Brushing it off because his weird behavior was probably just a side effect of whatever the doctors had put him on, Leslie dropped a kiss on his scruffy cheek. “Next time I’ll stomp like a herd of elephants. How’s that sound?”
“Better,” he muttered and she got sidetracked by the heat and masculine scent of him.
Desire began to stir inside her and she pulled back to put distance between them. Jumping him was the last thing he needed right now. What he needed was his bed and a whole lot of rest.
Thinking she should convince him to make his way to his bedroom so that he wouldn’t fall asleep sitting up again, Leslie placed a hand gently on his uninjured arm and said, “Why don’t you go to bed, darlin’? You look beat.”
In the space of a heartbeat Peter rounded on her, reaching out with his good hand and snagging her around her waist. Before the squeal made it all the way out, he had her in his lap, his mouth fused to hers. And he had wood. Boy did he have wood. Her ass landed on it.
And she was right; it was irresistible to the girls.
Because he’d caught her off guard and her defenses were down, Leslie didn’t have time to do anything more than react and feel. And good god he felt amazing. All hard, sculpted, lean muscles and hungry, turned-on man.
She couldn’t get enough.
Falling into the kiss, she shifted in his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. Opening to him, she moaned softly when his tongue rubbed against hers impatiently. As much as she knew she’d regret it later, there was no stopping. Something lightning hot and just as dangerous flashed between them.
It was incredible.
“Christ, woman,” he growled when he broke the kiss. “Tell me you feel this.” He fisted a hand into her straight blonde hair and held her captive. “I need to know you feel it too.”
Of course she felt it too. Every single time they touched. It was electric. “I feel it, Peter,” she whispered.
He groaned and his mouth was on her throat, devouring her, teeth nipping sharply. The shot of pain was quickly replaced by something a whole lot hotter, his tongue soothing the tender flesh. His agile mouth teased her sensitive skin, the feel of his stubble exquisite torment. She didn’t want it to stop.
Running her hands through his thick, wavy hair, Leslie tipped her neck to the side to give him better access. His firm mouth was on her in an instant, his tongue tasting her there. She moaned and found his mouth with hers, opening greedily for him.
He shifted beneath her, his erection pushing into her ass. Groaning, Peter let go of her hair and his hand stroked boldly, possessively down her body until he found her full breasts and squeezed through her sweatshirt. She gasped and tore her mouth from his. “Oh God,” she breathed, wanting more, wanting his hands all over her bare naked skin.
“Take it off,” he demanded, his voice rough with arousal. “Take off your sweatshirt so I can see them.”
Lost in the moment, Leslie ripped off her hoodie and tossed it on the floor behind her. She shook back her hair and looked down into his face, desire pulsing heavy in her veins. Thick black hair had fallen over one of his brows and when she brushed it to the side his eyes fluttered closed for a second like her touch was something special and almost euphoric.
Then they opened again, crystalline pools of desire. His hand was on her waist and streaking over her back. When he came to her bra strap he grabbed it and flicked it open with one smooth movement, causing her breasts to spill free.
Damn. He had moves.
“Perfect,” he whispered and slid a large, calloused hand up her rib cage until he was cupping her breast, his thumb flicking gently across her puckered nipple.
Leslie gasped.
“Yeah, you like that?” he asked and flicked his thumb over her sensitive peak once more.
It set her on fire. And it made her so, so wet. Even now she could feel moisture pooling between her thighs. “Yes,” she said in a moan.
“Come here.” His eyes were heavy-lidded with passion as he issued the command.
She leaned forward, breathing unevenly as lust permeated her body. There was no way she could have refused even if she wanted to. Her body craved his touch.
Peter’s hand on her breast stopped teasing her as he softly kissed her neck. Against her ear he breathed in and whispered, “Your scent drives me crazy.”
That was good to know. “Coconut?”
Warm, moist breath caressed her earlobe and a shiver ran down her spine. God, he had a mouth. Sensual and erotic and so very talented.
Peter gave the skin just beneath her ear a gentle open-mouthed kiss, his tongue tasting her, and she began to throb for him. “Yeah, coconut. It’s in my dreams.” His mouth trailed slowly over her jawbone and his voice became drowsy. “You’re in my dreams.” His hand stilled and his head fell back against the chair, his breathing slow and deep. He whispered roughly, “You haunt me.”
Breath caught in her lungs. It couldn’t be. “What?”
He started to snore.
Damn him for falling asleep.
Chapter Twelve
THE NEXT MORNING Peter was awake and downstairs before the sun had risen. His shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch and every time he bumped it searing pain dug into his flesh like a fire poker and poured down his arm. He had a massive headache.
And his life as he knew it was officially over. Way preterm. Well not that preterm, but before he made it to the World Series, and most definitely not by his decision.
He’d been forced into retirement early. And it sucked. It sucked because he’d wanted to end this thing on his terms, not have them dictated to him.
Kicking the refrigerator door closed angrily, Peter slapped the milk carton down on the counter and splashed drops all over some half-written sheet music. He swore and scrubbed a hand over his scruffy face. Why did life never go the fucking way he planned?
Everything, every single decision got derailed. It never failed, which was why he had eventually given up making decisions altogether and learned to just go with the flow. Until his eye problem had gone and screwed it all up, forcing him to think about the future and make long-term plans. Who the hell wanted to do that?
Goddamn Retinitus Pigmentosa.
The genetic disease that was ruining his life and the selkie myth were the only things his mother had ever given him. Thanks, Mom.
Moody and in a foul disposition, Peter poured a glass of organic whole milk and downed it in one gulp. Then he refilled it and sat down at the kitchen table. The impact jarred his shoulder and he hissed. Great. Just frigging great.
Not only was his life over, but he had a painful reminder about it if he happened to forget. Not that there was much risk of that. No way.
Two more weeks. Why couldn’t his shoulder have held out two more weeks? Then he could have taken the World Series by storm, earned his spot in the Hall of Fame, and retired quietly with that notch in his belt.
Peter scrubbed a hand over his face again and dislodged his eyeglasses, almost knocking them off and jamming the nosepiece into the corner of his eye. “Ouch. Shit.” Stupid-ass glasses. He was still getting used to wearing them. He’d nearly taken out his eyeball.
Feeling cross, he righted the frames and muttered, “Not like my frigging eye is good for me now anyway.”
Knowing that he was sinking deeper into a funk, Peter shoved away from the table, his full glass of milk forgotten. Being Irish and Ukrainian, he could get a damn fine brood on if he wanted to. It was in his genetic makeup to fall into a really dark hole of depression and stay there for a while.
He hated that about himself because it was just like his old man. At least he wasn’t drowning his sorrows in Wild Turkey. That was something.