No matter how hard he fought against it, Taylor pulled his thoughts to puckered nipples and erections. He hated the fact that he now stirred and stiffened, scaring Hilary with his increasing size.
To her credit, Hilary didn’t jump out of her skin, or scream. She merely patted his chest and eased back a step.
“I’m sorry, Brek.” Her voice sounded soft and sad and much more serious than the situation warranted. “I just . . . can’t. Not tonight.”
I want you every night for the rest of my life, Taylor’s voice came to him again, breathy and hot and sexually needy.
In the stillness of the parking lot, Amber Nude invaded his senses, and the image of them together played through his mind in Technicolor: a blend of tongues, hot kisses, and athletically honed bodies, naked and sweat-slick, frantically twisting until they locked in the raw climb to orgasm.
The scratch of her nails on his back, the sprint of her heartbeat as she closed in on climax—
“Brek?” Hilary called him back to the present where he belonged. She twisted her engagement ring, looking embarrassed and uneasy. “Are you all right? Your nostrils flared and your breath hitched. You . . . shuddered.”
Once again, Taylor had ambushed him when he wasn’t looking. Disgust hit him like a cold shower. “I’m fine,” he assured her. “I want you, Hilary, and when the time is right, we’ll be good together.”
“I-I hope so.” He’d never seen her so nervous. A deep crease split her brow, and her lips pursed.
Stryke wanted her to relax. “How are the wedding plans coming along?” he asked.
“I’ve hired a wedding planner,” she informed him. “We need to set a wedding date.”
“Any day but July third.” Bad memories surrounded the day Taylor had left him at the altar.
“How about a spring wedding?”
“This spring?” It was already mid-April.
It “Next spring.”
“You want to wait a year?” This surprised him.
“I need plenty of time to plan.”
“A big wedding?” His worst nightmare.
“If my father is reelected, his position as mayor will require that he give me away before family, friends, and government officials. Daddy has gubernatorial ambitions.”
Stryke refused to allow their wedding to become a political circus. “We’ll work on the guest list together.”
Hilary didn’t argue. She never did. Acceptance was ingrained in her. She did, however, seem distracted. Stryke chalked it up to tiredness and too many fund-raisers.
They parted shortly thereafter. With a peck to his cheek, she returned to the country club. The moist imprint of her kiss had dried by the time he’d fastened his seat belt.
Setting the SUV in reverse, he glanced in the rearview mirror, making sure Hilary reached the country club safely. He narrowed his eyes as Stuart Tate emerged from the shadows near the front door. The bold little man placed his palm on Hilary’s spine, then rubbed her back before guiding her inside. Their heads dipped close, their noses nearly touching. All pretty intimate, in Stryke’s opinion.
He waited for his jealousy to spike, yet only a flicker of irritation rose over Stu’s familiarity—which Hilary didn’t resist. He’d have to ask Hilary about Tate when they next spoke.
His SUV on automatic pilot, he drove directly to Jacy’s Java. A decaf and a cranberry turkey wrap would satisfy his late-night hunger. He parked his vehicle across the street from the front door, then checked out the customers before he entered.
He was glad he had. Curled up on white vinyl swan chairs near the large picture window, Taylor Hannah and Jacy Kincaid were enjoying late-evening coffee, relaxed in each other’s company.
The dark interior of the Escalade gave him a private moment to observe Taylor without witnesses. Her animation and wild hand gestures had Jacy bent over with laughter.
A toss of her hair, followed by a wide smile, reminded Stryke of the first time he’d seen her. The harder he fought the memory, the more it crowded his mind. He pressed his fingertips against his eyelids, then slid them higher against his scalp, pushing against the start of a headache. The pressure built and broke as he was swept back to a time he’d rather forget. . . .
It was March 10, 1999, Ladies’ Day at James River Stadium. The Rogues were playing the Chicago Cubs. Stryke had stepped off the mound and was headed for the dugout when the first baseman jogged past.
“ ‘Got Balls?’ ” Shaffer Stone had chuckled. “Check out field level, row B. Sweet baby.”
Stryke hated distractions, yet he did a quick scan of row B, and was immediately glad he had. A dozen hot women were sharing bags of peanuts and popcorn, and toasting one another with soda and beer.
Got Balls? was easy to locate. The words were printed on a peach T-shirt worn by a knockout blonde with a sunburned nose. She’d glanced his way as he was checking her out. Attraction shot hot and electric straight to his soul. She’d held his gaze until he’d ducked into the dugout.
While the Rogues worked through the middle of their rotation, Stryke snagged two new baseballs and a black marker and wrote his private cell phone number on each. His fellow teammates did this often. A sexy fan was frequently issued an invitation to party.
Until that moment, Stryke had never shared his private number with any woman in the stands. The blonde became an exception to his rule. He’d sent a batboy on his behalf.
He’d gone on to pitch three more innings. The blonde brought out the best in him. He’d shown off, striking out nine of nine consecutive batters. The crowd was on its feet, applauding him. Even the blonde stood, looking excited and happy and clapping her ass off.
On his final return to the dugout, he’d caught her juggling the baseballs, a hint of a smile on her lips.
After the game, he’d celebrated with his teammates. They’d headed to Bruno’s, a bar loud with live music and packed with groupies. Stryke had set his cell phone on vibrate, in hopes the blonde would call.
She never did.
The only call that came in was from a twelve-year-old boy named Tony Holmes—a boy who exuberantly thanked Stryke for the two souvenir baseballs that a blond hottie had tossed him as she’d left the park.
The lady had put Stryke down. Hard.
Disappointment shadowed him as he’d departed the head-pounding noise at Bruno’s and strode to the parking lot. There, seated inside his McLaren, he’d talked sports with Tony for a solid hour. He’d promised the kid a signed jersey, to be picked up at the ticket window before their next home game.