He slid out slowly, his finger circling my clit. “Kind of. But try anyway.” In again. Slow again. My eyes fluttered closed when he buried himself completely inside. “I want to fuck you on every base and eat you out in centerfield. I want to play every game with your * on me.”
“Yes.” I would have agreed to anything, logistics be damned.
“I need to come inside you.”
His fingers gathered sensation like cotton candy in a sugar mill.
“Do it. Come in me.”
“Show me first. Show me how you come.”
His finger twitched a little differently, flicking instead of circling, while he got the length of him inside, filling me with him. My hips pushed back, begging for more, and he pushed his finger down. My muscles stiffened, and my mouth opened with soundless satisfaction. I let everything go and came in the Dodgers’ home dugout.
“Thank you,” I gasped when his finger slowed and stopped.
He pulled me back, letting his dick slip out. He grabbed a waist-high bin of bats and helmets and wheeled it closer.
“Come back here. Put your hands on the edge.” Looking up, he changed the angle so I couldn’t see the stands anymore. “I’m not going to be able to be discreet about pounding you right now.”
I didn’t ask how discreet we could be if someone came through to the dugout because from behind me, he pulled back the skin of my thighs and licked my sensitive *. My groan echoed in the empty space.
“Shush.”
I felt his dick again, and again he didn’t pause. Just used my wetness to slide inside. Not slowly. No, this time, he slammed into me. I had to brace myself against the bin as he did exactly what he’d promised. He took me from behind, pounding my * deep and fast, hands gripping my hips for leverage.
“Harder,” I said. I wanted him to break me with it.
“All of it.” I knew from his voice that he was close. “Take all of it.”
“Yes.”
He went as deep as I thought possible, balls slapping my clit, the base of his cock pulsing against me, grunting like the sexiest animal on the planet.
When he slowed, I turned to see his face above me. He pumped me one last time and pulled out.
“I declare this stadium christened,” I said.
He pulled my waistband back over my ass. “Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
He bit his lower lip and shook his head. I didn’t know what a girl had to do to christen a stadium around here, but I was about to find out.
forty-two
Vivian
We stepped onto the field. The grass was pristine, and the decomposed granite that made up the dirt parts was smooth and even. The lines hadn’t been drawn between the bases, but the square sacks that marked the bases were pristine white in the rising sun.
“It’s been a long time,” I said.
“Since you were on the field?”
“Yeah. Ten years. I was fifteen, and everything seemed as big then as it does now.” I spun to look at the stands.
“I was playing college ball ten years ago.” He pulled me to home plate. “Here, touch this.”
“Touch what?”
“Home plate.”
I leaned down and stroked it, thinking there was a texture he wanted to share, but once I did it, he took my hand and led me down the first base line.
“My first day on the job,” I said, “I wore makeup because I thought I’d be on TV. By the second week, I barely brushed my hair.”
“I bet you were still beautiful.”
“Hey, I was too young for you, mister.”
“Right. Forgot.”
I jabbed him with my elbow. “How is it no one ever gets an interview with you?”
“I did Rolling Stone last May.”
“On camera.”
“I don’t come off well on camera. Tag first.”
“What do you mean? You’re on camera all the time. You’re gorgeous.”
He pulled me back and pointed down. “Tag first.”
He tapped first base with his toe. I stuck out my foot and tagged. Satisfied, he took my hand and walked me toward second base.
“When I was a kid. Second grade. Fourth grade. Up to sixth. I was a mess.”
He stopped talking. I waited. I dealt with kids all day, every day. I knew what a kid with problems looked like, but I didn’t know what young Dashiell with problems looked like. So I waited while he paced slowly to the next base.
“I didn’t know how to regulate myself is what the therapist said. And I was both overstimulated in areas and under-stimulated in others. My brain wasn’t wired right. Still isn’t. But it’s subtle, so it looked like I was just disrespectful and inconsiderate.” He put his finger up and looked at me finally.
Once I could see him, I knew that what he was saying might have seemed inconsequential, but it was critical for him, and the words came hard.
“I was talking to my friend in the hall. Second grade, I think, and we were in line for the fountain. We were talking about, Jesus, who even remembers… something about drinking from the fountain and spitting it out. How far it would go if the drain wasn’t there. And I wanted to show him how far, so I spit in his face.”
I laughed.
He smiled. “It’s funny now. At the time? I got suspended. It was always something like that. I had zero impulse control. When I had a tantrum, I had a fucking tantrum. Right? This is going somewhere, I promise.”
I squeezed his hand. “You’re not boring.”