The Pitcher's Assistant by Jessa Kane

“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.”