Page 88 of Left on Base

Glad you asked. I spend mine fucking a baseball player on home plate.

No, really.

Don’t believe me?

Well, I’m buck-ass, birthday-suit booty-ass naked, so you tell me who’s lying.

But you know what? I can’t complain.

There’s a moment, right about now, when a rock is digging into my knee and I’m contemplating life choices.

I don’t get far into my regrets, because Jaxon is all over me. I’ve never seen him so into it, but for whatever reason, he is and I’m here for it. His hands grip my hips, pulling me back into his rhythm, hard.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, pushing into me harder. I can feel him thicken, his thrusts picking up. His body shudders, breathing ragged.

I glance back at him—moonlight on his face. My fingertips dig into the dirt, gasping for air. It’s terrifying, how he makes me feel.

Stroking my clit faster, his fingers work magic and I come apart at the same time as he does.

“Always remember, baby.” He hunches forward, lips at my ear. “This pussy is mine.”

Have I ever told you Jaxon is good at dirty talk? Now’s not the time, but trust me, he’s a pro.

He eases out and holds me close a second.

Breathing heavy, Jaxon stands—sort of. He’s hunched over, hands on his knees, then straightens and helps me up, smiling. Rain sprinkles his cheeks and he wipes it away. “I think I pulled a muscle.”

I look down at my knees, burning. “I think I cut the shit outta my knees.”

“Oh, shit.” He glances at my scraped knees. “Sorry.”

I brush off dirt, mud staining my leggings. “Worth it.”

“That was fun.”

“Jaxon?”

He smirks. “Yeah?”

“Can I have my phone back?”

“Depends.” He pulls it out and holds it above my head with the most mischievous grin.

I barely notice his grin, distracted by his arm muscles. “On what?”

“If you’re gonna text him.” His eyes narrow.

I shift my weight. “Jaxon.”

“All right.” He smirks, hands it over. “I suppose you can have it.”

He watches as I take it, like he’s waiting for something. I roll my eyes and smile. “I won’t text him back.”

He winks, confidently. “I know you won’t.”

I hate that he’s right. He knows me. He’s confident about this, and I’m not, because I’ve got feelings that won’t die.

We walk back across campus in silence, shoes squeaking on the wet sidewalk. The rain falls steadily, making halos around the streetlamps that line the path. Shadows of tree branchesdance across the pavement as the spring breeze moves through them. The campus is eerily quiet now—just rain on leaves and the occasional distant car.

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