while, Rhaden kissed her, hot and French, deep and drugging. She
was out of her head as she took him into her heart.

Her blazer came off, then her thin camisole. He stared openly at her
breasts. Her nipples made hard points in the center of each ivory cup. His
green eyes darkened a shade.

A competent flick of his thumbnail and the front clasp parted. Her
breasts spilled into his palms. He stroked the undersides, paid equal attention
to her sensitive nipples. He traced her cleavage, then arrowed to her navel.

His hand snuck under her skirt and he fingered her thong. She barely
sensed him lifting her or snatching away the lacy floss.

There were more mind-numbing kisses, more caresses. Her lower body
ached, and her core sought him. She wrapped her legs about his waist, made a
low sound when he stroked her inner thigh.

They went at it, slick tongues, seeking hands, and spiraling need. His
fingers slid between their bodies, rubbed her sex. She grew restless, felt
wild.

Condom.
The thought struck them both.

“Pocket,” he forced out, subtly shifting so she could score the packet.

His erection was long and throbbing and stretched the latex. She moved
over him, lowered slowly, and he pulsed inside her like a heartbeat.

His eyes half closed, Rhaden groaned. He rocked, deepened his thrusts,
drove her beyond herself.

Her body drew tight, took on a life of its own. Beneath the lazy,
late-afternoon sunshine, the unflappable, always collected Revelle Sullivan
rode Rhaden Dunn's thighs in breathless pleasure.

A low moan blended with the breeze.

Maybe his. Maybe hers.

Maybe theirs.

They were both panting, both straining, as they shook and dissolved in
helpless spasms, seemingly endless orgasms.

As they subsided in exhaustion, his hand settled on her cheek. She drew
a shaky breath, felt him pull out of her. She moved off his legs, gave him room
to clean up.

A breeze blew up her skirt, dried the dampness between her thighs. She
bent to locate her thong.

Her toes touched a vine she hadn't noticed on their arrival. Straggling
over the ground, it climbed the sides of the boulder. At first glance, she
thought it Virginia Creeper. On closer inspection, she knew better. She'd been
a Girl Scout, and had excelled at nature hikes.

She counted the leaves.
If it's three, let it be.

“Hot shower, Rhaden!” Her voice hit a high note. “We just had sex on
poison ivy.”

Fifteen

“Dude, you got crabs?”
Psycho McMillan caught Rhaden Dunn scratching his groin.
Really
scratching it, as if his pubes were alive.

Kason Rhodes looked down
the dugout bench where Dunn stood. Ten minutes until game time, and the man had
definite problems. He couldn't sit still. If he rubbed his abdomen and thighs
much harder, he'd tear a hole in his uniform pants.

“Not crabs,” Alex Boxer put
in. “Poison ivy. Dunn's covered in a red rash. There's a dozen bottles of
calamine lotion in his locker.”

Heat stained Rhaden's neck.
He looked pissed as hell over Boxer's comment, however true.

“Hands down, man, or hit
the tunnel,” Kason ordered. “Media will film you playing with yourself.”

Rhaden moved into the
shadows, beyond view of the cameras. He rubbed his back and butt against the
cement wall.

Boxer looked smug. “Guess
who else has an itch she can't scratch?”

Every player on the bench
turned for his answer. “Revelle Sullivan in player promotions. I was in her
office before the game. She was twitching, had red blotches on her hands and—”

“Shut the fuck up.” Dunn
came out of the tunnel and shoved Boxer hard.

Boxer raised his hands,
backed off. “Facts, Dunn. There was a pair of oven mitts on her desk to keep
her from scratching. Has to be hard to type—”

Dunn again lunged at Boxer,
and Kason stepped between them. “Take your tempers to the field. Direct your
anger toward Ottawa. Raptors are on a streak. We're down two in the series and
need this win.”

The second week in May, and
the Rogues sat sixth in the National League East. The team had been
inconsistent. They needed to bring it today.

“Which comic book character
would you do?” Boxer continued to needle Rhaden. The game had yet to start; the
men were downright restless. “Harley Quinn or Poison Ivy?”

Beats of silence before
Psycho took the bait. “Both hang with the Joker. On a good day, they could kick
Batman's ass.”

“I'd do Wonder Woman.”
Boxer chose good over evil. “She's got the Lasso of Truth and a
bullet-deflecting bracelet.”

Kason grunted. “You into
female action figures?”

“I have five sisters,”
Boxer said defensively.

“Bet you'd do Barbie,”
Psycho razzed.

“She's got Ken,” Alex said
a little too quickly.

The players laughed him
down the bench.

The game started, and by
the bottom of the third, another Rogue was lost to injury. Zen Driscoll's
hustle caused him to roll his ankle, and it didn't roll back. The bone
protruded at a ninety-degree angle. Supported by both the trainer and the
physician, he hobbled off the field.

Two innings later, a cup
check stopped the game. Catcher Chase Tallen had taken a foul tip to his groin.
The time-out took him to the locker room. The diagnosis came quickly: the foul
had broken his athletic cup and ruptured a testicle.

Every player cringed, felt
Chase's pain.

The team was now down four
starters. The coach assigned rookie Chas Ragan to short and brought in Kyle
Lake to catch.

Kason exhaled sharply. Alex
Boxer was an All-Star compared to Ragan and Lake.

The season wasn't looking
pretty.

Psycho threw his glove
across the dugout. “Son of a bitch. We're cursed with injuries.”

Kason didn't believe in
superstition. He did, however, stare down Boxer. “Any recent breakups?” he
pressed. “Any old girlfriends into evil spells or voodoo curses?”

Boxer spat sunflower seeds.
“I'm into kink, not high priestesses and witches.”

That was strangely
reassuring. Kason took a deep breath, focused on the players he had, not on
those he'd lost. “We're down by three.” He raised his voice to be heard. “You
rookies need to bat like veterans. We need to be a patient team against an
impatient stadium. Our fans don't believe we'll earn back the runs. Trust
yourself, and don't overcompensate.”

“And Boxer,” Psycho added, “don't
be the centerpiece for an underachieving team. It sucks being cellar dwellers
in our division.”

The Rogues went on to bat.
The order had shifted with the injuries. Boxer led off. He swung at a fastball
before it even crossed the plate. He connected with a slider, only to have it
go foul and nail the Raptors' mascot near the visitors' dugout. The ball
smacked Rappy on the back of his head. He was one angry bird.

The Raptor ignored the
umpire's warning to back off. He charged home, kicked dirt onto the plate with
his big, yellow plastic feet, then wing-slapped Boxer. Twice.

“Oh, hell,” Kason muttered
as Boxer poked the bird with the end of his bat. His next swing hooked Rappy's
beak. Stupid-ass rookie.

The Ottawa fans went
apeshit. Their mascot was sacred. It didn't matter if the bird instigated,
provoked, or landed in more fights than any major league player. The Raptor was
held in high esteem.

The Rogues lined the dugout
fence, watching as the umpire called time and both coaches stepped between
Boxer and the bird.

“Game's going south,”
Psycho said to Kason.

Kason's mouth flattened
against his teeth. “We'll turn it around.”

In a surprise performance,
Boxer grounded to right. A solid base runner, he busted out of the box, turning
a single into a double.

Psycho made it to first
with a roller between short and third. Boxer held at second.

Kason next moved to the
plate. Adrenaline rushed through him at the chance to tie the score. He looked
at the sky, caught the end of a contrail. With the right pitch, he could comet
the ball over the center field wall. The time was now...

***

“Let's close up shop and catch the end of the game,” Revelle Sullivan
suggested to Dayne from the doorway of her office. She dangled a key from her
red-blotched fingers, clutching her purse under her arm. “My uncle's in the
owner's box. We can watch from his suite. Guy has a sixty-inch plasma.”

Dayne shut down her computer, pushed off her swivel chair. She'd yet to
see Kason play, and she was suddenly nervous.

They rode the elevator to the twelfth floor, walked the mile-long carpet
to the penthouse. Once behind thick oak double doors, Dayne could only stare.

Deep burgundy walls showcased ultramodern furniture, a massive bookcase,
and an impressive collection of wooden masks. An S-shaped bar twisted between
the formal living and dining rooms. The extensive selection of liquor bottles
indicated Powers entertained often and well.

Photographs covered an entire wall, pictures of both the Rogues and
other major league owners and players, as well as celebrities and politicians
seated in the stands.

“Guy lives here during the season, but also has a house away from the
stadium,” Revelle told Dayne. “He crashes here when he works late and doesn't
want to disturb one of the limo drivers. His getaway condo in Louisville
positions him near Corbin Lily.”

It sounded as if Guy still had feelings for his ex-wife. Maybe they
found common ground after the World Series and before spring training. A most
interesting thought.

“Chai tea?” Revelle offered from the kitchen.

Dayne accepted a tall iced glass.

Revelle steered her toward the den, and they dropped onto overstuffed
chairs before the TV. Revelle tapped the remote with a manicured nail, and
Kason Rhodes filled the screen, larger than life. Dayne's eyes went wide and
she forced a breath.

Big-league field.

Big-league athletes.

There was something about a hard-faced batter staring right through the
pitcher that was highly unsettling. The term total badass was too mild for
Rhodes.

The fans were on their feet and the stadium rocked.

“Bottom of the fifth, no outs, Rogues trail by three.” Revelle quickly
brought her up to speed. The condensation on the glass, along with the sweat
from her palms, forced Dayne to locate a coaster. She set her tea on a tiered
side table.

“Slam it, Rhodes!” the articulate, always poised Revelle shouted at the
TV.

Dayne smiled to see that her boss could cut loose and enjoy the game.
According to the announcer, Kason had spoiled his first pitch by hitting it
foul.

As the pitcher prepared to throw, Dayne was on the edge of her seat. A
slider, and Kason didn't just hit the ball; he hammered it. He laid down a
triple.

“Rogues don't just run the bases; they own them,” Revelle said with
admiration as Boxer and Psycho scored easily.

The camera honed in on Kason, who held at third. Dayne knew him as her
neighbor and lover, but not as an elite athlete. His game face intimidated the
hell out of her.

Rhaden Dunn now stood in the batter's box. He shifted, adjusted himself,
ran his hands down his thighs, went on to scratch his butt.

“Is Rhaden always so twitchy?” Dayne turned to Revelle, only to find her
boss rapidly rubbing her hands together.