Double Contact Read online

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  Warning: Please note this novel contains explicit sexual content and crude language and is intended for mature audiences. Parental/reader discretion is advised.

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  Cover designed by Letitia Hasser

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  Editing provided by Missy Borucki

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  Proofreading provided by K Donald

  Publication Date: November 25, 2020

  Double Contact

  Copyright ©Christy Pastore 2020

  All rights reserved

  FROM THE DESK OF AUTHOR CHRISTY PASTORE

  Lark and Brenner's story first appeared in the limited release anthology Playing To Win. This novella has been revised with additional chapters.

  Double Contact is a quick, fun, sexy romp with a hunky baseball player and a gorgeous beach volleyball player you’ll love. If you’re fan of steamy encounters and witty banter tossed in with some LOL moments . . . this short story is for YOU!

  Check out the Spotify playlist for Double Contact, it’s a great mix of country and songs from the sixties to give you all the Southern California vibes you need.

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  PROLOGUE

  Lark

  Back then

  My eyes crack open, and I stare at the ceiling fan.

  Round and round it goes.

  A low growl rumbles next to me as a large hand palms my breast. His touch is rough. Zero finesse.

  But beggars can’t be choosers when it comes to three a.m. hookups. Mine happens to be an all-star athlete.

  Alec Norris. Age twenty-three. Third baseman. Drafted third overall by the Stingers in the first round.

  His thumb flicks back and forth over my nipple. “Babe, how about a blowjob?”

  I’m exhausted, and he wants me to do more work? I’m only two years older than him. I should be ready for another go around.

  I’ve slept with Alec steadily for two seasons. He is superstitious, but I can entertain his superstitious nature. It’s nice having a regular hookup without the pressures of commitment. Neither one of us has expectations about the future.

  My teammate, Jessa, doesn’t understand our arrangement. She tells me if I don’t love him, I should move on.

  Love isn’t in my vocabulary. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’ve reserved my significant commitments to baked goods, top-shelf booze, and good times. Alec’s a good time, and with our demanding schedules, our arrangement works.

  We’re at his place because we met up after midnight. If it were before midnight, I’d be in my own bed. This all started when I slept with Alec the night before the team’s three-game home opener against the River Bandits.

  They won. And he had one of the best games of his professional career.

  We’d slept together again that night.

  The next game, you guessed it—they won.

  We slept together after the second win.

  But then, they lost the third home game.

  Alec had the brilliant theory, the reason for the loss and his poor performance was because we had sex before midnight.

  Next, it was on to Chicago to face the Cannons. We slept together . . . after midnight . . . at his place. They won all three games.

  A year later, we are having sex at his place because they’ve got a three-game series against the Rapid City Buffaloes here in LA. When a series starts on a Saturday, he’s more likely to win if I sleep with him at his place and give him a morning blowy.

  Some might think I’m a dumb girl who’s being conned by a professional jock. Not true. Alec has documented the stats, and it turns out the calculations are so spot on it’s scary.

  Thus, why I’m here entertaining his superstitious nature. Despite the scary certainty of his calculations, I think it’s bullshit. He’s in his head, and if he’d just toss the fantasies out, he’d still be a great baseball player.

  His lips ghost over my neck as he grinds his cock against my thigh. “Suck me off.”

  Think. Think. Think.

  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy giving a good blowjob, but my mouth feels like cotton and I have a big day myself. Jessa and I have a charity beach volleyball match today.

  His touch softens. “I’m so hard for you.” Alec continues to caress my breast and kiss his way up my neck. “Suck my cock, babe. Please.”

  As I run through the catalog of superstition, I can’t think of a single reason not to fulfill his request. I arch up and settle on my knees. He slides the comforter down, revealing his suitable length.

  My hands grip his cock, and I give him a few strokes. He moans in pleasure when I settle my mouth over the tip.

  The alarm blasts and the announcer chirps out the daily forecast. “It’s seven a.m., and it will be another gorgeous day in sunny Los Angeles—we’ll reach a high of seventy-four degrees. Humidity will be seventy-four percent and zero chance of rain.”

  “Shit,” he hisses out just as I lick him slowly. “No . . . don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Humidity and the temperature are the same, that means I’ll bat below average if you blow me.”

  And there’s my cue to leave.

  “Sorry, babe,” he offers and pats my head like I’m his favorite lap dog.

  I hop off the bed and scoop up my dress from the floor. Dizziness takes hold, and my hand reaches for the dresser to steady myself. I had a bra . . . there it is on the chair. My gaze swings back to the bed, and I smile at Alec.

  “You don’t have to apologize to me. I get it, remember.”

  And even though I understood, this morning feels different. The whole situation feels miserable.

  Blowing out a slow puff of air, I shimmy the sundress up my legs. “Can you give me a ride to my car?”

  “No can do. I’ve gotta get another hour of sleep before I head to the stadium to work out.”

  You had time for a blowjob, but you can’t give me a lift?

  Plastering a fake smile on my lips, I
slip on my Sperry sneakers. “No worries. It’s only a few blocks. Bye.”

  I don’t wait for Alec to speak. Rage settles in my stomach as I hit the last step of his Hermosa Beach bungalow.

  I didn’t get a look at myself in the mirror before I walked out. Shit. I must look very walk-of-shame-y.

  My phone buzzes with a text. I glance at the screen.

  Alec: Don’t forget to wear your blue shirt with my number on it. Don’t wear the white one.

  I roll my eyes and shoot him back a thumbs-up emoji.

  As I tuck my cellphone inside my purse, I peek over my shoulder to find a herd of people running toward me.

  Awesome. The charity run is this morning. I totally spaced it. Not that I was going to run in the race anyway.

  Holy . . . no . . . no.

  Someone will recognize me from last night’s event. I’m wearing the same damn outfit.

  Think. Think. Think.

  My heart hammers in my chest, but I’m frozen to my spot.

  Move feet.

  “Lookin’ good this morning, Lark,” a voice from the crowd whistles out. “Norris and you still hot and heavy?”

  Oh. My. Gawd.

  When the crowd passes by, my eyes connect with Wolfe Hastings . . . arrogant bastard. And one of the best beach volleyball players in the world. And he will defend his gold medal in the Olympics this summer.

  “Oh, hey, yeah, I’m just getting ready to run myself.”

  “Right, you look like you’re dressed for it.”

  Cackles of laughter filter over the male-dominated crowd, and my stomach lurches. Embarrassment and last night’s bottle of vodka dance up my esophagus.

  Gulping in a deep breath, I brush off his comments and walk toward the alley. Lightheadedness rings in my skull and out of my ears. I should’ve snagged a bottle of water from Alec’s fridge. I steady myself and shake off the noticeable dehydration.

  When I make my way to the next block, my feet fail me, and I miss the curb. My arms shoot out as my body plunges toward the earth.

  Strong arms catch me before I collide face-first into the cement.

  “Not on my watch,” a deep husky voice lashes over me.

  Twisting around, I look up to see deep chocolate eyes swimming with amusement peering down at me.

  Brenner Manning.

  He’s Alec’s teammate and the best shortstop in the league. He’s the real star of the Stingers.

  “You okay, Lark?”

  Shaking out the cobwebs, I smooth my palms down my dress. “Yeah, I think so. Thanks.” My legs wobble as he lets go of the hold he has on me.

  “You sure? You seem a little unsteady.” Brenner’s arms cross over his broad chest. His muscles bulge under the fabric of his black T-shirt. Damn, he’s good looking.

  Chiseled jaw, inky hair that falls perfectly above his thick dark brows, and I can’t even with his gorgeous lips. All six feet of him is insanely beautiful. He unconsciously flexes, and I stare at the veins and muscles running along his forearms.

  “I’ll be fine. I just need some water.” I use my fingers to comb out my messy tangles.

  He juts his chin. “I was just headed to the café up the block. You wanna come along?”

  Curiosity gnaws at my brain. My mind says no, but my mouth has the opposite plan. “Sure.”

  We trek along the sidewalk, and heat rushes down my spine like lava. Am I having a stroke? Heatstroke. It’s not even that hot out this morning. Drinking that much vodka wasn’t a good idea.

  Brenner opens the door to the café, and the smell of coffee and bacon swirls up my nose.

  “Brenner Manning, one of my favorite customers,” a woman calls out. Wiping her hands on a red towel, she rounds the long counter and greets Brenner with a warm hug.

  She steps back to look at me. “And who is this young lady?” A twinkle sparks in her blue eyes, as she continues her inspection.

  “This is Lark Saddler. She’s a beach volleyball player and a rising star.”

  What the . . . he’s watched me play?

  The white-hot lava twirling up my spine dips like a rollercoaster into my chest.

  “This is my—”

  “I’m Monika. Welcome to my place.”

  “Nice to meet you, Monika.”

  “You too, dear. Now, come sit.” She gestures to a booth in the corner. “I’ll bring the menus and coffee for you, Brenner. Lark, what can I get you?”

  Brenner’s hand lands on the small of my back, propelling me forward. His hands on me make me feel more than I ever have when I’m with Alec. I feel more alive when I play volleyball than I do when Alec kisses me. Sad, really.

  “I’ll take water for now.”

  Monika smiles. “Sure thing.”

  I scan the barely packed diner. No one seems to care that a celebrity sits among the crowd. Maybe they don’t watch baseball.

  Monika rushes back with our drinks and places two menus in front of us. The chime above the door rings, and a large group of men walk inside.

  Guzzling down half my glass of water, I read the menu.

  “Thirsty, huh?” Brenner pins me with those brown eyes and gives me a wolfish grin.

  “I think I had a little too much vodka last night,” I confess.

  He taps his finger to the side of his mug. “Happens to the best of us.”

  I grimace. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “So, Alec,” he drawls out.

  “Huh?”

  “The entire team knows his rituals and superstitions . . . you’re his pre-game ritual.”

  My cheeks flame with heat. “Maybe he’s my pre-game ritual. Did you ever think of that?”

  He laughs and shoves a hand through his dark hair. “Hmm. And what’s that ritual done for your game?”

  Before I can answer Brenner, Monika returns to take our order. He orders an omelet with white cheddar, avocados, sour cream, and jalapenos. I opt for a stack of pancakes and fresh fruit. The pancakes will soak up the alcohol, and the fruit will be good for hydration.

  “So, tell me about the ritual?”

  “Alec’s a decent lay.”

  Cocking a brow, he leans closer to say, “And you’re okay with decent?”

  “It’s better than not decent.”

  A loud laugh explodes from his mouth as Brenner sits back into the booth. “When you’re ready for something more than decent, Lark, you let me know.”

  Bam!

  All my nerve endings light up and I don’t know which feeling is more powerful—shock or excitement.

  There’s no point in denying the thought turns me on—more than it should.

  But there are rumors about Brenner Manning. He excels at many things. Playing baseball is just the tip. He scores as much off the field as he does on it.

  Bad boy. Player. Adrenaline junkie.

  His name literally means: to burn.

  This offer of his is tempting. But I’m with Alec. Besides, I was under the assumption that he’s dating Claire Delano. She’s a fashion model and just landed a major campaign with Max Moss.

  Gotta shut this down.

  “Wow, that’s forward. Not to mention, Alec’s your teammate. Don’t you have a bro code or a rule about hitting on your teammate’s . . . girlfriend?”

  Brenner smirks. “Bro code, please. I don’t define myself as being a bro. So, no, I don’t follow the code. But I’ll be a gentleman.”

  The intensity of his voice sends a swell of lust through my veins. My mouth goes as dry as the sand that blankets the coast.

  Our food arrives, and I quickly dive into my pancakes. He sips his coffee and stares at me.

  “What?” I finally blurt out and shake my head.

  He runs his hand along his chin. “It’s just . . . you remind me of someone.”

  “What? Who?”

  He holds his gaze on me. “Me. You remind me of me.”

  The words hang in the air, the tension crackles between us.

  “I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”
r />   “I’ve watched you play. You’re good. Great, as a matter of fact. You fight like hell out there. The passion. The concentration. We’re similar in that regard.”

  The words echo with sincerity. I’ve watched this man play the game of baseball since he started his career. He’s a beast of an athlete, and he sees a similarity in my game?

  This is Brenner Manning—All-Star player and AL Rookie of the Year. He’s one of a handful of players in Major League history to hit two grand slams in a single game.

  No freaking way, I’m on the same talent level.

  Maybe?

  “Why aren’t you trying for the Olympics this year?”

  I lift a shoulder. “My partner doesn’t think we’ll qualify.”

  “Get a new partner. You’re too talented not to strive for more.” He takes a bite of his omelet, and I consider his words as I watch the tines of the fork pass between his lips.

  Typically, I find it grating when someone tries to offer me unsolicited advice, but with Brenner, it’s different.

  For the last three years on the AVP tour, we hadn’t finished the season in the top fifteen, ever. Considering I won defensive player of the year for the last three years, it makes zero sense.

  Is he right?

  “Don’t you want more?”

  My fork cuts into the pancake, and I watch the butter slide onto the plate. Olympics? I guess I never thought about going to that level. Never thought we could beat the powerhouse teams. But maybe we can.

  As far as my professional career, I’d been happy winning a tournament here and there. The money’s great, but I really didn’t need it thanks to my inheritance from my grandparents.

  So, I haven’t pushed myself because I don’t need to?

  I don’t lack motivation. Do I?

  “Hey”—he places his large hand over mine—“if you want to be the best. Go watch the best. Learn. Practice. And then take it all.”

  Brenner’s head tilts to the side for a beat too long, his gaze rests on me more tenderly than I expected. What is he doing to me?

  He finishes his breakfast and wipes his mouth on the napkin. “I’ve gotta hit the gym. But this was nice.”