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  Wait. That wasn’t the blood in his ears pounding.

  But someone pounding at the door.

  “Gage. It’s Gage,” Holly hissed and pushed him back a step, lifting shaking hands to adjust the dress he’d nearly torn off of her.

  He concentrated on zipping his pants and dragging air into his lungs as he watched her cover her gorgeous breasts, the one still wet from his mouth—

  Her thong was on the floor, but just as he took a step toward it, Gage stopped knocking and opened the door. “Showtime,” he announced, coming right in. Oblivious.

  Pace tore his gaze off the tiny white scrap of material and looked at Holly. Her eyes were wide as she stood there in the pretty halter dress, looking sweet and professional and just a little bit panicked.

  Because she wasn’t wearing panties.

  “Showtime,” Gage repeated to Pace. “You ready?”

  Right. “Ready.” His voice was low and husky and just a little bit hoarse. He tried not to look at the thong, but it was hard, he was hard, and his brain was suffering from severe blood deprivation. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to bust another zipper, and this time it would be his fault.

  The thong, the thong . . .

  Gage looked at Holly and frowned. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” She flashed him a smile that worked because Gage didn’t know her like Pace did. And he did know her. He knew she wanted her underwear. “Gage,” he said. “What’s that behind you?”

  When Gage craned his neck to look, Pace scooped up the panties and slid them into his pocket.

  “I don’t see anything,” Gage said.

  “Sorry. It’s nothing.”

  Holly shot Pace a slightly wide-eyed, sexy-as-hell look and held out her hand.

  But what was he supposed to do, hand them over in front of Gage? He shook his head.

  With a low, indistinguishable mutter, she headed for the door. He watched her go, his only coherent thought being that she was going to sit in the stands and watch him play.

  Without panties.

  Which meant he was going to be sporting a boner the entire game.

  “Pace.” Gage was looking at him, eyes sharp. “Shake it off. Get your head out of her pants and into the game.”

  Out of her pants. If he’d had even twenty more seconds, he’d have been out of his pants and buried deep inside her right here in the unlocked shower room, where anyone could have walked in on them.

  He was such an idiot.

  With huge effort, he managed a nod. He was ready to play. Or he would be, soon as he recovered from that kiss.

  If that was even possible.

  Chapter 15

  I don’t want to play golf. When I hit a ball, I want someone else to go chase it.

  —Rogers Hornsby

  It was hot and muggy in New York. Even more so sitting in the stands without panties. It was a ridiculous situation, one that Holly firmly blamed Pace for.

  And how had things gotten so out of hand that she’d lost her underwear in the first place? One minute he’d been kissing her and the next she couldn’t have even remembered her damn name to save her life, and before she’d known what had hit her, his long, talented, greedy fingers had hooked into the silk at her hips and slid it down her legs.

  And then those fingers—

  God.

  Even thinking about it had her pressing her thighs together as need and heat swirled low in her gut. It was him, she decided. Pace. Those eyes, those fingers, that mouth . . .

  If he hadn’t been so damn sexy, none of this would have happened. This was all his fault, and she closed her eyes, trying not to think about how big and tanned his hand had looked holding her tiny white thong . . . and for the mil lionth time had to shift in her seat, which only served to make things worse.

  So close.

  She’d been so shockingly close to an orgasm. Even now, she could still feel the need grinding inside of her. Worse, she knew that if Gage hadn’t knocked, they’d have gone at it right there against the wall, and anyone, anyone could have walked in and seen them.

  Hard to believe she’d so lost her mind.

  Disengaged? Ha!

  Distanced? Ha!

  Apparently she’d finally stepped inside the batter’s box that was her own life and taken a swing at living. Hell of a time to figure that out.

  She wanted her underwear.

  Pace could have found a way to get them back to her before the game. He should have. But she’d known by the way he’d slipped them possessively into his pocket and sent her that heated look that she was going to have to fight for them.

  Dammit.

  She squirmed some more.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Samantha asked. She was on the phone with Jeremy. They’d been talking about some mutual charity events they had going. Actually, they’d been arguing, because Jeremy wanted top billing for the Bucks even though Sam had put the entire thing together. She pressed her phone to her chest as she regarded Holly. “You’re acting like you’ve got ants in your pants.”

  Holly laughed tightly. “Yeah.”

  Sam put her phone back to her ear. “Jeremy, I’ve got to go. I’ll yell at you some more later.” She shut her phone and looked at Holly. “Spill.”

  Well, let’s see. Her dress kept touching her like a damn caress. She could think of nothing else, and if Pace was here in the stands instead of in the dugout, he could probably give her one look with those dark eyes and finish her off. “Nothing’s up. I’m good.”

  Sam narrowed her gaze. “Is it Pace? You just kissed him, right?”

  “Yeah.” Among other things.

  “Huh.”

  “Huh what? There’s no huh.”

  Sam sent her a knowing look. “Just stay out of elevators. All I’m saying.”

  Pace let himself fall into the zone, and played hard. He pitched a solid two innings, giving up no runs, but during the bottom of the third, he went into his rotation and did something that sent a white-hot poker of pain through his shoulder. Through his entire body. All he knew was that oh holy shit, he couldn’t breathe, could barely see past the blinding, searing pain.

  To add insult to injury, the batter got a piece of the ball and whacked it, a fast line drive to left field that took him to second while Pace stood there panting and seeing stars. He had to force himself to breathe through it as the New York home crowd roared with pleasure.

  Wade signed, asking if he needed a minute.

  No, he didn’t need a minute, he needed a new goddamn shoulder. He shook it off, then proceeded to throw out eight piece-of-shit pitches in a row, walking two batters.

  Bases loaded, the crowd went wild. Fuck.

  Wade ignored Pace’s next motion that he was fine and walked to the mound. Pace kept his hat low over his face, because out of anyone, Wade could read him like the back of his hand.

  At first, Wade said nothing. Nope, as if they had all the time in the world, as if thousands and thousands of people weren’t watching and waiting, both in the stands and also on television, he calmly stood there, taut and steadfast. He adjusted his cap, then his mitt. Looked at the sky.

  “You got something to say?” Pace finally asked.

  “Yeah. It’s fucking hot out here.”

  Pace let out a low laugh, which hurt like hell.

  “So . . . Pizza after the game?”

  Wade loved pizza, it was his comfort food. Pace’s, too, but at the moment the thought of food made him want to hurl.

  Wade eyed the crowd, then the batter waiting on them. “He likes the ball inside. Don’t give it to him. Unless you’d like to give up another hit with bases loaded.”

  Pace said nothing.

  Wade adjusted his cap again. “You going to tell me the real problem or not?”

  Pace turned the ball in his fingers.

  “Not.” Wade sighed. “You want to get us through the inning?”

  “Hell, yeah, I want to.” Pace pushed up his hat and revealed his face.