Page 3 of Switch Hitter

“You’re delusional, you know that?”

His breath brushes the back of my neck, and I hate that my body reacts before my brain can catch up.

“I’m really not,” he corrects. “You’re the one who is lying to himself.”

I turn my head just enough to catch him in my periphery.

Emiliano’s cap is backwards, and his expression is calm. Too calm. The same calm he wears on the mound right before he ruins your whole night.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I tell him.

“You say that every time,” he replies, like he’s bored of the script. “And every time you stay.”

My throat tightens. “I’m not staying.”

He makes a quiet sound, half disbelief, half amusement, and then his hand slides to the back of my jersey and grips.

Firm.

Possessive.

My pulse jumps.

He leans in, mouth near my ear.

“Tell me you don’t want this.” Emiliano’s hand tightens on my jersey, knuckles turning white. “Lie to me, Sean.”

His hand stills for half a second, giving me the chance he always gives me. The one I never take.

“I don’t,” I snarl, baring my teeth. “I fucking hate you.”

His smile is absolutely lethal, like he just got exactly what he wanted.

“Bueno.” He nods, like he’s approving my form, shoving me forward; the chain link at the dugout mouth is suddenly cold against my cheek. “Grip it, Cobre. Real good.”

My fingers curl around the fence. The stadium’s empty, lights humming, nothing but our breathing and the distant clatter of someone packing up equipment.

Emiliano presses behind me, crowding my space like he’s daring me to fight. His mouth brushes my ear.

“I wanna hear how much you hate me while I’m fucking you like this.”

Those words hit like a pitch to the ribs, sharp and personal, and my whole body goes traitor-hot. I should fight him. I should spit another insult and storm out and go pray until my knees bruise and my throat goes raw.

Instead, my fingers tighten around the fence and I breathe out like I’m bracing for impact.

He laughs quietly behind me, smug as hell.

“What’s the matter? Still mad about the win?” he murmurs, mouth near my ear.

“Go to hell,” I bite out, but it comes out rougher than I mean it to.

Emiliano hums like I just complimented him.

“I’m already there,” he says, and his hand drags down my side, slowly. “In this dugout. With you.”

My face burns against the chain link. I hate that my pulse trips, that my body leans back into him like it’s been waiting all night.

“Just admit it, you’re obsessed with me,” I spit, because it’s safer than saying please.