Page 5 of Switch Hitter

He’s patient, dragging it out like he wants me to crack.

“You still mad, O’Malley?” he murmurs, voice slick with amusement.

“Shut up,” I gasp, because my body is already betraying me. “Shut up. Shut up.”

He makes a pleased sound. “Nah.”

Thrusting again, deeper this time, and my whole spine shudders. Emiliano’s mouth brushes my ear, and he splits his words with Spanish like he’s carving them into me.

“Qué bonito,” he murmurs. “So pretty when you’re like this.”

My eyes squeeze shut. My throat tightens.

“Hate me,” he says softly. “Go on. Gimme that mouth.”

My laugh comes out broken. “You want my mouth? You already had it when you struck me out.”

Emiliano’s smile presses against my skin like a brand. “And now I want more. Come on… tell me how much you hate that my big dick makes you feel good. Tell me you don’t look forward to our teams playing against each other.”

He thrusts, and my breath punches out of me. The sound that follows is humiliating.

A moan.

Not my name. Not his. Just the raw truth of my body.

Emiliano catches it like he’s been waiting for it all day.

“Ahí está,” he murmurs. “That’s what I wanted.”

I swallow a curse, jaw trembling.

“You’re—” I choke, trying to find an insult sharp enough to hurt him.

Emiliano doesn’t let me, he laces our fingers tighter and pulls my hands a fraction higher on the fence, making my shoulders open, making me feel even more exposed.

“You feel so good wrapped around me,” he says matter-of-factly, like he’s stating the weather. “You always do.”

My cheeks burn so hot I swear the chain link will brand my face.

“Stop talking,” I grit out between pants.

“No,” he says again, relentless. “I want your sassy fucking mouth moaning my name.”

My heart stutters.

“Not happening,” I snap, fighting to keep my orgasm from coming too soon.

Emiliano laughs. “Liar.”

He moves with intention, his rhythm tightening, control sharpening, and my body starts to unravel. I can’t hold the edge of my pride anymore. I can’t hold the guilt, either. It’s all too much, tangled up with the way he’s holding my hands like I belong to him.

He leans in, his voice turning almost gentle, “Mírame,” he whispers.

I can’t.

My face is against the fence, eyes squeezed shut.

It’s too much.