Tucker’s breath moved over her skin like a hot counterbalance to the chilly air, setting her nerve ends on fire. It was like he was touching her without ever lifting a finger, and just the suggestion of him wanting her made her more aware of all the things he could do to her.
Everything he had done to her.
“Do you know what I want to do to you?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered.
“I want them to call this game. I want to take you back to my place, take off all those clothes, and I want to lick every inch of you. I like the way you squirm when I touch you. I want to hear you say my name while you’re sitting on my—”
“Fucking weather,” Ramon said, coming up on Tucker’s other side.
Emmy made a small erp noise, halfway between a hiccup and a squeak. Tucker straightened and gave Emmy a knowing smile, and she had to look away before she blushed so ferociously she passed out.
“What do you think?” Tucker asked.
“I think the weather stinks,” Ramon replied.
“No, I want to know what Emmy thinks of the suggestion I was making before you came.”
Emmy garbled a cough and played it cool since Ramon was watching them. “I think it’s an excellent idea,” she answered, careful not to say too much.
“What is?” Ramon asked.
“I’m feeling a little stiff,” Tucker said matter-of-factly, not showing for a second there was a euphemistic meaning to his words. “Emmy was going to help me stretch some more if the game gets canceled.”
“Canceled?” Ramon looked appalled at the very idea. “No offense, friend, but fuck your arm. I want to play. We don’t get paid to watch games.”
“We do get paid to watch games,” Tucker countered.
“Maybe you, Mister One-Game-in-Five. But some of us like the idea of actually getting out there every day.”
Emmy was just relieved Ramon had missed the point of Tucker’s comments because he was so aghast at the idea of not getting to show off on first base. Tucker, apparently also aware Ramon had missed his less-than-subtle announcement, was smirking in a satisfied way and throwing the ball up. If Emmy wasn’t mistaken, Tucker was trying very hard not to laugh.
A flash of lightning lit the skyline, and a fraction of a second later the crash of thunder echoed through the stadium, booming off the concrete steps. Throughout the seats people rose and started moving towards the exits, those unwilling to wait out the rain giving up and heading home before the heavens opened.
Emmy had never wanted it to rain so badly in her whole life.
Off to the sides of the field, the grounds crew was getting restless, moving into position behind the large tarps they would have to roll out over the infield.
Tucker lifted the hood of his warm-up hoodie—the same one he’d worn that morning—and waggled his brows at Emmy.
“Looks like rain.”
Two tense hours later the game was called. Tucker had kept his distance from Emmy after making his initial suggestion. He didn’t want to crowd her, but more importantly he couldn’t stay close without letting his desire get the best of him.
Still, he prowled like a caged animal, watching Emmy and the sky in equal turns. The part of him that loved his team—and it was the biggest part of him—wanted the bad weather to literally blow over so they could get out and win the game.
But the part of him that knew this game wouldn’t decide his future was the same part that’d been inside Emmy earlier in the day and wanted very badly to be back there again.
As soon as humanly possible.
Once it was clear the tarps would not be removed and the game wasn’t going to happen, the last of the fans filed out and the teams headed back to their clubhouses. Most of the less-keen players had gone in much earlier, but still Tucker maintained a gap between himself and Emmy, staying at the far end of the dugout while she packed up her supplies.
After the last of the players and coaching staff had gone inside and the relief pitchers had come in from the bullpen, Tucker finally moved closer.
“Jawbreaker?” he asked, offering her a plastic bin of candy.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she countered, then winked.