Immoral by Nicole Dykes

“Okay,what the hell was all that about?”

“What do you mean?” Grady is trying to play dumb. I can feel it as he helps me clean up the mess left by all the party guests he invited. But I’m not letting him off the hook.

“You know what I mean, asshole. What the fuck was that?”

He tosses a beer bottle into the trash and plops down on the outdoor sofa by the firepit. “I don’t know.”

I move to sit next to him. “What do you mean you don’t know? The way you questioned Bennett? I mean what the fuck was that? Catcher and pitcher? Seriously?”

I nearly choked when he asked Bennett—my very, very straight teammate—if he was the pitcher to my catcher. Bennett may not have picked up on the double meaning, but I know that’s the way Grady meant it.

Grady, always calm, cool, and collected, looks freaked the fuck out as he runs his fingers through his thick black hair.

“Grady, what’s up?”

His green eyes lock on mine, and I feel a tremor through my body. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I just . . .” He looks away and sighs, “I saw you and Bennett together and how close you two are . . .”

“We’re teammates. And friends.”

“Nothing more?” His eyes meet mine again, and I can see he’s serious.

“No. Jesus.” I stare at him in confusion. “He’s straight.” I grow irrationally irritated with his question. “And married. With a kid on the way.”

He drops his hand from his hair and shrugs. “It’s been known to happen before.”

“Not with me. I don’t fuck around with straight guys.” Not after him for damn sure. “And especially married, straight guys. What kind of person do you think I am?”

“What about Waylon?”

I search his expression. Is he fucking with me? “What about Waylon?”

His shoulder lifts, but he doesn’t pull off the nonchalance. Not at all. “He’s gay.”

“So?”

“So . . .” He’s running his fucking fingers through his hair again, and I don’t like how tense he looks. “Is he your type?” I laugh, the sound escaping and making him scowl at me. “What? He’s gay and good-looking.

“Right. And I only have two requirements. Quit being such an asshole.” I stand up, annoyed with this conversation.

“I’m not being an asshole.” I turn back to look at him, and he looks . . . Confused? Upset? I’m not really sure. But the need to comfort him is there. I don’t think he’s trying to be an asshole. I think he’s trying to figure something out.

“He’s not really my type.”

I sit down next to him again, and he turns to face me. “He’s exactly the same type as the guy you were with. The one that Jenny was all cunty about.”

I lean back against the sofa and groan, “He was cute. And Waylon is too, but that’s not exactly my type, not usually anyway.”

I can feel him studying me intently, and I don’t fucking like it. It makes me feel vulnerable and exposed. Two things I never want to be. “So, what is your type?”

I groan, lifting my hands up to cover my face. I can’t say him. That Grady Bell is my ultimate type. I drop my hands and turn my head to look at him. “I usually like bigger guys.”

“Like chubby? I’ve heard that’s a thing.”

“Oh my God,” I groan again, but it turns into a laugh as I try to be patient with him. “No. Not really. Just, not a hundred pounds soaking wet. I like bigger guys. Strong muscles. Guys who can keep up and who I’m not afraid I’m going to hurt.”

I can’t quite make out the expression on his face right now, and maybe it’s the drinks I had today, but I swear I see a flicker of fire in those eyes. Dangerous fire that has to be my mind playing tricks on me.

“Oh.”

His eyes slowly drag down over my chest and then back up. “So, someone like you?”

Christ.“I don’t know. Not necessarily my size. Just . . .” Do not say his body is fucking perfect. That he’s fucking perfect. “Not small.”

He studies me again, his eyes searching mine. “Do you ever think about that night?”

He’s not doing this right now. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not much. It was mostly fruity drinks anyway, and they’ve worn off. Stop changing the subject and answer the question.”

“What does it matter?” I stand up, angry that he’d do this to me. As if I haven’t been tortured enough.

“It matters.” He stands too, and he’s close, too close. I back up toward the house because my chest is tightening, and I can’t catch my breath.

“It doesn’t. None of it matters.” He stalks me, his lithe body quickly caging me against the side of the house and him. All fucking him.

“It matters. Tell me.”

“No. It doesn’t.” He raises his hands, placing them on either side of my head, surveying my face. “You’re straight.”

“So?”

“So?” The question sounds so fucking ridiculous. “You’re straight. I’m not. I’m a fucking guy, and you’re looking at me like . . . like . . .”

He leans in closer, almost predatorily, and I think my lungs might actually burst from trying to take in air. “Like what?”

My eyes involuntarily dip to his mouth, his full, pink lips. “Like you want another taste.”

A growl erupts from his throat as his hand hooks behind my neck, and he tugs my mouth to his before I have a chance to argue or move away, not that I could if I even fucking tried. As his lips collide with my own, I’m right fucking back there.

To that first and only time we kissed. To that feeling of being whole for the first time in my life.

Of wanting and desire that’s both crippling and breathing the life back into me.

His lips seal against mine as his hand grips the back of my neck, holding me there as he kisses me, exploring. When I feel his tongue run over the seam of my mouth, I open, knowing I shouldn’t let him in but unable to deny him.

His moan hits my ears when I give him access to my mouth, and I groan when his large body presses against mine, his cock hard and grinding against my own solid length. “Grady,” I try, but he ignores me.

His mouth is assaulting mine, and God help me, I love it. I can’t catch my breath, but I don’t want to. My hands move to his hips, and I yank him even closer to me as the kiss intensifies. Then I just lean into it, for once granting myself something I actually want.

Something I’ve wanted for so goddamn long.

His hand moves in my hair and digs in, grabbing hold and tugging my head back to look into my eyes.

I expect shame or regret, but it’s all lust and fire. His hands drop to the hem of my shirt and lift. “This. Off.”

We’re moving way too fast. I should stop this, but I can’t. Because I don’t want to. Instead, I lift my arms and let him remove my shirt, tossing it behind us somewhere. His eyes drift over my torso, taking his time. He’s not rushing anything. It’s slow and methodical, taking in every inch of my skin visible in the full moon and lights from the pool.

“You’re fucking art.” His eyes meet mine, and I realize it’s genuine. Brutal, frank honesty that continues to steal my breath.

“What’s happening here?”

The right side of his mouth pulls up in a sexy, confident grin. “Whatever we want to.”

“You’re . . .” He places a finger on my lips that are slightly swollen and tingling from his kiss and shakes his head.

“Don’t.” He drops his hand to the waist of my jeans and pulls me to him as his mouth meets mine again. “I’m Bell.” He kisses me softly. “You’re Bailey.” His hands thread through my hair, and that’s it.

No more fighting it.

At least for right now. I know this is a stupid mistake. I know, deep down, he’s going to regret this tomorrow, or I will. Either way, it’ll be labeled as an error in judgment, but right now, I can’t bring myself to care.

Not with the way his hips are grinding his cock against mine and how his hands are trailing over my chest, making sure to hit every single dip and groove of muscle.

I reach for his shirt, wanting to feel his skin against mine, and he doesn’t fight me, only grumbling at the loss of contact as I lift his shirt over his head, and then we reconnect. His skin is warm and damp with sweat, like my own, and it feels so goddamn good. A needy groan escapes my mouth, and he swallows it with his own.

We’re desperate for each other. My balls ache with the need to come, and I can’t believe how close I am. I wonder if he’s feeling the same way, and with the way he clings to me, his mouth unwavering, I’d say he is.

God, he feels good.He’s nearly my height, strong and confident as his hands roam over my body. We press together with our tongues exploring every inch of each other’s mouth.

It’s too much. It’s all too damn much. And when his hand moves to the button on my jeans, I finally regain my wits.

“Grady. Don’t.”

“What’s the matter, Ry?” He’s as breathless as I am, his eyes clouded with lust as they meet mine. “Don’t be shy.”

“I’m not fucking shy.” My hand clasps his wrist, and my heart sinks because I don’t know what this is, but I know it’s not real. “But we can’t do this.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach those beautiful eyes of his. It’s nervous and unsure. “But we are.”

I shake my head and push his body backward, releasing his wrist. “We aren’t. We should go to sleep.” I head for the patio door, unable to look at him. “We can finish cleaning up tomorrow.”

“Ry.” I hear his strangled plea, but I ignore it, opening the door and slipping inside my house before I lose control.

I can’t do this.

We cannot do this.