Jennifer Seasons - Throwing Heat

Damn. He had moves.

“Perfect,” he whispered and slid a large, calloused hand up her rib cage until he was cupping her breast, his thumb flicking gently across her puckered nipple.

Leslie gasped.

“Yeah, you like that?” he asked and flicked his thumb over her sensitive peak once more.

It set her on fire. And it made her so, so wet. Even now she could feel moisture pooling between her thighs. “Yes,” she said in a moan.

“Come here.” His eyes were heavy-lidded with passion as he issued the command.

She leaned forward, breathing unevenly as lust permeated her body. There was no way she could have refused even if she wanted to. Her body craved his touch.

Peter’s hand on her breast stopped teasing her as he softly kissed her neck. Against her ear he breathed in and whispered, “Your scent drives me crazy.”

That was good to know. “Coconut?”

Warm, moist breath caressed her earlobe and a shiver ran down her spine. God, he had a mouth. Sensual and erotic and so very talented.

Peter gave the skin just beneath her ear a gentle open-mouthed kiss, his tongue tasting her, and she began to throb for him. “Yeah, coconut. It’s in my dreams.” His mouth trailed slowly over her jawbone and his voice became drowsy. “You’re in my dreams.” His hand stilled and his head fell back against the chair, his breathing slow and deep. He whispered roughly, “You haunt me.”

Breath caught in her lungs. It couldn’t be. “What?”

He started to snore.

Damn him for falling asleep.

THE NEXT MORNING Peter was awake and downstairs before the sun had risen. His shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch and every time he bumped it searing pain dug into his flesh like a fire poker and poured down his arm. He had a massive headache.

And his life as he knew it was officially over. Way preterm. Well not that preterm, but before he made it to the World Series, and most definitely not by his decision.

He’d been forced into retirement early. And it sucked. It sucked because he’d wanted to end this thing on his terms, not have them dictated to him.

Kicking the refrigerator door closed angrily, Peter slapped the milk carton down on the counter and splashed drops all over some half-written sheet music. He swore and scrubbed a hand over his scruffy face. Why did life never go the fucking way he planned?

Everything, every single decision got derailed. It never failed, which was why he had eventually given up making decisions altogether and learned to just go with the flow. Until his eye problem had gone and screwed it all up, forcing him to think about the future and make long-term plans. Who the hell wanted to do that?

Goddamn Retinitus Pigmentosa.

The genetic disease that was ruining his life and the selkie myth were the only things his mother had ever given him. Thanks, Mom.

Moody and in a foul disposition, Peter poured a glass of organic whole milk and downed it in one gulp. Then he refilled it and sat down at the kitchen table. The impact jarred his shoulder and he hissed. Great. Just frigging great.

Not only was his life over, but he had a painful reminder about it if he happened to forget. Not that there was much risk of that. No way.

Two more weeks. Why couldn’t his shoulder have held out two more weeks? Then he could have taken the World Series by storm, earned his spot in the Hall of Fame, and retired quietly with that notch in his belt.

Peter scrubbed a hand over his face again and dislodged his eyeglasses, almost knocking them off and jamming the nosepiece into the corner of his eye. “Ouch. Shit.” Stupid-ass glasses. He was still getting used to wearing them. He’d nearly taken out his eyeball.

Feeling cross, he righted the frames and muttered, “Not like my frigging eye is good for me now anyway.”

Knowing that he was sinking deeper into a funk, Peter shoved away from the table, his full glass of milk forgotten. Being Irish and Ukrainian, he could get a damn fine brood on if he wanted to. It was in his genetic makeup to fall into a really dark hole of depression and stay there for a while.

He hated that about himself because it was just like his old man. At least he wasn’t drowning his sorrows in Wild Turkey. That was something.

Emotions swirled inside him, growing bigger and more intense by the minute, and he knew that if he didn’t find an outlet for it all very soon he would explode. Anger, despair, sadness, grief. All of it swirled in his gut like a hurricane, building momentum.

“Damn it!” Peter slammed his left hand on the table and scowled. He could feel the dark settling over him, into him. Whatever it was—his pop’s legacy, his artistic temperament, or just plain emotional problems that caused this side of him to exist—he didn’t care. All he knew was that it was like a black hole inside of him.

“I have to get a grip,” he mumbled almost desperately. “For fuck’s sake, it’s just a sport.”

Besides, he wasn’t completely out, as much as his melodramatic side wanted to wail. There was still a chance of playing if they made it to the World Series and he took care of himself. The fat lady hadn’t come out singing just yet. He had to remember that.

Bolstered a tiny bit by the thought, Peter went upstairs and quietly grabbed his guitar, hoping not to wake Leslie. His place was big enough that she wouldn’t hear him play from down in the kitchen.

He needed his outlet.

Padding barefoot down the stairs, Peter noted that the sun was just starting to break the horizon, the blackness of night melting into the grays and shadows of pre-dawn.

Once he was back in the kitchen, he could see the few inches of snow on his back patio through the French doors. And it was still coming down. Squinting, Peter could just make out fat snowflakes as they drifted steadily to earth.

Normally the first snow of the season was a happy time for him. He loved it, and the way it made everything look clean and peaceful. Plus the whole world seemed to go quiet. That part he liked a whole lot.

But this morning the new snow didn’t help his mood.

Sighing, Peter set his Gibson down next to him and raked a hand through his disheveled hair. Nothing was calming him because he’d never experienced this mixture of feelings before. He was standing on a precipice of a world completely unknown to him, and it was making him panicky.

Turned out that knowing he was going to have to stop playing ball soon and actually not playing were completely different things. The former he’d handled with finesse. The latter was making him a fucking mess. He felt ungrounded and directionless.

Grabbing his guitar, Peter went to the table and pulled out a chair. For the next hour or so he lost himself in his music, able to strum the instrument gently enough that his shoulder didn’t object too terribly. And it helped. It helped a whole lot to find his center in something that he loved.

But he was still feeling moody when the phone rang at just past eight in the morning. Pinning the Gibson to him with his bum arm, Peter reached across the table and snagged his cell. “Hello?” he asked, wondering who could be calling him so early.

It was the doctor’s office needing some more information for his upcoming surgery. Putting on his polite hat, he gave the nurse the requested information and asked a few questions about recovery time. Once he was reassured that it was only a few days and then he would feel back to normal, he was just about to hang up when Leslie came into the room.

She was rubbing her eyes and yawning like a sorority girl after her first frat-house party. Kind of looked like one, too, with her lopsided, messy ponytail and oversized sweatshirt. Except for the bangin’ curves. That was all woman.

“Thanks, Joan,” he said into the phone. “I’ll swing by sometime this morning and get those forms signed.” With that he hung up and took another good long look at Leslie.

“What’s going on, Peter? I heard you talking about a surgery. Is your shoulder going to need it after all?” She had her head in a cupboard looking for coffee.

He hoped like hell not. The doc hadn’t even wanted him to wear a sling. “Nope. Something else entirely. The shoulder’s going to be right in no time.” Maybe if he said that out loud enough it would come true. “I’ll be back in action for the World Series, don’t you worry.”

She leaned out from behind the cupboard to smile at him, and surprise overtook her gorgeous face. “You wear glasses.”

He scrunched his nose and made a funny face, feeling a little embarrassed. She was the first to see him in them. “You got me.”

Her smile cranked up a few degrees and went flirty. “Very nice.”

Yeah? Huh. Maybe he’d keep them.

Leslie pulled out a bag of fair trade, whole bean Columbian and went about making her preferred morning drink. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Fine.” Not so much, really.

She slid him a look as she measured out water. “You were pretty loopy last night. Do you remember anything?”

His gaze locked with hers. Yeah, he remembered. He remembered every damn thing. Especially what he’d said to her and, he blamed it all on the Vicodin. It was the only explanation for why he’d say something so stupid.

But he wasn’t going to let her know that he knew. Way too embarrassing.

He stared at her levelly. “Nope. Not a thing.”

LESLIE HIT THE brew button on the coffee maker and glanced outside at the snow-covered backyard, soaking up the peaceful sight. She wasn’t sure if she believed Peter or not. The unflinching way he was staring at her was misleading because she knew that he could play his cards really close to his chest. When he wanted to, he could make his eyes so cool and remote that it was jarring. Like he was this detached observer always watching. Whatever he actually felt was anyone’s guess.