Chapter 22

“Yum,” he says when he eases off. “Now that’s a baseball dog.”

“Mayo, no mustard,” I reply as I swim in satisfaction. “Now, ditch those clothes.”

In bed, I welcome him fucking me. We lie curled on our sides, him going at me from behind, steady and silent. Instead of my usual gibberish and filth, I manage only moans in time with his thrusts.

“God, this is good,” I say between moans.

“And then some.” He kisses my neck.

When he’s ready to come, he rolls me onto my stomach without breaking the connection and pounds out a climax that gets him spewing the verbal filth. He’s finally unleashed the last of himself.

* * * *

Next morning, amid “the wallow,” Tommy rolls onto his back and says, “You know how I got on base my last game? Hit by the pitch. Not intentional, I did try to get out of the way, then as I got up, I thought, hell, why not?”

“Can you figure what’s off?”

“Everything. Think of all your pitches failing you at once.”