The Screw Ball (Indianapolis Lightning Book 3) by Samantha Lind (the lemonade war series .TXT) 📕

I’m sure they’ve already made the rounds on other sites, and come morning, I’m sure I’ll hear all about it from my agent and Carmen, the team’s PR rep, who I’m pretty sure hates my guts.

“You actually stuck around.” A sultry voice pulls me from the distraction on my phone.

“I told you I would, and if I’m anything, it is a man of my word,” I tell her as I reach to the dash and turn the music all the way down. “Get in, and we can get out of here.”

I watch as Candy walks around the front end of my Lexus SUV. A gift to myself when I got called up and my paychecks got a lot bigger. She opens the passenger door and slides in. Her mini skirt slides up her toned and tanned legs, giving me a lot of skin to look at. I’ve seen more while inside the club, but there’s just something about a woman sitting in the passenger seat of a car that has my blood pumping while the rest of my body is ready to go.

“What way?” I ask once Candy is settled in, and I can pull out of my parking space.

“Take a left out of the parking lot, then a right at the second light,” she instructs. I watch her movements out of the corner of my eye. She’s a little fidgety, and I can tell she’s a bit nervous, so I reach over and place my palm on her thigh.

“This okay?” I ask. I’d never push myself on any woman. That’s not who I am.

“Yeah,” she says as I take a right at the second light as she instructed.

“Now what?” I ask once we’ve turned.

“In about a mile, it will be the large complex on your left. Take the first driveway, and then you can park in any of the spots marked with a visitor sign.”

There is hardly any traffic out with the late hour, so we make it to Candy’s place petty fast. Her complex is newer from the looks of it. I easily find a spot to park, and then we’re both scrambling out of the car and up to her apartment door on the second floor.

“Are you going to tell me your real name?” I ask once we’re inside. I lean my back against the closed door as I wait on the answer.

“It’s Deborah,” she says, turning and smiling at me. She instantly lost the heels she wore when we walked in. Without the height they added to her, she’s a tiny thing. One I could break in half, if I’m not careful.

“Deborah.” I let her name roll off my tongue. I can see why she’d pick a stage name like Candy. It actually suits her. “Come here.” I beckon her closer, giving her the universal come here finger.

“Yes,” she coos as she steps into my personal space. Her fingers land on my chest as she slides the tips down my pecs and abs. Even with the layer of fabric from my T-shirt, it feels as if there is nothing between us. I let her explore my body as she wishes. She’s already felt me up most of the night, so she knows what I’m packing. I let her unbuckle my belt before pulling the button at the top of my jeans open and sliding the zipper down. I watch as she sinks to her knees and pulls my cock free from my boxers.

My cock twitches in her hand as I watch her tongue flick across her bottom lip, wetting it before she leans forward and does the same to my tip. I draw in a breath as she wraps those perfectly lush lips around my tip and sucks.

I sink my fingers into her hair, pulling it from her face so it doesn’t get in the way. I let her keep control of the pace and what she wants to do as she sucks me off. I give a few thrusts of my hips, mainly out of complete pleasure. I’ve had more blowjobs than I can count, but I can’t remember one as good as this, ever.

Two

Carmen

“Really, Lucas?” I practically screech across my office. I take in the cocky new outfielder the Lightning called up a couple weeks ago. He’s been nothing but a pain in my ass since the moment he arrived. His devilish good looks go hand-in-hand with his playboy personality. “You really thought a night at the strip club was a good idea? Do you know what kind of PR nightmare it creates? Please tell me you didn’t actually take the stripper home with you?” I ask, my voice full of disgust.

“For your information,” the playboy smirk he’s known for—and that apparently makes women’s panties just fall at his feet—tugs at his lips. “I didn’t take her home; I never take women home.” He flashes me his full smile.

“That’s a plus,” I say under my breath.

“She took me home,” he follows up, and I can feel my blood pressure rise.

“Fuck!” I growl.

“Feisty, feisty, Red,” he smirks again, “just the way I like it.”

I turn, placing my fists on my desk as I lean forward. I realize a moment too late that this causes my blouse to hang down, giving him the perfect view right down my top and at my breasts. I can tell by the smirk on his lips that he got an eyeful of my goods, and it pisses me off even more. I stand back up, adjusting my top to take away any possible view of my rack. I suck in a few deep breaths while counting to ten in my head, willing myself to calm down so I can deal with him before I kick him out of my office. “Please do not make assumptions about me, especially anything like that,” I sneer.

His eyes rake up and down my body, and I have to will myself from reacting. I absolutely hate men like him. Men who think they