Fastball (Wilde Players Dirty Romance) (22 page)

His warm breath is on my neck, followed by his lips and tongue, and tremors vibrate up and down my spine. Every nerve ending is heated and I know I'm going to come again. His hand migrates to my core and his thumb places a gentle pressure on my clit. That's all it takes to eke another orgasm out of me. My inner muscles clench and I can feel him pulsate inside of me as he groans out his own climax.

When we finish, he rolls me over and situates me on top of him. Our mouths press together in heated kisses, and we have a nice little make out session. His scruff rubs my cheeks tender in a few spots and it makes me giggle.

“What?”

“I didn't think we'd end up doing this today,” I admit.

“Me neither. But I have to say I'm pretty damn happy about it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. What about you?” he asks.

“I'm okay with it.”

“Okay with it? Hmm. That doesn't sound too good to me.”

“No, it's good.” I don't want to give everything away here. If he knows that I've been crushing on him, then he'll have the upper hand and that won't work at all. Besides, if he's going to work for me, I have to maintain some kind of authority here.

“Good,” he repeats.

Now he sounds hurt and that's not what I intended.”

“It was really good.”

“I get the feeling you're not okay with this. And you can be honest with me,” he says.

“That's not it.” How can I say this? “Here's the deal. If you come to work for me, then we have to be able to be professional.”

He busts out laughing. “Is that what this is all about?”

“Yeah.” But it kind of pisses me off. “And it's not funny.”

“Your attitude about it is. Riley, I'm a grown man. To say I can't act professional is ridiculous.”

“You can't say that. I've seen people much older than you walk away from situations because of crazy things.”

He nods. “You're right. But I would hope you and I could be bigger people.”

“I would hope that too.”

A banging on the door interrupts us. “Ri, is that you?” Ryder asks.

“Who else would be in my room?” a snarky reply comes out of my mouth.

“Who's in there with you?”

“Hey, since when did that become any of your business?” I retort.

“Since I want to make sure you're okay.”

“Seriously, you are not asking me that.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Ryder, go back to your room.”

“I can't believe him,” I mumble.

“He's only being a good brother.”

“Is that Mark?” Ryder asks.

“Oh, my, God! Are you standing out there listening?”

“Where do you think I am? In the kitchen.”

Jumping out of bed, I throw on my clothes and yank the door open. “I can't believe you. You're an ass. That's the stupidest thing you've ever done.”

He pushes his way in the room and looks at Mark. “Hey, man.”

“What the hell is this? Are you gonna bring him a cup of coffee now?” I ask. “Get out of here.” He gives me a shitty little grin, and leaves, and I slam the door behind him.

Turning to Mark, he sits there with an expectant look on his face. “What?” I ask.

“Coffee would be great, Eagle.”

I grab a pillow within reach and throw it at him and then stomp out of the room. I hear his laughter follow me down the stairs. Coffee my ass. He can get his own damn coffee. If anyone gets coffee in bed, it's gonna be me, dammit.

And now, here’s a peek at
For The Love of English

by A.M. Hargrove

Prologue

Beck

About Six Years Ago

“Beck, you'd better get in here.”

It's still dark, but then again, it is December and the sun won't rise until seven thirty. But I'm home for Christmas break, so why is my dad waking me up so damn early?

“What?” I groan.

“Just get your butt out of bed and get in here. Now.”

When he uses that tone, I know not to argue. So I drag my ass out of my warm and toasty bed and shuffle into the kitchen. My parents stand by the island, looking into a large cardboard box as my mother stuffs a letter into my hands.

“What's this?” I ask.

“I don't know, but it was on top of this.” She points at the box.

“A Christmas gift?” he asks. “A little early.”

“I wouldn't say it's early if I were you,” my dad answers.

Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I attempt to clear my head. I'd partied hard last night. All the guys got together as they usually did when everyone came in town from college. I barely remember what time I came home last night.

“Can someone tell me what this is all about?”

All of a sudden, a baby starts crying.

My mother says, “Well, we were hoping you could shed a little light on this.”

“Whose baby is that?” I ask.

“Beck, read the damn letter!” My father's patience comes to an end. “It was in the box with the baby on the front porch. I walked outside to get the paper, and there it sat. Now, read the letter so we can get some answers.”

I look at the envelope in his hand. Sure enough, my name is scrawled across it. I tear open the seal and pull out a folded page of paper, the kind with the lines you tear off from a spiral notebook. I rub my fingers across those little tags left behind because suddenly I'm scared, totally freaked out. I don't want to read what's on this piece of paper.

Raising my eyes, I instantly feel five years old again when the accusatory gazes of my parents drill holes into me. I swallow, but my saliva has taken a hike to places unknown.

In a soft voice, Mom urges, “Beck.”

Nodding, I unfold the paper and read.

Beck,

I tried. I really did. But it was too much. So I'm giving her to you. She was a lot more than I bargained for. If you don't want her, then you can give her up for adoption. In the box under her blankets, you'll find the legal papers, signed by a lawyer and me, which give total custody to you. I've given up all legal rights to her. If you're wondering, she was conceived homecoming night at the fraternity party in November our freshman year. I doubt you even remember since we were both drunk. I don't blame you, as the fault was mine as much as yours. On the documents, you'll find my name. I'm sure you will follow up with DNA testing, which I encourage you to do. But you are her father, as you were the only one I was with. In the envelope with her legal documents, I've also enclosed her medical records. She is healthy-if you're wondering. That's not why I'm leaving her with you. And so you know, I couldn't go through with the abortion I scheduled.

I'm sorry. I guess I wasn't cut out for motherhood.

Abby

I'm completely stunned, frozen.

“Well?” Dad asks. I hand over the letter. And then I somehow summon up the courage to peek into the box and get my first glimpse of my daughter-the daughter whose name I don't even know. The deepest blue-green eyes lock onto my own, and I can't breathe for what seems like an eternity. Because I'm staring into a mirror. All I want to do is touch her, but I'm scared to death. I've never held a baby before. Will I hurt her? Is she fragile?

“Go on. Pick her up, Beck,” Mom says.

My shaking arms reach for her, and her pink blankets fall away to unveil a tiny body encased in a pale pink one-piece suit as her arms and legs flail about. Her small head is layered in pale fuzz, and I rub my cheek against it. It's the softest stuff I've ever felt, and I don't want to let her go.

“Well, kiddo, looks like you got yourself a kid,” my father grumbles.

Mom chuckles and says, “Looks like you've got yourself a granddaughter.”

“Dad, did you read the letter?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“Will you check her medical records? I want to know her name.”

Dad ruffles some papers around, and he finally says, “Hmm. Says here it's English. English Beckley Bridges.”

“English.” What the hell am I gonna do with a baby?

Suddenly, a loud sounding prrrft escapes as I feel the vibrations on my hand. The room fills with a noxious odor.

“Ugh, what's that?” I ask.

Dad laughs, roots around in the box, and hands me a plastic pad. “I know one thing you're gonna be doing. Looks like you're gonna be changing a diaper. Make that plural.” I hear him laughing all the way down the hall.

PART 1

Miss Monroe

_

ONE

Present Day

My scrutinizing glance takes in all the trimmings and accessories I've strategically placed on every wall, looking for any little fault I can find. There isn't much left of my nails as I chew them down to the quick while I analyze my decorating skills. I frown, admitting to myself it's apparent why I chose the profession I did. No doubt my roommate would waltz in here and have a dozen or more ideas on how to make this room much more appealing to the eye. She'd probably recommend hand-sewn decorative pillows strewn about with lavish artwork hung on the walls and those cool things you see on Pinterest made out of used pallets. And most likely, she'd have all new desks made out of them with little cubbyholes for pencils and slots for books. Unfortunately, my budget and time won't allow for that. My stomach quivers in anticipation, but why shouldn't it? It's the first day of school. My very first day. This is the moment I've been waiting for and working toward my whole life. Okay, maybe not my whole life, but whatever. In a few minutes, twenty-two six-year-old kids will be running through the door, minds like sponges, and if I'm not prepared to be the very best sponge filler in the world to them, I will forever destroy their love and zest for learning.

Melodramatic much? Maybe. I am a first grade teacher, and it's my overwhelming duty to offer them a chance to love school. If I fail, they will hate school forever, and it will all be on my shoulders. And to top it all off, this is my very first day as a bona fide teacher. I just graduated from college, so this is it. My chance to change the world! My dream job, my career, and my path I've chosen.

Clearing out the toxic carbon dioxide, I fill my eager lungs with a dump truck load of fresh oxygen. And then I hear them. The pounding of minuscule feet on tiled floors and the screaming of young voices. In the midst of all that, I can hear Susan Jorgensen, the principal, telling the children to calm down and line up, single file in the hall. I stifle a giggle because I can remember hearing those very same words from my own principal. The door swings open, and Susan sticks her head inside.

“Miss Monroe, are you ready to meet your new students?”

“I am.” I cross my fingers and pray.

She holds the door open, and a line of kids, resembling marching ants, walks into the room. A smile replaces my frown, and I can't help but feel the excitement replace my anxiety. They look scared to death, but if cute could be a picture, it would be lined up in front of me. Oh. My. God. How can I not fall in love with every single one of these mites? I am going to be mashed potatoes with them.

“Good morning, everyone. My name is Miss Monroe, and I'm going to be your teacher this year. How is everyone today?”

One little boy immediately pops a thumb into his mouth, and his bottom jaw goes to town. A few of the girls offer me a shy grin, and a couple of the boys look around and don't give me the time of day. Susan catches my eye, points to the door, and heads out. I have prearranged seating, so I go to the front row and start calling out names and seating the children. When I'm about halfway down the second row, I get to the name, English Bridges, and no one responds, so I keep on. I have about three-quarters of the students seated when the door bursts open, and a woman, who is perhaps in her late forties, stands with a child clinging to her neck.

“I'm so sorry to interrupt, but is this the first grade classroom?” she asks out of breath.

“Yes, it is,” I answer, smiling. “Can I help you?”

“I'm sorry we're late. I'm Anna Bridges, and this is English. English Bridges.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Would you mind if I had a word in the hall with you?”

I glance at the unseated students and say, “Can you give me a couple of minutes to seat the rest of the students?”

“Sure.” I watch her exit and then finish with the rest of the children.

“Now, all of you remain in your seats, and I'll be right back. Remember, no getting out of your seats. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” they all answer. I walk into the hallway, and Anna Bridges stands there, still holding English.

“Is English all right?” I ask.

Anna rolls her eyes at me. Of course, English can't see her. I wonder what this is all about.

“She's fine. She just has a case of I-don't-want-to-go-to-school, but I told her that if she didn't come, she would grow up to be intellectually challenged.”

I hear a muffled voice say, “I will not be intellectually challenged. I'm smart. You said so. I can learn on those school videos I see on TV.”

Hmm. This one's quite precocious, so I ask, “But, English, wouldn't you miss out on making friends and having all sorts of fun at school?”

“School's not fun.”

“Hmm. Didn't you like kindergarten?”

“Yes,” she mumbles.

“Then how do you know you won't like first grade if you've never been?”

Her shoulders practically meet her ears as she gives me an exaggerated shrug.

“Tell you what. Why don't you try it for a week? Then you can decide if you like it or not.”

The little girl lifts her head and turns to look at me. A head full of blond ringlets greets me highlighted by a pair of blue-green eyes. But what also captures my attention is she's dressed in a kaleidoscope of colors-striped leggings and a flowery shirt that somehow go together on her. This one will have me wrapped around her pinky in no time flat. I'm not sure who will be teaching whom.

“Okay. But you promise I'll like it?”

“I can't make that kind of promise, English, but I'll do my best.”

She turns back around to face the woman and says, “Come on. Let's go.”

“Oh, sweetie, I'm leaving you here.”

“Noo! You can't leave me, Banana!”

Banana?

The woman looks at me and grins. “Yup, she calls me her Banana. Great substitute for Grandma Anna, huh?”