The Pitcher’s Assistant Read online

  The Pitcher’s Assistant

  Jessa Kane

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  1

  Pippa

  I’ve always wanted to be a baseball reporter.

  The very first time my father brought me to an Astros game, I was hooked on the smell of a freshly-mowed ball field. The ripple of cheers going through the crowd and the almighty roar when someone smacks a homer. That afternoon sunshine, the thrill of a night game, even the nasty spitting and cursing in the dugout excites me.

  I am absolutely terrible at the sport of baseball—softball, too—so in order to remain entrenched in the sport I love, I chose the closest profession possible to being on the field.

  Today is my first day.

  First of many.

  With my newly framed journalism degree on the wall of my one-bedroom apartment, I’m starting today as an intern for the well-respected reporter, Randy Carville. The man has been reporting on the Astros longer than I’ve been alive, and fine, he’s a little mean, but every reporter worth their salt has to work their way up through the ranks, right?

  I juggle his coat, a notebook and my purse, hurrying to catch up with Randy on the way down the tunnel. It’s post-game and there are throngs of eager reporters attempting to breach the entrance to the holy land also known as the Astros locker room. But there is only one man who has enough clout to pull it off—Randy. Which is precisely why I emailed my resume to him a freakish number of times, begging for this position.

  If I want to be the best, I have to study the best.

  Randy stops abruptly in front of the security guard at the entrance to the locker room. I narrowly miss running straight into his back and he gives me a withering look over his bony shoulder. With a sigh, he waves an impatient hand at the security guard and the door is opened for him. “Come on, intern,” he mutters at me, disappearing through the entrance.

  Squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin, I follow him.

  This is it. My first glimpse behind the curtain.

  My first time really walking among the giants that erm…uh…

  Naked torsos. Everywhere.

  Towels slung around hips, bulges being scratched.

  One player, who I recognize as the catcher, saunters by in nothing but a jock strap.

  With a yip, I whirl around and face the cinderblock wall.

  Oh, Jesus. Jesus. I’ve never seen a naked man before. I’ve never even searched for one on the Internet. Sure, I know where everything is located. Anatomy was a required course in college. But I thought there would be some kind of protocol in place while reporters have entered the locker room. “Mister Carville…can you please let the men know there is a lady present?” I laugh nervously, adjusting the strap of my purse on my shoulder and concentrating on a groove in the wall. “I don’t think they realize…”

  Randy snorts, untucking his phone from the pocket of his suit jacket. “I thought you said you wanted to compete with the big boys?”

  “I do,” I rush to say. “I’m committed to that. I just…”

  “You just want everyone to bend over backwards because you’re a girl.”

  My pulse cartwheels. “No. Not at all. I…”

  I what? I’m a prude?

  At least that’s what everyone has always told me, including the guys at school when I politely declined to date them. I am kind of an old-fashioned girl, I guess one could say. When I visit my parents on the weekends, we watch old episodes of Murder She Wrote, bake cookies and do scrapbooking projects. We watch my nephew play little league and cheer from the stands. Baseball has always been a wholesome activity to me. The great American pastime.

  I can see that I’ve been a little naïve. Sure, I was prepared to put up with some salty language. But I thought we would walk into the locker room and players would be done showering. It’s not that I’m afraid of the nudity, but I’m the only woman in the locker room and these men are twice my size. It’s intimidating when I’ve never so much as kissed anyone.

  Get over it. Do your job.

  Wetting my suddenly dry lips, I start to turn around and face the sea of flesh—but I freeze when I see the man coming toward me.

  Oh, but he’s not just any man. Not even close.

  He’s legendary pitcher Cort Mulloy.

  Yes, he’s a legend and he’s not even retired yet.

  Yes, he’s a legend, even though he’s in the middle of a highly publicized slump.

  He’s only thirty-three, but he has already broken the record for shutouts. He’s a veritable god in the baseball world. Not only because of his performance and ability to close games like an icy assassin, but due to the mystery surrounding him. He never talks to reporters. Flat out refuses. None of his family members—if they exist—ever attend the games. And while most of the players live in the upscale Houston neighborhoods, Cort Mulloy lives on a ranch way off the beaten path. No one has ever been there. No one has ever gotten an interview with him.

  The tall, broad shouldered, midnight-haired god is looking right at me, blue eyes frosted over. And Lord, based on his thunderous expression, he overheard the conversation between me and Randy. He’s probably wondering what the hell I’m doing in here, expecting these athletes to put on clothes just because I’m a girl. He’s probably—

  “Get dressed,” Cort growls through his teeth, flashing those glacial eyes at the locker room as a whole, making sure to include each member of his team in that stare. “Now.”

  All activity ceases momentarily.

  Jokes cut off midway through. Hands pause on locker doors.

  Looks are split between me and Cort, who is back to watching me closely.

  Very, very closely, almost as if he can’t quite comprehend my appearance.

  And then the team members start pulling on clothes, faster than a whip crack. Shirts are yanked over heads, legs are shoved into track pants.

  I’m frozen like a deer in headlights with this giant man looking at me. His attention sweeps down my baby-blue, first-day-as-a-reporter suit and automatically my knees cinch together, the toes of my high heels turning inward. It’s the strangest thing, but my panties seem tighter on my sex, almost as if my flesh has grown swollen in his presence. And wet. What is that about? Is something wrong with me? My skin is so hot. What is going on?

  Randy was startled when Cort growled his order at the locker room, but my boss recovers fast. “Ah now, don’t worry about her, Mulloy. She’s just an intern. She has to get used to the atmosphere sooner or later.”

  “He’s right,” I murmur, craning my head back to look up into Cort’s face. “If I’m going to report on baseball, I’ll need to grow accustomed to a little m-male nudity.”

  Cort steps closer and his scent reaches me. Minty soap and fresh-cut grass. “You won’t be growing accustomed to it,” he rasps.

  “Oh.” He’s so close now, his warmth is seeping beneath my clothes. “Why?”

  “Because this is your last time in here. You work for me now.”

  “Wait. What?”

  * * *

  Cort

  I don’t know who she is yet, but she’s mine.

  As soon as she cleared the locker room entrance, I knew it. Those big, innocent, doe eyes swept the room and she let out this little squeak, whirling around to face the wall. My dick has been hard and ready ever since. What the hell is it about her? I’m not big on women. Not in any permanent way. They come and go once in a while and I barely remember their names.

  The minute this girl walked in, everything inside me screeched to a halt. All the frustration over being in the middle of a slump, all of the pressure to win—all of the grief I’ve been feeling lately—it just stopped. There was only her. There was only the purity and sweetness radiating around her. I want to take her somewhere, alone, and drown myself in it.

  “I’m sorry…” A line forms between her brows. “Did you say I work for you now?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But…doing what?” She shakes herself, laughs lightly. “I’m a reporter.”

  “You’re an intern,” her boss corrects her harshly.

  Her face turns pink.

  My fingers flex and ball into a fist, shaking with the need to break something. Who the hell does this guy think he is, talking to an angel as if she’s meaningless? Starting now, it’s never, ever happening again. “I don’t like the way you talk to her. Get out.”

  The man sputters, grasping at the press credentials around his neck. “I’m…I’m Randy Carville—”

  “And I’m Cort fucking Mulloy.” I take a single step closer and watch his face turn the color of glue. “Get the hell out.”

  When Randy storms out of the locker room, the girl turns on a toe and follows him, but I catch her around the middle with a forearm and sweep her up off the ground, carrying her to the back of the locker room, my private area, her back to my chest. “You stay.”

  She wiggles around a little and I groan, inhaling deeply of her sunflower scent. “B-but…but you said this is my last time in here.”

  “It is,” I rasp.

  “Then shouldn’t I be leaving?”

  “Not yet.”

  “My mother would say this is plum wild, what’s happening.”

  “I’m inclined to agree.” I settle her on her feet in front of my locker, turn her around and tip up he
r chin, marveling over how goddamn beautiful her eyes are. Chocolate-brown with green flecks. “I didn’t expect a little ray of sunshine to walk in here and make me crazy, but here we are. Now it’s going to be dealt with.”

  “Dealt with?” She blinks. “What does that mean?”

  I take the purse, jacket and notebook she’s holding to her chest, setting them on a nearby bench. It gives me time to gather my thoughts, but I don’t quite succeed. There is something about this girl that is shooting my usual concentration to hell. All I can think about is sucking on her wide upper lip, peeling her out of that baby-blue suit, making her mine.

  Now. Now. Fucking now.

  “First things first.” I walk her back against the locker, dragging her hips up against mine so she can get used to where this is headed. “What is your name?”

  “Pippa. Winestock.” I witness the moment she identifies my erection, her throat working in a gulp. “Oh my goodness.”

  “Pippa,” I repeat, letting the name settle into my bones. “Am I scaring you?”

  “A little,” she whispers, her sweet breath pelting my mouth. “For one, I’m pretty sure you just lost me a job I’ve been trying to get for months.”

  God, her fucking mouth. I want to feel it all over me. I want to watch it go wide with a moan while I lick her pussy. “Whatever he’s paying you,” I say roughly. “I’ll quadruple it.”

  “To do what?”

  That’s a good question. Apart from my agent, manager and a woman who cleans my house once a week, I don’t have a lot of people working for me. I like my home quiet. I like solitude. Or I did, anyway. Now I want Pippa with me.

  I think about my teammates. Who do those idiots have working for them? Apart from the hangers-on they walk around with at all times, they have personal chefs, social media managers, image consultants. None of those things seem to fit this girl, though. There’s something wholesome about her. Old fashioned.

  I knew it from the beginning.

  Which is why I didn’t just come right out and say I want her to come home and belong to me. My gut is telling me it would scare Pippa off if she knew I’ve already formed an obsession and it’s deepening by the goddamn moment. “I need an assistant,” I say finally.

  The wheels turn behind her eyes. “An assistant,” she repeats slowly.

  “Yes. Like I said, I’ll pay you well.”

  “It’s not about the money.”

  I study her face, frustrated that I can’t read her mind. “What is it about?”

  “Baseball. I love it. I want to report on it.”

  Jesus. I’ve been so focused on my chemical reaction to her, I didn’t even stop to process the fact that she is interested in the sport to which I’ve dedicated my life. This girl couldn’t be more perfect for me if she tried. And if she wants to be a reporter, if she needs that to be happy…I can find a way to work with that. “Pippa, I get around a thousand requests every month for an exclusive interview.”

  “You’ve never given one,” she whispers, nodding.

  “That’s right.” I press my lips to her hairline. “But I’ll give one to you.”

  A shudder runs through her sexy body. “You’ll give me an exclusive interview if I become your assistant?”

  “Yes.” I trail my hand down the curve of her hip, along the side seam of her skirt, my fingertips brushing her bare thigh just beneath the hem. Fuck, she is so smooth. “You’ll have full access to me. Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you. It’s yours.”

  “You want me that bad?” she breathes. “T-to be your assistant, that is.”

  I drop my mouth into the valley of her neck, dragging her skirt higher in my grip. “We both know I want you for more than that.” God help me, I’m willing to play dirty. Anything it takes to get her in my home, beneath me. Claimed. “For some reason, every reporter in the country wants to dig into my past, my psyche. What dropped me into this slump. I’ll give that to you. I’ll launch your career as a reporter. But so help me God, I want between your legs for it, little girl.”

  Her gasp isn’t one of outrage.

  It’s one of awareness.

  The lines of her body turn pliant against mine, her breath coming faster. Faster.

  “Did you like it when I called you little girl, Pippa?”

  Her eyes are wide, shocked, as if she’s discovering something about herself she never knew was there. And then she nods—and that confession nearly pushes me to the brink of madness. “Yes,” she whispers, seeming to become more aware, more excited by the way our bodies are pressed tightly together, biting her lip and shifting her hips. “I think so.”

  “You think so?” I raze the side of her neck with my teeth, backing her harder against the locker, rough sounds scraping up both of our throats. “I’m going to check between your legs to make sure.”

  After a breathless moment, she nods. “O-okay.”

  Not wanting to put any distance between us, I only manage to ease back my hips a couple of inches, sliding my hand around to the notch between her thighs. My teammates are still nearby, boisterous and loud on the other side of the wall of lockers. But as soon as I take hold of her sweet, little pussy, there’s really only me and Pippa. She cries out softly, her head falling back against the locker, clearly as innocent as can be. Never had a man.

  Still, she doesn’t protest when I nudge aside the crotch of her panties and drag a knuckle through the valley of her sex, finding her abundant with moisture.

  “Soaked,” I groan. “Dripping wet for me, aren’t you?”

  Her eyes are concerned when they meet mine. “Is that bad?”

  “No, little girl. It’s what’s necessary.” I exhale roughly against her ear. “Have you had an orgasm before, baby?”

  “No,” she whispers, pinkening. “I don’t know how.”

  It takes every ounce of my willpower not to drop to my knees and tongue her pussy, but I won’t chance someone seeing us. She is for my eyes alone, now and always. First, though, we have to form an agreement. One that will buy me some time to win her over.

  “Do you understand what part of your duties will be, as my assistant, Pippa?”

  A beat passes before she whispers, “T-to satisfy you?”

  “No.”

  She pulls back. “No?”

  This girl is mine. Not temporarily. Oh no, not even close.

  It would be so easy to bring her home and fuck her blind. Today. Now. But I need to know she is sleeping with me because our feelings are mutual, not because I’m paying her. Or because I’m giving her an interview. Until then, I have to come up with an alternate plan to keep her close. To pleasure her until she’s addicted to me and leaving isn’t an option.

  “Eventually you will satisfy me, Pippa. Constantly.” I run my nose up the side of her neck, lifting her up with my hips and reveling in her choked gasp, the sound of her heels knocking against the locker. “But for now, you have two main duties as my assistant. One is to interview me for your exclusive.” Our lips meet and brush, grow damp with condensation. “And two, you’re going to learn how to get yourself off. Using my body only. Do we have a deal?”

  She blinks several times before answering, her sex pulsing hotly against mine, her breath coming in short bursts. “Yes, we have a deal.”

  2

  Pippa

  Was I crazy to agree to this deal?

  Sitting in the passenger side of Cort Mulloy’s truck, I seriously wonder if I drank insanity juice this morning for breakfast. Not only have I lost my highly-coveted job, I am now the assistant to baseball’s most famous—and mysterious—player. And I came willingly!

  On one hand, Cort has handed me the keys to the sports-reporting kingdom. An exclusive from this man will put me on the map. No one has ever even come close, and for some reason, he’s chosen me on whom to bestow his private confession. An interview with the tall, dark, handsome and tight-lipped pitcher will fast track my career in a way nothing else could.

  However, the second half of what I’ve agreed to is terrifying.

  You’re going to learn how to get yourself off. Using my body only.