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Mike’s last game as professional MLB player takes place on the first of October, a tidy, subdued win against Arizona that sends the Padres into the offseason with an uninspiring 71 game record. Ginny doesn’t care. She doesn’t care when there’s no champagne, and she doesn’t care at the presser afterwards when they ask her how it feels to have fallen from World Series champs to second-last in the NL West. She doesn’t even care at the party that night, when Al gives a sappy toast and the guys all keep looking at Mike like he’s an old rabid dog about to be taken out around the back of the barn and shot. She doesn’t care.
“I got my ring,” Mike keeps telling everyone, pressed against her side in the booth. “That’s what matters, right?” His thigh is very warm against hers. Ginny orders three successive gin and tonics and only drinks half of each, putting them down on the table or the bar and promptly forgetting she ever had them at all. Blip asks her twice if she wants some water.
He thinks she’s sad, Ginny realizes, and has to swallow down a truly hysterical shiver of laughter. “Yeah,” she shouts over the music. “Sure.” Next to her, Mike shifts in his seat. He’s wearing jeans and a soft-looking flannel, arm slung across the back of the booth as he listens to one of this year’s rookies wax poetic about everything Mike’s taught him. Ginny wants to jump right out of her skin.
Mike must be able to tell. “How you doing, Baker?” he asks quietly, rubbing a speculative hand through his beard. Maybe I’ll shave it all off once I’m retired, he said last week, peering into the mirror in the locker room.
Nope, Ginny said immediately, quiet enough so only he could hear her. She watched his eyes turn a full shade darker before he walked away.
“Good,” she says now, swallowing down the flock of hummingbirds beating their furious wings inside her chest. He smells like beer and like soap and like skin. “I’mma get another round,” she announces, because if she sits here for one more second she is going to flat out tell him to call an Uber. “Anybody want anything?”
She makes her way across the bar, stopping for one song with Sanchez out on the dance floor. She can feel Mike clocking her movements from clear across the room. She dances dirtier than she might have otherwise, body rolls and her hands fisted in her own hair, then signals the bartender for a fourth gin and tonic and crunches her way through every single ice cube in the glass. She's perched on the barstool by herself when Blip finds her.
“You okay?” he asks, climbing up next to her and handing her a water. “You hanging in?”
Ginny smiles and hopes she isn’t showing too many teeth. “Uh-huh,” she says, chomping down.
Blip sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “At least we had a year’s notice,” he says, and yep, they sure did. Ginny thinks of the playoff hunt last year, when Mike announced his retirement during the Division Series and she didn't speak to him for two weeks straight, hurt and confused and stupidly, helplessly furious. Stop it, he told her finally after they won the NLCS. I mean it, Baker, this might be my last— He didn't finish. Ginny immediately fell all over herself apologizing.
Then they won the World Series in six glorious games against the Indians and afterwards Mike turned to her in a haze of beer and champagne and said, What if I just retired now? Ginny stared at him for a full minute before realizing the expression on his face wasn’t strictly sadness.
Mike stared back. She leaned in.
A whole year later and Ginny can still feel the shove of his thigh between her legs in the tiny club bathroom, her arms pinned tight against the door above her head. Her entire mouth was swollen for days afterwards, her neck raw and sensitive where his beard had scraped against it.
We can’t, she’d finally muttered, pulling back and thunking her head on the doorjamb, the hard outline of his cock pressed against her hipbone and the cups of her bra pulled down underneath her shirt. Both of them were still fully clothed. Not until—
“Well hell,” Blip crows now, reaching out to slap Mike on the back as he joins them at the bar. “There’s the man of the hour.”
“So they tell me,” Mike says, setting an empty beer bottle on the granite next to Ginny. He’s been drinking his drinks for real. “Getting to be about that time though, I think.”
Ginny’s stomach flips. “Oh yeah?” she asks, picking up her iceless glass and trying to keep her voice casual. When she went to the bathroom earlier her damn bottoms were wet all the way through. “Running out of your own party, Cinderella?”
For a moment, Mike just looks at her. Ginny wonders, with a shivery little thunk in the pit of her stomach, if he's drunk enough to say something in front of Blip. “Sure am, Baker,” he tells her finally. “Now listen up.” He reaches out and curls a hand around the back of both of their necks, squeezing tight and friendly like they’re out on the field. “Padres forty-three, Padres seventeen, it has been an honor carrying your sorry asses to greatness, but you're just gonna have to do it yourselves from now on.”
“Fuck you,” Blip says, shrugging off Mike’s hand, but he sounds choked. Mike turns to look at Ginny, his palm warm and huge at the base of her scalp. Ginny swallows.
“Well. It's been an honor anyway,” he says softly, then squeezes one last time before walking away to say his goodbyes to Al and Buck. Ginny sucks in a huge gulp of air through her teeth. It feels like a bell is ringing all through her body, chiming something deeper and more complicated than lust.
“Fuck, Ginny, I said I wasn't gonna cry,” Blip says, and Ginny laughs, hugging him.
She watches Mike circle the room, not sure what she's supposed to do. They have talked about this exactly zero times. She quietly stopped dating after the World Series and she thinks he did too, but other than that there have been no promises exchanged. Suddenly she wishes they’d taken the time to make some.
Finally she notices that Mike’s paused his circuit by the EXIT sign, just standing there by himself without a drink in his hand. He’s watching her. Ginny glances around for witnesses, then she goes to him.
“You say bye to everyone?” she asks when she gets there, wiping her sweaty hands on her jeans. Mike shakes his head.
“Nope.”
Ginny swallows. “You gonna?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.” Ginny looks around at the bar, wishing she’d had about three more drinks. “Should I? Say bye?”
“Baker,” Mike says quietly. Then he takes her wrist and pulls her out the door.
They don't kiss in the Uber.
Ginny doesn’t realizes she’s expecting it until it doesn’t happen, Mike keying his address into the app and looking at her for a moment before glancing away, tipping his head back against the seat and stretching his legs out. Ginny licks her lips. She doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything. It occurs to her to wonder if possibly she’s miscalculated the last eleven months of her life.
It seems to take forever to get back to La Jolla, palm trees and streetlights whizzing by outside the window and her own heartbeat thudding in her ears. Neither one of them says a single word. She follows him up the front walk and waits with her hands shoved in her back pockets while he punches the code into the lock, both of them a little unsteady on their feet. It feels like the whole world is asleep.
“You want a drink?” Mike asks her once they’re inside, flicking the lights on over the kitchen island. Ginny looks around. She came over here exactly once after the Series last year, ostensibly for takeout and off-season strategy talk, both of them trying to prove that things could go back to normal between them. She wound up bailing out after less than an hour, getting herself off in the living room of her new apartment as soon as she walked in the door.
Now she takes a deep breath, shakes her head at him across the kitchen. “Not particularly,” she says.
Mike laughs then, warm and low and a little sheepish. “Fuck it, this is ridiculous,” he says, holding out a hand. “Get over here.”
Ginny gets.
He kisses her before she's even stopped moving, their tongues sliding together messily, beer and gin and spit; Ginny makes a fist in his shirt so she doesn't fall down. “Fuck,” Mike repeats, pulling away and letting his mouth skitter over her cheekbone. “I have no idea why I’m so nervous.”
Ginny wants to tell him she's nervous too but suddenly their hips are pressed together and she gasps instead, her entire lower body feeling like it's about to go up in flames. Mike’s eyes darken.
“Baker,” he tells her, and then they're on each other, Mike’s fingers squeezing her thighs and Ginny hitching up a leg like she’s trying to climb him. He rubs her through her jeans from behind, his hand covering her from clit to ass, and Ginny hums helplessly, jerking against him.
“Bed,” she begs, but they barely even make it there, unable to pull themselves apart on the stairs or in the hallway or anywhere, kissing hot and wet and filthy. She wants to touch him everywhere at once. When they get to the bedroom door Mike grabs her underneath the ass and lifts her, tossing her right onto the mattress. Ginny barely resists the urge to whimper. “Watch your back,” she warns as he climbs on after her, shoes hitting the floor with two audible thumps.
“Fuck my back,” Mike says immediately, crawling up her body and biting at her breasts through her T-shirt. “I’m retired.”
Ginny starts to laugh but gets cut off when he kisses her again, sucking at her bottom lip hard enough to bruise. “Take your clothes off,” she mutters into his mouth. She wants to help but her clumsy fingers make slow work of the buttons on his flannel, alcohol or nerves or both. Finally Mike reaches behind him and pulls it up over his head in one quick movement, taking his undershirt along.
“You too,” he says, sounding pleasantly breathless. “Jesus Christ, Ginny.”
Ginny yanks her own t-shirt off almost as an afterthought, tossing it on the mattress before reaching out to run eager hands over the hard drum of his stomach, then up across the bunched muscle in his chest. She hasn't looked directly at him in the locker room in months. “Fuck,” she says in blatant admiration, forgetting to be shy about it, and Mike stares at her in shock.
“Really?” he asks, like he can't help himself, and Ginny nods furiously because yes, yep, and he hasn't even taken his fucking pants off yet.
“What, like you're surprised?” she asks, touching him anywhere she can reach, shoulders and arms and neck and stomach. Fuck, she wants to do everything. “Did you think I only liked you for your personality?”
Mike laughs roughly against her temple. “Thought maybe you preferred the younger model,” he murmurs, then yanks her bra cups down and bites hard at a nipple. Ginny arches so sharply her back comes off the bed.
“Thought wrong,” she pants, clutching at his head. He looks up at her then, hazel eyes wide and dark and holy shit, okay. Ginny flips them, shoving him onto his back and reaching for his belt, ignoring the fact that her boobs are bobbing obscenely in the chilly air. He’s flushed all the way down his chest and Ginny just wants to bite him, she wants to leave marks on him everywhere, she cannot believe they waited a whole stupid year.
“You're beautiful,” Mike tells her as she yanks his fly down. “You’re just—shit, Ginny, look at you.”
“I know what I look like,” Ginny mutters, shoving his jeans and boxers over his hips and getting her fist around his cock, squeezing roughly. Fuck, he's bigger than she thought. It flusters her for a second, then he thrusts up into her hand and she grins. “You like that?” she asks him quietly, swiping her thumb over the liquid at the tip, the feel of him hot and slippery against her palm as she jacks him a little. “Lawson. Tell me.”
Mike groans. “Jesus fuck, Ginny,” he says, voice lower than she’s ever heard it. “Yes.”
Ginny hums at him, pleased. It makes her feel weirdly powerful, to be able to get to him like this. She lets go of him long enough to snap the elastic off her wrist and scoop her hair into a messy bun, then ducks her head and licks him from base to tip.
MIke swears again, louder this time. “Gin—” he starts, then breaks off with a growl as she tries sucking gently. She’s only ever done this to a few other guys. He tastes warm and salty and a little like sweat, but not in a bad way. He tastes kind of the same as he looks.
“Okay,” Mike says raggedly, reaching down and cupping her cheek. Ginny turns her head to nip at his hand. “Okay, Baker, hey.”
“Hey is for horses,” Ginny tells him. She likes him here, she likes his thighs and his belly and his taste. She really likes his dumb cock. He's flushed a deep, ruddy pink that makes her think of the inside of a shell.
“Gin-ny.” He rubs at the hinge of her jaw, his hips flexing gently underneath her. Ginny opens her mouth wider instinctively, even though he’s nowhere near that deep. “Oh, fuck, you gotta stop.”
Ginny doesn't want to stop. She shakes her head with him still inside her mouth, laving at the underside with her tongue. Then she reaches for his balls.
“Fuck,” Mike says again, and a second later the first spurt is hitting the back of her throat, and oh. Oh. Ginny freezes for a moment then sucks harder, wanting to be with him as much as she can, wanting to make it good. Her face is suddenly very warm.
“So, you weren't kidding,” she says after it's over, resting her forehead against his hip. Mike groans.
“No, Ginny, I wasn't kidding.” He reaches for her, hauling her up with two hands under her arms. “Jesus. Sorry I—” He touches her mouth.
“Yeah.” It tastes not great, actually. When he goes to kiss her, she ducks. “Sorry, um.” She feels squeamish about it all of a sudden, even though it's his own damn mess. She wants to brush her teeth.
“Do you want a glass of water?” Mike asks quietly, rubbing at her sticky chin. Ginny nods.
“Okay. Hang on.” He touches her hair before sliding out of bed and padding toward the doorway, knees cracking loudly. Ginny slips under the covers once he’s gone. It’s not that she didn’t like it—shit, the opposite actually. But she feels suddenly, enormously shy.
“Here,” Mike says a moment later, coming back into the room and handing her a water bottle. “Can I kiss you now?” he asks when she’s gulped half.
“I—yeah,” Ginny says, setting the bottle down and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. He isn’t smiling like he was before. She wants to tell him they’re good—that she was into it even, that she is so desperately, terminally into him—but she doesn’t know exactly how to start. It seems like maybe it would be a mistake to mention it at all. “Come here.”
Mike comes, pushing the covers back and working her jeans off, reaching up one-handed to pop the clasp on her bra. “There you are,” he says, scraping his rough chin across her belly. Ginny shivers. She feels like she does when she goes into her wind up, her whole body coiled and tight and ready. When he bites along her hipbone, she laughs.
Mike looks up at her, raising his eyebrows. “That tickle?”
Ginny shakes her head. But when he bends his head she does it again, throwing a hand over her mouth to try to contain her giggles. Mike groans and hauls himself back up to look her in the eye. “Rookie,” he says quietly. “You're killin’ me.”
“Sorry,” Ginny repeats, willing herself to take deep, even breaths. “Nervous.”
“You're nervous?” Mike asks, smiling wryly, but then he’s kissing her, warm and wet and good and that's great, that's perfect, already she feels less like she's going to fly apart into a million pieces. After a minute he cups her over her underwear, feather-light like he's testing, and she finds herself making a quiet sound against his mouth.
“There you go,” Mike murmurs, rubbing her gently through the fabric. Ginny gulps helplessly. She’s so turned on she aches. She reaches between his legs to help speed things along, wanting to touch him back, wanting to do this together, but Mike blocks her with warm fingers around her wrist. “Gin,” he says quietly, pulling back to look at her.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for the lightbulb to come on. “Oh,” she says stupidly. “Okay.” Suddenly she has no idea what to do with her face.
“I had like five beers, Gin,” Mike says, looking faintly exasperated. Then he sighs and leans down to kiss her again, still cupping her between her legs. “Which is a shame,” he adds, hooking a finger around the crotch of her underwear and pulling it to one side, “because it looks like you’re very, very wet.”
Ginny throws an arm over her face. “That’s okay,” she babbles, “I don't need you to—” Mike slides a blunt finger inside her and she flinches violently. “Fuck.”
“Ginny.” He's smiling at her now. “Let me go down on you, okay?”
Shit, nobody has ever flat-out asked her like that before. Ginny has no idea why on earth she finds it so hot. “Okay,” she says, tossing her head against his pillows. “Um. Yes, please.”
Mike huffs a quiet laugh into her neck. “Good,” he says, pulling his finger out and sliding a second one in alongside it as he shifts back down the bed, sucking lightly at her stomach. Ginny whines. “Open,” he tells her, nudging at her thigh with one broad shoulder as he strips her underwear off.
Ginny opens, sliding her arms up underneath the pillows and taking a deep breath, the muscles in her legs so tense they’re nearly shaking. The first time he licks her she bucks up so hard she’s worried she gave him a fat lip. “Sorry,” she says again, reaching down to scritch her fingers through his beard. “You okay?”
“Easy, tiger,” Mike murmurs, pressing a kiss against her palm before curling his free arm around her thigh and holding. “I’m good.”
Ginny breathes and does her best to concentrate, one hand still fisted underneath the pillow and the other rubbing anxiously at his earlobe. She can tell objectively that he knows what he’s doing down there, warm tongue against her clit and the curl of his fingers inside her. Fuck, she’s just so wound.
“Mike,” she says after five minutes or so, running a hand through his hair. He ignores her, humming quietly against her skin. Ginny has never wanted her body to cooperate more desperately in her life, including the time when she was fourteen and trying to throw through a tweaked elbow. “Mike,” she says, and this time he comes, kissing her stomach on his way up.
“Is this a polite not happening or a real not happening?” he murmurs in her ear. Ginny’s face flames.
“Real,” she gulps, covering her eyes. “I'm sorry.”
Mike laughs softly, pulling her hand away and pressing a kiss against her palm. “I think that's my line,” he tells her. “Okay. You wanna try touching yourself for me?”
Ginny’s eyes widen. “Um.”
“Ginny.” His fingers are still inside her, flexing gently. His whole entire beard is slippery wet. “Hey. Rook. You trust me?”
“Shit,” Ginny whispers, but she reaches a hand down between her legs anyway, thighs opening wider as she arches right up into her own touch. She whimpers without quite being able to help it. She needs to come so bad she wants to cry.
“That’s a girl,” Mike says, starting to slip his fingers out to give her room to maneuver. Ginny grabs his wrist.
“Don’t,” she pleads, before she can stop herself. Mike swears under his breath.
“I won’t,” he promises, pushing them all the way back inside her. Ginny rocks her hips.
It happens embarrassingly fast after that, her fingers on her clit and the smell of herself all over him, his gaze everywhere on her at once. Ginny turns her face into the pillow and bites down, gasping loud and heavy. “Um,” she says stupidly once she's finished, resisting the urge to cover her eyes. Her thighs are shaking so hard it feels like she's vibrating.
Mike chuckles, kissing her ear. “Shit, Baker. You get a lot of practice doing that while looking at my face or something?”
Ginny tenses. “Okay,” she mumbles, squirming out from under him and swinging her legs over onto the floor. She's blushing so hard she can feel it in her teeth. "Let me up."
“Where’re you going?” Mike asks. Then, when she starts searching for her underwear, “Whoa, Baker, hey, I was teasing.”
Ginny yanks her hair out of its hasty bun and scrubs a hand through it, reaching for her bra. “No, it's fine, this was obviously a mistake.” She tries three times and still can't get the clasp to hook, too used to pullover sport bras. Suddenly the room is spinning unpleasantly, even though she isn't that drunk. “I'm just gonna go.”
“Oh-kay.” Mike hauls himself up and slides his legs on either side of hers, wrapping both arms around her waist from behind. “Ginny. Come on. I didn't wait a year to give up after thirty minutes of bad sex.”
“Well, what did you wait for?” Ginny asks, feeling faintly hysterical. “Like, sorry to disappoint, I guess, but—”
“Oh Jesus.” Mike flops backwards onto the mattress and takes her with him, wrapping one arm across her chest like a vise. “Ginny, are you kidding, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I can't imagine how hot it’ll be when I can actually help out properly.” He rubs his beard against her shoulder, then puts his warm mouth on her ear and drops his voice. “Baker, it is two in the morning and I am a million years old. Have mercy.”
“What?” Ginny cranes her neck to look at him, wild-eyed and heart hammering. She wriggles out of his grip again, sitting up on the mattress. “You wanna go to sleep?”
“Yeah, rook.” Mike looks like he’s barely keeping himself from laughing at her. Ginny would like to punch him in his face. “I wanna go to sleep. And I want you to stay here and go to sleep with me, and then tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow what?” Ginny interrupts, loud and too urgent. She shoves a violent hand through her hair.
Mike looks at her for a moment, gaze steady. “Well,” he says. “I guess you tell me.”
Ginny stares back at him dubiously, the first inklings of a hangover beginning to pulse behind her eyeballs. He’s right; it is so, so late. She’s shaky and aching, the orgasm and the alcohol and the sudden bone-crushing exhaustion, all the adrenaline draining out of her at once. It’s Mike. He retired. For one insane second, she’s worried she might be about to burst into tears.
“Gin,” Mike says, reaching out and cupping the back of her neck in one hand, warm and possessive. “Stay.”
Ginny pushes herself against his palm without entirely meaning to do it. “I don’t have anything to sleep in,” she says stubbornly.
Mike grins and fishes his T-shirt out of the pile of clothes on the floor. “Here, superstar,” he says, rolling it up over his hands and holding it out to her. Ginny lets him skim it over her head like she's a child.
“I have to pee,” she tells him. Mike laughs.
He’s waiting on the bed when she comes back, on top of the covers and still one hundred percent buck naked. “Here,” he says, patting the mattress. “This is my side. That can be yours.”
“Generous.” Ginny crawls in carefully, feeling headachey and strange. Sides of the bed aren't something she has a lot of experience with.
As soon as she's lying down Mike plasters himself against her back, face in her hair and his soft cock against her ass. “Fuck, we're gonna need so much Advil in the morning,” he groans against her ear.
“Speak for yourself, old man,” she tells him. He didn't wash his face and he smells like her, heavy and sharp and strong. Ginny breathes in.
“Yeah, yeah.” He reaches under the T-shirt to cup her boobs. “Ginny. You know how much I like you, right?”
Huh. Ginny thinks of his voice when he called her beautiful. Thinks of his stupid poster on her wall. “How much?” she asks, shoving her hips against him. Mike laughs low and rumbling against her back.
“Oh, okay, asshole,” he says, pinching gently at her nipple. “I see how it is.” Then, after another moment: “A lot,” he says, letting go and rubbing with one callused thumb. “Too much, probably.”
Ginny glances over her shoulder, something that feels dangerously like longing wrapping its fingers around her heart. “What does that mean?” she asks, trying to get a look at his expression.
Mike shakes his head into the pillows. “Go to sleep, Baker,” is all he says.
Ginny thinks about arguing with him but something about that feels juvenile, so she reaches under her shirt and lays her hand on top of his. “I like you too,” she says into the darkness. Mike kisses the back of her neck.
He's asleep in less than two minutes, his breathing evening out and the bulk of his body getting heavier on the mattress behind her. Ginny is completely, abruptly awake.
She slides out from underneath his arm, padding into the bathroom for a glass of water. She looks at herself in the mirror. She thinks about leaving, about calling an Uber and writing a note and dealing with this all in the morning from the comfort of her own bed. Her head hurts.
In the end she lies back down and curls up on her side facing him, watching him breathe. She watches for a long time.
When Ginny wakes up the room is warm and too bright, the fancy blinds on Mike’s floor-to-ceiling windows half-open. Her head feels like it's been stuffed full of cotton. Mike is draped over her like a coat, his dick hard and insistent against her thigh. Ginny rubs at her temple, groaning for two entirely different reasons.
Mike stirs, pushing himself against her ass as he stretches. “Hey, Baker,” he mumbles, squeezing her hip in a sleepy hello. “You stayed.” He sounds pleasantly surprised, like she's a Christmas present he didn't expect to get.
Ginny hums, not wanting to admit how close she came to bailing. “You were right about the Advil."
“Mm.” Mike nods into her shoulder, his beard scratching her skin. “I’ll get it in a second.” Only then he wraps an arm around her waist instead and pulls her closer, reaching up with one hand to rub at the back of her skull.
Ginny groans in spite of herself. “That feels nice,” she says quietly, closing her eyes and leaning back into it. Shit, her mouth tastes awful. She can smell herself every time she moves, sweat and sleep and alcohol. She can smell Mike, too.
If he notices any of it, he gives zero indication, touching from her neck to her chest and down over her rib cage, thumb dipping into her navel in a suggestion that makes her shiver. When he slides his hand between her legs, he growls. “Jesus Christ, Ginny,” he says, shoving his cock against her ass harder this time, rutting a little. Ginny whines. He’s right, she’s already wet enough that she can hear it when he opens her up with his fingers. Her body likes his body so much.
“Wanna fuck you,” Mike tells her quietly, mouth right up against her ear. “Have wanted to fuck you forever.”
Ginny whines. Her head hurts like hell and she should really pee and drink about twelve glasses of water first, or at least suck a mouthful of toothpaste from the tube so her breath is less gross, but. “Get a condom,” she pants, arching her back until his cock slides between her ass cheeks. “Now.”
Mike swears and rolls away to root through the bedside table, throwing the whole pack on the bed next to them and tearing one open with his teeth. He’s pressed against her again before he’s even all the way sheathed, latex-covered cock sliding against her ass and his hand reaching between her thighs. “Shit, Ginny,” he says, shoving two fingers inside her all at once and curling them. “Is this okay? Can I just—?”
“Yes,” Ginny groans, scissoring a leg back over his. Mike fists a hand in her hair and yanks.
He enters her in one slow, long thrust that has Ginny gritting her teeth and dragging the pillow over to bury her face in it, her breathing coming fast and high-pitched. “You good?” Mike asks, reaching around to rub her clit. Ginny nods frantically, hissing. Mike thrusts again and she bites the pillow.
“Fuck, I love when you do that,” he says, rubbing his thumb over her teeth. His skin tastes like sex, salty and unwashed. When he puts his fingers in her mouth Ginny bites them too, tossing her head fretfully. “Jesus,” Mike swears. “You like that, rookie?”
It's probably rhetorical but Ginny nods again anyway, rocking her hips back into him. He has one hand at her mouth and the other on her clit, and she just feels—she just feels so—
“That's it,” Mike says, pulling his fingers out from between her teeth and dragging them wetly across her chin. “Gonna come for me?”
Ginny nods. Then she grabs his wandering hand and presses his palm over her mouth.
Mike groans. “Fuck, Ginny,” he says, taking the hint and gripping the whole bottom half of her face, but Ginny barely hears him because she’s already coming, eyes shut and back arched and one leg wrapped tightly around his. Her moan buzzes loudly against the meat of his palm. It’s the sharpest orgasm she’s ever had with another person, no question; she feels it all the way in her jaw.
“Shit,” she says when she’s finished, reaching behind her and grabbing at any part of him she can reach. She doesn’t want to stroke his ego too much about this, but damn. “Shit.”
Mike laughs quietly. “Mm-hmm. So I was right, per usual.” He eases out of her and rolls onto his back, pulling at her hip until she figures out what he wants and climbs on top. “You are unimaginably hot.”
Ginny grins, wrapping her hand around his cock to line them up. “I mean, I don't know about that,” she tells him. “I kind of think you’ve imagined it.”
Mike grumbles but he doesn't deny it, clutching at her thighs as she sinks down. For a second she’s worried he’s about to go off again like last night but in the end he just skims her T-shirt off, reaching up to cup her breasts with two rough hands. “Hi,” he says. “Good morning.”
Ginny smiles. “Hey,” she says, shifting her weight to get used to him from this angle. When he tries to kiss her she ducks her head away. “Nooo,” she says, knowing she sounds whiny. “I’m gross.”
Mike rolls his eyes. “I could give a shit about your morning breath, rookie,” he tells her. Then, running his palms down along her rib cage, “You think I’m gross?”
Ginny shivers. “No,” she admits quietly. In this particular moment she actually can’t imagine a universe where she would.
Mike’s eyes darken. “Kiss me,” he says, so she does, leaning down and pressing her mouth to his. It’s definitely disgusting, the taste of both of them mixing together, but Ginny keeps doing it, hot and nasty and wet, their tongues sliding together slicky and Mike groaning low and filthy into her open mouth. She can feel herself getting wetter around the condom, her legs widening around his hips automatically.
“Shit,” she says, pulling away. “Nope, okay, sorry, you taste like ass.”
“Fuck you.” Mike laughs, reaching up to drag her back down with a hand wrapped around her neck. Ginny lets him, whimpering quietly. It tastes so bad and she is so turned on, grinding herself on his stupid dick helplessly, already desperate for another orgasm.
“Fuck,” Mike gasps, lying back and starting to thrust up into her. “I did, I imagined this. Do you have any idea how many times I jerked off thinking about you?”
Ginny shakes her head and sits all the way up, thighs trembling. His dick is fucking huge. She's been trying to ignore it but it’s huge, she is losing her fucking mind. “Tell me,” she gasps, reaching down to rub her clit. “Talk.”
Mike raises his eyebrows. “A lot, Ginny.” He holds her hips and encourages her to bounce, squeezing in time with her rhythm. “I did it in the clubhouse once, I literally couldn't wait.”
Ginny lets her head drop back, hips starting to stutter. Mike takes over for her, fucking up into her shivering body, and holy shit he’s good at this. She lowered her expectations after last night, telling herself it didn't matter, but oh God it does. “What do you like best about me?” she gasps, fingers blurring on her clit, everything beneath her waist tightening up exquisitely.
“Baker,” Mike says, voice ragged, but when she rolls her hips he groans. “Your ass,” he says immediately, reaching down and squeezing it hard enough to leave handprints. “Your smile, Gin, your pussy, Jesus, your fucking face, I don't—”
That does it. Ginny drops her head forward as she comes again, her boobs smashed against the hard plane of his chest and her fingers tangled in his hair, yanking roughly. Mike hums his satisfaction against her neck. “That good?” he asks, lifting his head to suck at the sensitive skin behind her ear, breath hot and teeth scraping gently. “That make you feel good?”
Ginny whimpers, ducking her head to bite at his flushed, freckled shoulder, rasping her sticky tongue over the marks she makes. She wants to rake her nails all over his body. She wants to tattoo her name on his skin. “Good,” she promises softly. Then, because she liked that thing he said about her smile, and it's not like it isn't true: “Fuck, Mike. So good.”
She feels his grin more than she sees it. “Good,” he echoes, then boosts her right the hell off him. “Turn over.”
Ginny gasps, flopping face-first onto the pillows. She feels fucked-out and oversensitive, scraped and tacky all down her thighs. “Okay, now you’re just trying to prove a point.”
“Yup,” Mike says flatly, reaching over to smack her ass. “Turn over.”
“What, no doggy style?” she teases, rolling over obediently. Right away, Mike grabs her knees and bends them all the way back.
“Wanna see your face,” he says seriously, entering her in one rough thrust Ginny can feel in the pit of her stomach. “Mean it, Gin. I fucking love your face.”
“Shit.” Ginny leaves her legs hovering in midair for a second before lifting them tentatively over his shoulders, blushing when Mike swears and grabs her ankles to help. She can smell herself in this position, sharp and sweaty and faintly embarrassing, but he’s so deep and it feels so good that it’s hard to care.
“Flexible,” Mike remarks quietly, fucking her nice and slow. “I thought about this every time you went into your windup, you know that?”
Ginny whines, reaching down for her clit again. “Yeah?” Then, when he doesn’t say anything more: “Tell me.”
Mike laughs. He’s flushed in a way she’s never seen before, cheeks and ears and neck, different than his usual post-game coloring. Ginny is stupidly, hopelessly enchanted. “You just wanna hear about everything, don’t you?” he says, pressing down with his shoulders so her legs are forced back another inch. “You ever gonna tell me what you thought about?”
“Maybe.” She reaches up to hook her fingers in his mouth, feeling possessive and warm. She hasn’t ever fucked anyone like this before, so messy and sticky and early in the morning. “Tell me first.”
Mike sucks her fingers for a second. “I thought about this,” he says, pulling off and shoving her hand down between her legs. “I thought about everything, up to and including fucking you in the front office. Touch yourself.”
Ginny slides her fingers back to her clit obediently. “You’re trying to make me a third time, aren’t you?” she accuses, grinning.
Mike squeezes her thigh, thrusting hard and slow. “Yeah, Gin,” he says quietly. “I’m trying to make you a third time.”
Something about his face makes her stomach drop. “Shit,” she whispers, tossing her head back against the pillows. She doesn't actually know if she can a third time—how swollen and out of control and overstimulated she feels, plus the fact that she's never actually tried it with anyone before—but fuck, she wants to. “Thought about you too,” she confesses. “All year long.”
Mike raises his eyebrows and thrusts exactly once, goading. “Just all year?”
“Fuck off,” Ginny shoots back, but Mike just keeps on looking at her, patient, and eventually she huffs out a breath. “Longer,” she admits. “Longer than that, I—”
Mike grins. “Yeah you did,” he says, changing the angle as if to reward her, his cock rubbing up against something electric and good inside. “What’d you think about?”
Ginny squirms. “Guess,” she pants, dragging him down for another sloppy kiss. Both of them still taste terrible.
“Gin-ny.” Mike's hips stutter again, one long punishing thrust, and finally Ginny realizes that the pace might be more for his benefit than her own.
“You're allowed to come, you know,” she says, watching him carefully. “I swear.”
“Shut it,” Mike says, pushing with his shoulders until she's bent basically in half. Ginny gasps, then grins.
“Yeah, we know you know how to do that,” she says, reaching up and running her hands over his shoulders. He’s big everywhere. “Do it again.”
He gives her more of his weight, groaning quietly as she scritches her nails through his hair. He looks like he’s concentrating now, brow knitting together furiously. “You really aren't gonna tell me a damn thing, are you.”
Ginny shrugs. “Maybe. Beg me.”
Mike groans again, pressing his flushed, scruffy face against her calf. “Ginny,” he says, biting gently. Then, quiet enough that she almost doesn't hear him, “Please.”
Oh, shit. Ginny whimpers without being able to help it, her heart seizing up inside her chest. It occurs to her, for the first time since last night and actually the first time ever, that she is one hundred percent the person in charge here. The thought makes her feel vaguely terrified, and also unbearably fond.
“Come here,” she gasps, scrambling to drop her legs down, plain old boring missionary suddenly the sexiest thing she can think of. They can fuck each other six ways from Sunday starting tomorrow, but right now she just wants him to be close. “Come here.” She wrestles her arms around his neck, yanks until he drops himself down on top of her. “Thought about this,” she says, wrapping her leg around his for leverage. “Thought about you. Thought about your mouth and your stupid beard and your arms and your dick. For way longer than a year.” She reaches up then, rubbing her thumbs along his cheekbones. “Mike. You know how long.”
Mike smiles a little, his hips picking up. “That doesn't count. We didn't know each other.”
He’s close and warm, his chest pressing against hers, and Ginny closes her eyes for a second. “It counts,” she whispers. “It definitely counts.”
“Okay,” Mike says, “overkill, seriously.” But then Ginny opens her eyes, and fuck, the expression on his face? She regrets exactly nothing.
“Yeah, well you're the princess who needed to hear I liked you before you put out,” she tells him, sliding her hands back to cradle his scalp. “Now finish so we can shower.”
“You first,” Mike says stubbornly. He's fucking her in earnest now, elbows braced on either side of her head and the bulk of him bearing down on top of her, his mattress squeaking obscenely. Ginny wants to roll her eyes except—except.
“Really?” Mike asks, grinning down at her in open amusement as she starts to clench around him. Ginny swears in reply.
“Fuck, Baker.” He drops his head down and wrings the very last of it out of her, sucking her neck hard enough to bruise. Ginny feels filthy and debauched and the tiniest bit scandalous. She feels like there's nothing in the whole world she wouldn't let him do.
“Take the condom off,” she says suddenly.
Mike’s eyes widen. “Gin,” he murmurs, hips stilling. “I can’t—”
“You can, though.” Ginny nudges him off her, reaches up to cup her own breasts until he gets the message. “I’m getting directly into your fancy bathtub after this, old man. You might as well.” She grins at him then, at his gobsmacked, ruined expression. “You want to?”
“Oh my God, who are you?” Mike asks, but he's grinning hugely, already stripping off the condom and getting to his knees. “Where, hm?”
Ginny shrugs. “Anywhere.” Her eyes are glued to his cock, how big and heavy and hard he looks lying there in his own palm. “Not my face.”
“Not your face,” Mike agrees, reaching down to rub at her mouth with his free hand. His fingers smell like her. “Jesus, Ginny. Touch me?”
“Yeah.” She runs both hands up his thighs, squeezing, then reaches around for his ass. Mike swears softly when she digs her nails in.
“Okay, yeah, I’m—fuck, Gin.” He leans over her a little more, his hand speeding up. Ginny pays attention to the way he's touching himself, wanting to learn what he likes even in the middle of this. Wanting to know for the next time. “Gin,” Mike gasps, and then the first spurt is hitting her between her breasts, hot and slippery. Ginny arches her back. She rubs his warm chest and squeezes his shoulders, murmurs embarrassing nonsense into his ear.
“Thought about that, too,” she says when he's finished, wrapping her hands around his biceps and tugging. Mike groans quietly, dropping down to give her his weight. He kisses her again, slow and wet and lazy, then boosts himself up and reaches down onto the floor. He’s fishing around for his t-shirt, presumably, something to clean them both up, but Ginny stops him. “You’re fine,” she promises. “Just stay here for a second, okay?”
Mike raises his eyebrows. Ginny holds his gaze. Fuck, she wants to make him promises. She wants to make him promise, too.
He looks at her for another minute, steady. Then he nods. “Yeah, rook,” he says, lying back down and tucking her body against him. “We can stay here as long as you want.”