AT BULLPEN RANCH, Trevor found Paige in the barn, an airy, newish structure sided with planks of gray pine. His heart clenched at the sight of her huddled on the floor, her back against a hay bale. She held tight to the white ball of fur in her arms. Her sobs echoed through the barn. The earthy aroma of manure and hay wafted around them, and her hair streamed down her back in tangled waves.
He dropped next to her. “Is Jerome okay?”
“He . . . he’s fine,” she managed, the words skipping between hiccups. “I found him curled up in an orange tree planter. It’s . . . it’s . . .” Moisture dropped onto Jerome’s fur, but the cat didn’t seem to notice.
“Hudson?”
“Sort of . . .” Shaking her head, she scrubbed away the tears. “It’s me. My mother called to tell me about their new reality show. It’s the first time I’ve really talked to her about everything. I felt like such a loser. I shouldn’t have married him, I should have stayed in college, I should learn from her example. Etcetera etcetera. She wants me to come to Philadelphia so she can fix my life.”
He went cold despite the stuffy heat of the barn. It hadn’t occurred to him that Paige might leave, but this wasn’t even her home. It was a temporary stopover between her life in Italy and whatever came next. He cleared his throat. “Are you going to?”
She glanced up, her big blue eyes sheened with tears. He fought hard to keep the need out of his expression. Logically, it would be best for her to leave. Crush didn’t want Paige hanging out with him. And with the article exposing his past, things in his life might get intense. He didn’t want her to get caught up in the mess. But still . . . God, he didn’t want her to go anywhere. It would feel like ripping out his insides, to say good-bye to her now.
“No,” she said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.” She dug her fingers into Jerome’s fur, rubbing the skin on the back of his neck until his purr sounded like a Harley. “I have that fund-raiser coming up, and . . . there are other reasons.”
He tried not to let his relief show. “Maybe it would be good to see your mother.”
“No. My mother is . . . she’s very busy. If I went to Philly, she’d have me booked up with cocktail parties and job interviews and class schedules and . . .” She shook her head. “I came here because I knew Crush would give me some space. And because I needed . . . I wanted . . . I knew he wouldn’t make me feel like a failure. He’s screwed up so much himself, you know. Nothing surprises him.”
He reached out and touched her hair, both to soothe her and indulge himself in the feel of its vibrant silkiness. It slid across his palm, and right away he wanted more. “Your mother’s never screwed up?”
“I wouldn’t say never. She’s dated a few jerks. But as soon as she realizes they’re jerks, she cuts them off. Me, on the other hand . . . she thinks I’m too soft. She compared me to Jerome!”
The indignation in her voice made Trevor give a snort of laughter. Jerome lifted his head from her lap, then laid it back down on Paige’s knee.
“Sorry,” Trevor said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. “Why Jerome?”
“I told you he’s a Ragdoll. They’re bred for their affectionate nature, and look what happens when you pick them up.” She stood, holding Jerome under his middle. His head drooped to one side of her hand, his rear end to the other. It looked as if all his bones had gone on strike. “They turn into floppy little rag dolls. And my mother thinks that’s me! She thinks because I care about people I’m a floppy rag doll. Am I a floppy rag doll, Trevor? Is that what you think of me?” She gestured with the hand that held Jerome; he swayed back and forth, his blue eye blinking sleepily.
Right now she looked like a pissed-off spitfire, not a rag doll. He rose to his feet. “I’ve been to bed with you, Paige Taylor. I don’t think you’re a floppy rag doll.”
The last time they’d made love, she’d straddled him with her long-legged body, milking his cock while he filled his hands with nipples the color of cinnamon candy. Paige was no rag doll. She was passionate. Maybe a little impulsive. Reckless with her heart. Soft, yes. In the most rare and precious way.
She gave a sob. Jerome leaped from her arms and landed with a thump on the dusty hay-strewn floorboards. Trevor took one of her hands in his, feeling its slight tremble.
“Paige, let me tell you something. It’s not braver or smarter to shut people out. Just ask Crush. Or me, for fuck’s sake. It takes courage to care about people the way you do. Kind is not the same thing as soft.”
“Kind, again.” She tried to tug her hand from his, but he wouldn’t let her.
“Yeah, kind. And sometimes you might get burned for that. You might get hurt. But it’s a beautiful thing to be the way you are. If it was up to me, you’d never change.” With his other hand, he twined a shank of her hair around his wrist and tugged lightly. “You’re only twenty-four, you’re gorgeous, smart. You could do anything you want. Go anywhere. Get your degree, don’t get your degree, it doesn’t matter to me. Just be Paige, and that’s enough. It’s more than enough. It’s a fucking miracle.”
She stared at him, her lips parted in wonder. “Oh, Trevor . . .”
Oh hell. He’d said too much. Revealed how much she meant to him. He felt stupidly weak all of a sudden, as if power was leaking out of him like air from a balloon. He stood there cursing himself for a sappy-ass fool.
But he couldn’t turn away. Even with tears marking her face, she lit up the dusty barn like firelight.
She lowered her eyes, wiped a tear off her cheek with the heel of her hand, then shot him a look from under her lashes. “Did you know there’s a room with a lock in this place?”
“What?” She knew what that come-hither look did to him. And suddenly the barn felt very private, very quiet, as if the still air was just waiting for something to stir it up.
“I’ll show you.” She took his hand and pulled him toward the back of the barn. He went, excitement tightening his chest and prodding at his cock. “It’s a tack room, and it has thousands of dollars’ worth of hand-tooled leather riding gear. I made my father put a lock on it because you never know with the people he brings out here. But I . . .” She dug in her pocket. “. . . have the key.”
Glancing over her shoulder, her eyes danced in the golden, dusty light. He couldn’t have resisted even if he’d wanted to. She pulled him into an overcrowded room that smelled like linseed oil and leather. A heavy anticipation pulsed through his veins. He wanted to see her fresh, freckled skin against all that dark leather. He wanted to see the line of her throat, naked, the rich fall of her hair. He wanted to see the pink lips of her sex wet and begging.
From the quickness of her breath, the flush in her cheeks, she was right there with him.
She turned the key in the lock, closing them inside. Then she spread her hands apart, as if to cede the moment to him.
“Get naked,” he ordered. Her eyes flared, then narrowed.
“I’m not a rag doll, to just do what you say.”
“No. You’re not.” He advanced on her, wanting her so badly he could barely walk. “You’re a passionate, sensual, sexy woman with a will of your own. Now get naked.”
She put a hand on his chest, stopping him a foot away from her. “After you.”
“As you wish.” He tore his clothes off so quickly, he hit his elbow on the wall. His cock was already hard. He gripped it at the base, watched her tongue run across her lips. “Your turn.”
She wore a thin-ribbed tank top with a picture of cowboy boots on the front. Underneath, her nipples were already hard. “I changed my mind,” he said, staring at them, stroking himself. “Leave your shirt on and play with your nipples. Pinch them.”
Her pupils expanded to a deep midnight blue. Her chest rose and fell, quick breaths stirring the dust motes in the air. His excitement was nearly unbearable as he watched her bring her thumb and index fingers to the tips of her breasts and gently pinch.
“More,” he ordered. “Harder.”
She squeezed harder, rolling her nipples slightly. Her eyes fell halfway shut, and she tilted her chest toward him, as if chasing the sensation.
“Is that material rough, sweetheart? Does it feel good?”
She nodded, as if afraid to spoil the mood by speaking.
“Show me. Lift your top. Show me your nipples.”
Face flaming, she did as he asked, revealing nipples so aroused they’d turned a deep, brick red. They trembled slightly as her breasts moved with her rapid breaths. Her torso was slim and long, breasts proud and perfect. Arousal swelled his cock. “You’re so beautiful, Paige. Take off your shirt. The rest of your clothes too.”
She made a show out of it, undulating her upper body and wiggling her hips until he wanted to throw her down, the tease. Not yet. First he wanted to bring her to an orgasm she’d never forget.
When she was completely naked, he said, “Lean back against that saddle. I want to see your skin against it.”
“Like this?” She posed provocatively against the dark leather with its whipped seams. She was a vision, her skin smooth as milk, her light sprinkling of freckles glowing like gold flakes, her erect nipples so dark they looked bronzed. She spread her legs hip width apart, just enough so he saw the pout of moisture deep in her soft brown curls.
His mouth watered, his tongue moving in hungry anticipation. He gripped his cock again, felt it pulse against his palm. Not your turn yet. He gave it a hard pull, a promise of what was to come, then approached the naked woman posed before him.
“Well?” She asked, a little cheeky, a little nervous. “Are you going to ride me, big boy?”
In answer, he dragged two fingers along the seam of her sex, feeling her delicious plump clit warm under his touch. Her head fell back against the saddle. The perfect arch from chin to clavicle was exactly as he’d imagined. He traced it with his tongue while he gathered her soft nether curls in his fist, tugging, claiming. She pushed against his hand, making him aware of how outrageously wet she was.
“You want to come?” He tugged at her mound, finding her clit with his thumb.
“Oh my God, yes.”
“Then stay still. Spread your legs farther apart.”
He could barely wait to taste that liquid honey, the living essence of her arousal. He dropped to his knees, reaching up to fill his palms with her breasts. Closing his fingers, nipples pressed between them, he pulled a deep spasm from her. She arched her back, pushed her breasts into his hands. When Paige wanted something, she was fierce about it. And she wanted to come, every quiver of her body screamed it.
Bending his head to her mound, he brushed his face against her curls, inhaling the scent of aroused woman.
“You’re going to come in my mouth,” he told her. “I want to feel your sweet little clit swell up against my tongue.”
“Fine. Please. Just do it.”
“Close your eyes.” He didn’t want to shock her with what he was about to do.
When her eyes had drifted shut, he reached for one of the riding crops hanging from pegs on the wall. A slightly curving black pole with a soft swish of suede fringe at the end. Slowly, he drew the hard tip across the seam of her sex, ending with the drag of fringe across her clit. She gasped, her inner thighs trembling. When he withdrew the crop, the end was slick with moisture.
“What was that?” she asked, voice shaking.
“Did it feel good?”
“Yes. A little scary, but good.”
“I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to make it good.” He stroked his tongue where the crop had gone, placing his own warm flesh where the hard ebony had traveled. He knew the contrast would make her crazy.
“Again,” she gasped. “That feels amazing.”
He did it again, alternating the hard stroke of the crop with the wet drag of tongue. This time he pushed the thumb of his other hand inside her, and explored the crevice of her ass with his fingers. He wanted her off balance, utterly focused on him and what he was doing to her. The room was completely quiet, the only sound her soft quick breaths and the swish of suede on her skin. The smell of sex hung around them, heavy and arousing.
“Trevor, I can’t . . .” She shuddered, her body straining for release. “Please.”
“I want you to come into my mouth. Hard. You hear?”
“Yes. Yes, I hear. Please.” Her head turned from side to side, frantic, her hair damp with sweat. God, she was sexy.
He stroked her with his hand now, the rough calluses adding even more stimulation. “Do you know what I’m famous for in hitting?”
“What?” Her voice rose to that frantic, impatient level when she started ordering him around. He loved it when she got like that. “You’re talking about baseball? Now?”
“I’m famous . . .” He touched his tongue to her clit, then withdrew. “. . . for working the count as deep as possible. Every time. Drawing it out. Making contact. Making the pitchers work for it.”
She released a sob of frustration. “Don’t you mean toying with them like a cat with a mouse? Just . . . just . . . hit a grounder or something. I don’t care.”
He laughed. “Why hit a grounder when you can swing for the stars?” He buried his face between her legs, lapping up the sweet juices, chasing each tremble and swell.
“Does that analogy include a . . . an orgasm?”
He smiled against her sex. Saucy Paige. Her legs were shaking, so he draped them over his shoulders. He settled her ass in his hands, right where he could control her movements. She wanted more friction, but he drew it out as long as he could manage, reveling in the scent and feel of her intimate self. When her gasps came closer and louder, her movements more desperate, he vibrated his tongue hard and fast against her clit, exactly how he knew she craved it. She came hard, her wails rising to the ceiling. She thrashed against the saddle, pressing her heels into his back. Her creamy juices drenched his mouth. Paige orgasming was the hottest thing he’d ever seen, and his cock rose heavy between his legs.
While she was still shaking from that climax, he turned her around, bent her over with her hands on the saddle, and slipped on a condom with clumsy, overexcited hands. He parted her thighs and buried his aching cock into her hot flesh. Her channel was still quivering from her orgasm. Good. She was about to have another one.
He took a moment to calm himself, shaping the globes of her ass, stroking the smooth curves. Then he gripped her harder and levered his hips against her rear while pulling her tight against him. “Come for me again, Paige. Do it.” He drove into her with steady, powerful strokes, a hammering rhythm that made her pussy clench tight like a fist. They were perfect together, hot and slippery and wild and . . .
With a cry, she crested, her body strung taut between the saddle and his hips. He followed in a wild explosion of pleasure.
Shaking, Paige straightened, though her legs could barely hold her up. She gripped the saddle horn for support. “Okay, now I really feel like a rag doll,” she murmured.
“Well, you’re not. Believe me, I wouldn’t be feeling this way about a rag doll.”
Feeling what way? She waited for him to say more, but he clammed up. An awkward silence fell between them. As if they’d gone so deep neither knew what to say about it.
With fortunate timing, Jerome meowed loudly from the other side of the door. She turned the key and allowed him in. Tail held high, swinging his head to take in the scene with his one eye, he stalked in like some sort of hall monitor come to investigate misbehavior. “Make way for the real Ragdoll,” Paige announced, winning a smile from Trevor.
Whew. Jerome had a way of showing up at the perfect moment.
Trevor bent over to pull on his jeans. With sweat gleaming on his rippling stomach, arm muscles flexing as he tugged at the denim, it was almost impossible to look away from him. She reached for her clothes as well. The memory of how quickly she’d shed them made heat stain her cheeks. She stepped into her panties and shorts.
“Listen . . . I’m sorry about the newspaper article. I left you a few messages, then I got distracted looking for Jerome. Are you okay?”
He fastened his jeans, his expression settling back into the usual unreadable mask. “I’m fine. Shit happens.”
“Yeah, and unfortunately the Internet makes it spread so much faster.”
“Internet?” He swung his head toward her with a look of shock. The hawk on his back rippled with his movements. “I thought the article was just in the local paper.”
She bit her lip. “It got picked up by several online sports publications. I’m sorry, I assumed you knew. It wouldn’t be getting so much attention if not for the Baseball’s Hottest Outfield campaign. And then there’s the reputation of the Catfish, all the parties and brawls and pranks and so forth. Marcia’s been calling me. She’s afraid Crush is going to blame her.”
“Crush knows where to put the blame.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.
Her heart sank. Trevor and Crush must have already faced off over the article. She put a hand on his forearm. “Is there anything I can do?”
He looked down at the floor, where his bare feet glowed pale against the stained floorboards. His boots lay halfway across the room, and he went to retrieve them. “Would you like to spend the night with me?” he asked her. “Takeout and some DVD’s might hit the spot. No sports shows.”
Of all the things he could have suggested, that invitation surprised her the most. It sounded so . . . normal. “I’d like that, but I promised to help Crush tonight. He finally took my advice and asked the gorgeous mayor over for dinner. I told him I’d cook. I was in the middle of chopping vegetables when I realized Jerome was missing. Do you want to stay here and help me?”
“Trust me, Crush doesn’t want me around right now.” He shook his head and bent down to pull on his boots. The sight of his big-knuckled hands on the leather of his Timberlands made her blood hum.
“Where did you learn to do that? With the riding crop?” The question slipped out before she could help it, and she instantly flushed. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean . . . you’re just . . . I’ve never . . .” She trailed off, since she couldn’t think of any way to fix it.
“It doesn’t matter.” Trevor pulled his bootlaces tight. “That’s all in the past.”
She turned away from him. Maybe she didn’t want to know anyway. It was bad enough knowing that Hudson was now married to another woman. She didn’t need to torture herself over Trevor too. Obviously he was experienced. Expert, even. He’d pulled reactions from her body that she didn’t know were possible.
“Hey,” Trevor said gently, stopping her hand as she reached for the doorknob. “Don’t go there.”
“I’m just letting poor Jerome out.”
“Not that.” The stern, perfect lines of his face had softened, his eyes a tender, warm peridot instead of their usual crystalline shade. “Don’t think about the past. As far as I’m concerned, there wasn’t anyone before you.”
Confusion flashed through her. What was he saying? But then his phone buzzed and the moment passed, leaving her to speculate about every possible interpretation of his words.