Page 117 of Renegade Ruin

WILLOW

It’s the eighth inning and I’m eating my words…and squirming in my chair.

The first seven were easy enough, kicking off with Bishop upping the intensity of the vibrations of the bulb nestled deep in my pussy. By inning four, he added the clit stimulation on the lowest setting. The low thrum was enough to make me wet, but not enough to make me come. More like having an itch I couldn’t quite scratch. Inning five, he added vibrations—that I am affectionately calling “the wave”—to the inside, paired with a low pulse on my clit.

Then things escalated quickly from an itch needing to be scratched to an insane heat coiling low in my belly—in point-five-seconds. I clenched my thighs, seeking friction, but it still wasn’t enough to send me over the edge. The sixth inning, he upped the intensity at the most inopportune moment. I was in the middle of a conversation with Indie, who looked at me like I was crazy when I doubled over in my seat, thighs clenched in an attempt to fight off the mini orgasm rendering me speechless.

All the while, I could see his smug smile in the dugout. This is my punishment for shutting him out, and he’s absolutely loving every minute of torturing me.

“Are you okay?” Indie asks.

I manage a strangled “mmmhmmm” that comes out more of a moan as my pussy flutters around the toy.

When it passes seconds later, I look up. She has her brows raised.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, I debate breaking my promise and telling her it’s just cramps.

“I, uh—” The buzz on my clit ramps up, and I pin a glare in Bishop’s direction. “I’m about to come,” I whisper.

Leigh’s eyes go wide. “You’re what? Here? Now?”

“Ahhh.” I chew my lower lip, heat filling my cheeks from both embarrassment and pleasure. “Toy. Bishop. Controlling.”

Her eyes dart from Bishop to me and laughter bursts past her lips.

“What’s so funny?” Leigh asks.

“Bishop’s got Wills here wearing a toy, and she’s seconds away from showing us her O face.”

Leigh’s eyes follow the same path Indie’s had and she mutters, “Holy shit. That’s fucking hot.”

My little exhibitionist heart thuds fiercely against my ribs. I shouldn’t be so turned on that my friends know I’m on the edge of coming, but I am.

I pick up my phone, warring with if I should beg him to stop or not.

BISHOP: How you doing, Kitten?

WILLOW: Indie and Leigh know.

BISHOP: And how do you feel about that?

WILLOW: Mortified and more turned on than I’ve ever been.

BISHOP: Do you want to come?

WILLOW: If I say no will that stop you?

BISHOP: Not a chance.

A stupid smile stretches across my face, and I can only imagine what I look like, smiling like an idiot at my phone and squirming in my seat.

“Who’s that?” Indie asks, twisting in her seat.

I follow her gaze to see who she’s looking at and notice Luca Donati, owner of the Los Angeles Monarchs, has entered our aisle with his gaze locked on the seat beside Indie.

Shit.

The last thing I want to do is schmooze with anyone right now. It’s one thing to have an orgasm when it’s just my best friends around me, it’s another entirely to have to put on a professional face.

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