Page 4 of Switch Hitter

That makes him shift closer, pressing his chest to my back, and I feel him smile.

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe I just wanted to fuck your perfect ass after I made your lineup look stupid.”

“Cocky asshole,” I hiss.

He chuckles. “You love it.”

“I hate you.”

“Say it again,” he murmurs, like he’s collecting my hatred like trophies.

Emiliano’s hands reach around my waist and quickly undo my belt, shoving my pants down just far enough to have access to my ass.

“I hate you,” I repeat, voice shaking, and it makes him inhale like he likes that too.

His hands find mine on the fence.

One of them slides over my fingers, big and warm, and then he laces his fingers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like we’re not enemies and this isn’t a sin.

Like we’re not about to do something I’m going to regret and crave all in the same breath.

The intimacy of it makes my chest seize. I squeeze the fence harder, and Emiliano squeezes back, firm and steady, holding my hands in place like he’s anchoring me.

“Así,” he murmurs in Spanish, voice low and pleased. “Just like that.”

My stomach flips because he praises me in Spanish. He leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear, and his voice turns softer, more dangerous.

“¿Ves?” he whispers. “You can pretend you don’t want me all you want… but your body doesn’t lie, Cobre.”

I swallow hard, trying to keep my mouth from betraying me.

He shifts behind me and I hear him spit. Then his slick fingers press against my hole, slow at first, until my knees almost buckle. Then his fingers are gone, there’s more spit and the head of his thick cock eases in.

“Emiliano,” I grind out, like his name is an accusation.

“Yeah,” he says, smug. “That’s it. Say my name again, pretty boy.”

I bare my teeth at the fence. “No.”

He laughs, warm and satisfied.

“You ran your mouth all game,” he murmurs. “You yelled at me from the outfield like you wanted to fight.”

Thrust.

“I did,” I snap, breath catching as his hips pull back.

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m giving you what you came here for.”

His grip tightens around my fingers, and then he moves, deliberate, unhurried. Like he’s on the mound again, deciding the pace while my body follows whether I like it or not.

I bite down on a sound that tries to escape.

The fence digs into my palms.

The world narrows to pressure, heat and Emiliano behind me, making me feel wanted in the most humiliating, addictive way.