Page 73 of Tagging Bases

I buck my hips, taking pleasure in the groan that escapes him when he feels my hardness press against his ass.

And then, as suddenly as he got on, he hops off my lap and stands up, leaving me aching and wanting more.

“Tease,” I accuse playfully.

Harrison winks. “I thought you were going to teach me how to hit a ball with a bat, slugger. Or are you too distracted now?”

I haul myself to my feet and adjust my boner in my jeans. “Oh, I think you’ve already demonstrated that you know your way around a bat quite well.”

Harrison snorts at my innuendo, but his eyes darken withdesire. “Careful, or I might drag you into the locker room and have my wicked way with you.”

“Tempting. Very tempting. But you’re right. I did promise to give you a batting lesson first.” I gather up the remnants of our picnic, stuffing everything back into the basket before taking Harrison’s hand. “Come on, the batting cages are this way.”

As we walk, I can’t resist sneaking glances at the gorgeous man beside me. The way the sun glints off his hair, the profile of his face, the lithe muscles of his arms. I’m in awe that this is real and we’re together.

At the cages, I grab a helmet and bat and hand them over to Harrison. He looks adorably out of place, turning the bat over in his hands as if it’s a foreign object.

“Okay, first things first—your stance,” I instruct, moving behind him and placing my hands on his hips to guide him into position. He fits perfectly against me and it takes all my willpower not to grind against his ass. “Feet about shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent.”

“Like this?” Harrison asks, wiggling his butt against me in a way that’s undoubtedly deliberate.

With a groan, I nip at his earlobe in retaliation. “Behave yourself, or we’ll never get through this.”

“Sir, yes sir,” he says before thankfully stilling his hips.

I slide my hands up his sides and along his arms, adjusting his grip on the bat. “Hands together, left above right for you since you’re a lefty. Relax your shoulders, keep your head down, but leave your eye on the ball.”

I step back and move to the pitching machine, showing Harrison how to feed a ball into it. “Okay, now when the ball comes, rotate your hips and swing. Ready?”

He nods, a look of concentration on his face that I find utterly cute. I turn on the machine, and the first pitch whizzes by before he even moves the bat.

“I wasn’t ready!” he pouts.

I chuckle and move back behind him, placing my hands on hiships again. “It’s all about timing. Watch the ball as it comes toward you. Don’t swing too early or too late. There’s a sweet spot right as it crosses the plate.”

I step back and gesture at Harrison to try again. He sets his stance, eyes narrowed in determination as the machine lobs another pitch. This time, he swings, but it’s too late, and the ball thuds against the backdrop.

“Better,” I encourage. “Remember, keep your eye on the ball the whole way through.”

Harrison repositions himself. I feed the next ball into the machine, watching as it arcs toward him. He swings, and with a satisfying crack, the bat connects with the ball, sending it flying.

“I did it!” Harrison exclaims, hopping up and down like an overeager bunny. “Did you see that? I actually hit it!”

His joy is infectious, and I’m unable to hide the huge grin on my face. “That was awesome, Harrison! A few more like that, and you’ll be ready for the major leagues.”

He laughs, his eyes shining with pride and exhilaration. With the late afternoon sun illuminating his figure and a baseball helmet slightly askew on his head, I realize that I’m absolutely smitten with this man.

I walk up to him and adjust his helmet with a fond smile. “Don’t get cocky now. Let’s see if you can do it again.”

“Oh, it’s on,” Harrison says, his competitive side emerging. “Bring it, Hollingsworth.”

We spend the next hour in the batting cages, Harrison’s technique improving with each swing. He misses quite a few, but he never gets discouraged and is always eager for the next pitch.

And me? I’m more than happy to keep feeding balls into the machine, to watch the flex of his muscles as he swings, to hear his whoops of triumph when he makes a solid connection. To see the smile that lights up his face—and my heart.

Chapter 26

The Music of the Night

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