Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
And there we were onscreen.
The clip of us hurrying out of the restaurant last night.
Baseball’s Hottest Headcase Behaving Badly, read the chyron.
“I asked Shaw several times if he wanted to comment for this story, but I can’t repeat his answer,” Bethany Bloomstar was saying in a voiceover. The camera cut to her, and I was shocked to see that she was standing on the grounds at Cloverleigh Farms, the inn clearly visible in the background behind her.
“Now, do I have this right?” the news desk correspondent said, glancing at something in front of her. “Sources are saying he got belligerent when you approached him?”
She nodded. “That’s right, Heather.”
“And who’s the woman with him? Do we know anything about her?”
“We do. Her name is April Sawyer.” She gestured toward the inn. “I’m here at Cloverleigh Farms, which is run by the Sawyer family. April Sawyer is the event planner here. Last week I interviewed April off the record, and she confirmed that she and Tyler Shaw are old friends, but I have to tell you, it definitely looks like more than that to me.”
The bathroom door opened, and Tyler walked out with a towel around his waist. Quickly I snapped the television off.
But not quickly enough.
“What the fuck was that?” Tyler demanded.
“It was nothing.” I hid the remote behind my back, under a pillow.
He gave me the glare.
“Okay, fine. It was that stupid Bethany Bloomstar,” I said.
“Talking about you?”
“Well, about both of us.” And because he looked like he might be thinking about going down to the TV station and taking someone’s head off with a fastball, I added, “It wasn’t anything bad. Just that we looked like more than friends.”
He frowned. “That’s it?”
“Um, there might have been something about you getting belligerent with her at the restaurant.”
“Christ,” he muttered. “That wasn’t belligerent. I could show them belligerent. That wasn’t it.”
I put my hands over my mouth.
“Are you laughing at me?” he asked, shifting his weight to one foot.
“I’m sorry,” I said, unable to stop myself. “But you’re standing there in a towel being belligerent, and I know it’s not supposed to be funny, but it is.”
“Oh, that’s it. You’re in trouble now.” Ditching his towel, he launched himself onto the bed and came after me. Squealing, I did my best to scramble out of his reach, but he was much bigger and stronger, and had me pinned down on my stomach in seconds, his body flattened on top of mine.
“How much trouble am I in?” I asked, gasping for breath. I felt the hard length of his cock against my ass.
“A lot.” He bit the back of my neck.
“A lot like you’re going to make me run sprints? Eat snails? Watch golf? All of which I hate, by the way.”
“A lot like I’m going to spank you.”
“What?” I shrieked.
“You heard me. Now don’t move.” He let go of my arms and slid down on my body, straddling my thighs. “Damn, your ass is adorable. I can’t wait to put my handprints on it.”
I gasped. “You wouldn’t!”
His response was a great big slap across one cheek, which stung like crazy, although I liked when he put his palm over it and held it there for a moment.
“Is that it?” I asked, panting.
He laughed and spanked the other cheek just as hard, making me cry out—but not just from the pain. Not that it didn’t hurt—believe me, those massive hands were no joke—but it hurt in a way I liked, which surprised me.
“Are you sorry for laughing now?” he asked, rubbing both his hands over my ass.
“Yes!”
“Are you lying to me?”
I hesitated. “Yes.”
He laughed again, but instead of delivering another spanking, he rubbed the tip of his cock over my stinging flesh. “I never knew about this naughty side of yours, April Sawyer. I like it.”
“I don’t think it existed before you.”
He reached beneath me and hitched up my hips, then grabbed a fistful of my hair, pulling it tight. “I like that even better.”
“Come on, slowpoke,” I scolded him two hours later, watching him get dressed. “I’m going to be late for work.”
“Okay, okay. I’m hurrying.” He sat down on the bed and pulled on his socks and shoes—first the left, then the right.
I walked over to the mirror and fussed with my hair. Behind me I heard him laugh.
“Hey, you’re walking kind of funny there.”
Bending down, I picked up the pair of socks he’d been pitching at the mirror last night and lobbed them at his head—I missed.
He laughed harder. “Remind me to teach you how to throw.”
“Can you just hurry up please? And if I’m walking funny, it’s your fault. I probably won’t even be able to sit down today without pain.”
“Sorry.”
But I could see his face in the mirror, and that grin told me he wasn’t sorry at all. I didn’t even mind—it was good to see him laugh and smile.