The Sweetest Game (The Perfect Game #3)

The Sweetest Game (The Perfect Game #3) Page 6

Her face turned and I pressed my lips against hers before she could respond. Her lips parted slightly as she gave a little gasp that sent a message straight to my groin, so I sucked on her bottom lip lightly, then swept my tongue across it before sliding it into her mouth. The throbbing of my dick replaced the throbbing in my hand as I realized I had the cure to any broken bones right here in this car with me.

My hot-as-hell wife.

Matteo cleared his throat. “Uh. We’re here, horny teenagers.”

Cassie squeaked and I laughed as we pulled out of our kiss. “Thanks, cock-block.” I eyed him before opening the car door. “I’ll call you when I know my schedule for the next couple of weeks, okay?”

He nodded. “Sounds good.”

We walked into our apartment building and straight onto the waiting elevator. The doors closed and I pinned Cassie against the wall.

“Jack, what are—”

“Be quiet,” I demanded before quieting her with my mouth. I nipped at her lips before exploring her neck. My unbroken hand followed the curves of her waist, down her hips, before cupping her ass. I squeezed, causing her to whimper, and my dick felt like it might explode right there. I needed to be in her. And I needed it now.

The ding of the elevator arriving on our floor interrupted the sexual assault I was launching on Cassie’s irresistible mouth. I moved to grab her with my broken hand and quickly switched arms. Reaching for her, I pulled a little too aggressively toward me and she yanked her hand from mine.

I didn’t apologize. Instead I fumbled with the keys, constantly reminding myself to do everything with the opposite hand. You never realize how much you take for granted until you’re forced to. My left hand had always been great, completely reliable, my go-to hand … until it broke and stopped working. Now I had to remember to perform even the most mundane of tasks with the hand that felt the most foreign to me.

Fighting off the frustration that seemed to be making itself at home, I needed to do something that made me feel like a man. Finally managing to get the front door open, I moved to grab Cassie, but she pressed her hands against my chest to stop me.

“Jack? Aren’t we going to talk about this?”

“Talk about what?”

“Your hand? What you’re thinking?”

I huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, Kitten. We’ll talk. After you give me what I want, I’ll give you what you want.”

I needed to fuck my wife. I needed to own her, take her, show her I was still the man in this relationship, even if I wasn’t the man on the field. Her eyes narrowed as her lips twisted into a snarl. My girl was itching for a fight, and I wanted to suck that expression right off her face.

“That’s not how it works, jackass,” she snapped, and I immediately puffed out my chest.

“Don’t play tough with me. You know you want some of this.” I ran my hand down the length of my body and she chuckled. “So now my body’s funny to you? I’ll show you funny.”

I stormed into the living room before stopping at one of the many mason jars filled with quarters around our house. Remembering the quarters I’d saved for our first date after Cassie told me it cost me fifty cents every time I touched her, I smiled to myself. She had tried to be so sassy, but I saw her defenses weaken when I poured the bag of quarters all over the table at the diner where we were having dinner. Holding two coins between my unbroken fingers, I walked back to where Cassie stood. She hadn’t moved. Not a muscle. She wanted this as much as I did, no matter how much she pretended she didn’t.

“Open your hands.” She eyed me, but refused to move. “I said, open your hands, Kitten.”

She slowly cupped her hands in front of her body, and I dropped the fifty cents into her palms.

“Now, get in the bedroom.”

Being Hurt Doesn’t Work For Us

Ever since we left the field, Jack had been a roller coaster of emotions, taking me on a violently jerky ride. One minute he was sweet and attentive, and rude and nasty the next. Unsure of which Jack I might get, I stayed quiet in our bed in the aftermath of having sex, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened between us.

Jack had always dominated in the bedroom, but this was something else entirely. He bossed me around, making demands he’d never once said out loud before. He pushed and pulled at my body like he owned it, and I had no choice but to comply. Maybe under different circumstances I might have been turned on by his aggression, but not like this. Not after my husband just broke his pitching hand and potentially ended his career. He wasn’t in his right mind and his performance in the bedroom only proved it.

I’d never in a thousand years tell him that the thought of his career being over crossed my mind, but it did. Of course it did. I wasn’t an idiot. Multiple fractures would eventually heal, but there could be complications. Everyone knew that. Jack needed his hand to work on the ball field. His fingers were required to grip and maneuver across the seams of the baseball for different pitches. If his grip loosened, his pitches wouldn’t be the same. And the idea of Jack without baseball scared the hell out of me.

I knew he avoided talking about his injury for this very reason. I wasn’t the only one scared, but at least I admitted it. Glancing over at his sweaty body, the lines of his chest rising and falling with each breath, I longed to make his pain and hurt go away. He was quieter than he’d ever been before, and I realized how deep in his own head he must be.

Although I was the queen of building emotional walls, Jack could do a pretty good job too if he wanted. The memory of how I’d behaved earlier in our relationship flooded through me. All the times I kept my feelings to myself, refusing to burden him with any of my personal drama. The only problem was that not talking to Jack about it forced me into personal overload, where the only solution I saw was to run away. Holding feelings in hadn’t worked then, and it wouldn’t work now. Desperate to keep the lines of communication open between us, I touched his chest lightly. “Jack?” I whispered, still reeling from the sex we’d just experienced.

He rolled over to face me. “Yep?” His tone sounded annoyed again.

“I just wanted to talk about how you’re feeling, what you’re thinking, something?”

He growled. “Cassie, can we not do this tonight, please? Can’t you just give me one fucking night to process everything before you make me spill my guts like a fucking chick?”

I fought against the tears threatening to spill over and rolled away from his glare. “But you said we could talk after.”

“Yeah? Well, I fucking lied. Just go to sleep.”

Suddenly I felt very small. I definitely wasn’t used to this Jack and I most certainly didn’t like it. He had never acted so callous when it came to talking to me before. He seemed so uncaring, so cold. My brain knew it was all a front, but my heart couldn’t take the pain. Being treated like this by Jack, of all people, hurt more than words. We were married now. Didn’t he feel differently about us? I certainly did. Or I had up until about five minutes ago.

Wiping the tears I couldn’t stop from falling, I silently made a deal with myself to give him time to process and deal with what happened tonight, but after that he needed to get his act together. I wouldn’t put up with this attitude forever, and I’d make that abundantly clear if necessary.

I woke up the following morning to the light streaming through the windows where I forgot to close the curtains the night before. It was stupid the things you forgot to do when you were otherwise occupied with situations you weren’t expecting. Sucking in a small breath, I glanced at Jack, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully on his back, his cast-covered arm resting across his bare chest.

Pushing myself up from the mattress, I walked quietly toward the bathroom to get ready for work.

“Cassie, can you close the fucking curtains?” Jack’s sharp voice cut through me.

Apparently a good night’s sleep had done nothing for his attitude. Honest to God, no matter how beautiful I thought this man was, there was no way I would deal with this craptitude for very long. He was testing my patience, and that was something I had in short supply anyway. Fighting the urge to snap back at him, call him names, or stand up for myself, I merely did as he requested before walking into the bathroom and closing the door behind me. I stared at my reflection for a good five minutes before I attempted to do a single thing to my hair or face.

He’ll get past this.

He has to.

Right?

Sucking in a long, deep breath, I closed my eyes and willed myself to be strong. With a firm nod to the only person in the room, I reached for my makeup bag and tossed the contents onto the counter before putting my face on.

When I arrived home from work that evening, Jack wasn’t there. I had completely forgotten that the Mets had one last home game before they headed out on the road for ten days. Jack didn’t mention anything about attending the game, but I knew he was required to be there. I clicked our television on just to make sure. No sooner had the picture cleared when I heard the announcer talking about Jack’s “busted hand” and his face appeared across my high-definition screen. He looked miserable.

By the time Jack got home, I could barely keep my eyes open. When I heard the front door open, I pretended to need a glass of water from the kitchen.

“How was the game?” I asked, trying to sound cheerful and supportive. Jack didn’t answer my question. He barely gave me a passing glance before moving around me and into our bedroom.

His silence stunned me.

I stood alone in the kitchen, my bare feet pressing against the cold tile flooring as I clutched at my chest. As soon as the stunned feeling arose, it disappeared. Anger replaced it and I shouted from where I stood, “You gonna pretend like you didn’t hear me?” I waited for a response before shouting again, “Are you seriously not talking to me?”

Silence.

I wasn’t sure what was worse, the silent treatment or the asshole one. At least when he was being an asshole, he was talking. Not that it was pleasant.

The silent treatment went on for two more days.

Two. More. Days.

When you’re living in that sort of hell, two days might as well be years. It felt like a fucking lifetime because I was so goddamned miserable. It affected everything in my life from the second my eyes opened, to the moment my mind finally allowed me to sleep at night. I was consumed by Jack’s behavior and the fact that I couldn’t get through to him.

I stared at the telephone on my desk and stopped myself from calling to check on Jack at least ten times. Part of me couldn’t handle the idea that he’d send my call to voice mail without a second thought. I glanced at my engagement ring and wedding band, suddenly nervous that what we’d just shared with our family and friends felt threatened. Certainly we’d been through tougher relationship challenges than this?

Hadn’t we?

I hated the thoughts spinning in my mind, but what if Jack’s baseball career were over? Was this how my husband was going to act from here on out, snappy and pissed off all the time? I knew I wouldn’t be able to deal with it forever, no matter how much I loved him. I wanted my husband back.