The Kenneth Cole stilettos were damn near killing her, and to make matters worse, her flight to Los Angeles was delayed four hours. Hearing that wonderful tidbit of news didn’t exactly make her dance a jig from supreme excitement. Her entire day had been hectic; interviewing prospective Sports Illustrated models, many of them with mini brains and maxi mouths, and whenever she made it the hell to L.A., she’d have to do it all again—and attend a business seminar. Nonetheless, that was the life of a successful modeling agency owner. Her midtown office had gorgeous young women practically crawling through the sewer systems to get in. Business was good, but not something she could do here, and thanks to American Airlines, she now had an additional four hours to stew.Her only thought: What the hell does someone do in Midway Airport for hours other than read all the tabloids and drink themselves to death in the overly expensive airport bar? There was nothing else to do to the immediate observer, but Ms. Caroline Pierce had just the plan: veg-out at her gate and continue to salivate over what she had seen last night.
As she sat on the excruciatingly hard chairs by Gate 3B, a smile lit up her delicate, medium brown face. Marc Brown had graced her new thirty-five-inch plasma television the night before. He was in a duel to the death with every one of the Minnesota Twins batters and nailed them all. God, she hadn’t seen him in years, since her senior year in high school. All she knew was that he’d been the love of her ever-loving life back then, and seeing him last night made the intensity of the memory that much more intolerable. He was beautiful from the bill of his hat to the cleats of his shoes, and the muscles . . . oh, my God! Marc was always stacked, but age and experience seemingly licked him with a magic tongue, because he glistened. Sheesh!
Normally baseball didn’t “do it” for her, but there were no vintage Gregory Peck movies on TNT last night, and she needed something to keep her senses alive. The Alize and the mandarin orange salad certainly weren’t doing it—Marc did it, yes, yes, yes! Last she remembered, he entered the Cubs organization, married that twit Iisha Burns and moved into a giant castle of a mansion somewhere in Joliet, never to appear before Caroline’s eyes again. Many a day she’d thought about him, wondered how he was, and if he could slam in bed the way he’d waxed her in the shower that long-ago night? My goodness, Marc Brown.
Caroline’s face continued to glow as she thought about the fight on the mound; that’s what had made her spill the Alize on her fresh new baby blue carpeting. It was still there that morning. Come to think of it, Alize had been Iisha’s drink of choice back in the day at sixteen years old. Seemingly the minute Iisha was weaned from the breast her next move was to the corner liquor store for a bottle of Alize Red Devil. That’s exactly what Iisha was back then, a damn red devil, and she had taken Marc into her fiery pit.
Her mind went back to the game. Marc had been accused of hitting a batter; the batter approached the mound and the fists flew in a heated rage. Marc was a fighter and had been since day one of the twelfth grade. Before she knew anything, there was a pile of buff, sweaty, sinfully sexy men tangled up together, throwing punches and ripping away jerseys. In the middle of the chaos was Marc, shirt pulled up his back, stomach muscles heaving in and out, sweat dripping into every single crevice of his body, and delivering punches that surely burned like white fire. Yes, fighting was definitely his thing and he was all man. The bulge in his pants proved that. Sure, there may have been a jockstrap helping that massive tenting, but from experience, she knew it was all Marc and could still feel him invading her body, latching on and climbing deeper into her sunny afternoon over and over again. He lived for a challenge, always had and apparently still did, the way he was being pulled off three men.
Far be it from her to enjoy a fight—she’d always cried when he got into brawls, which was hardly ever because boys only tested his waters knee deep. Having the only boy she’d ever cared about injured or marred would have traumatized her, but Marc always came out smelling like a rose. The same for the mound brawl. Marc had just a small scratch on him and she was thankful, but the idea of seeing him dragged away by his teammates, jersey up to his neck, really did it for her. Everything she remembered licking and rubbing years ago was there, to her delight: perky dark brown nipples, so damn lickable, pecs sweet enough to eat sugar from and an outie of a navel juicy enough to make her lose control. Due to him, baseball was for real her favorite sport now, and kissing Marc seductively with her nectar dripping onto him was her favorite fantasy.
Just thinking of Marc made almost two hours go by. She could imagine people’s expressions as they passed her, practically having monstrous orgasms over what seemed to be thin air. She didn’t care, though. Marc was embedded in her mind and nothing could cure it but tasting him again, if only for a few seconds. She loved him beyond human reasoning, but thought by now she’d gotten over him. No way, one look into his large hazel eyes and a chance to scope his rich, honey brown skin had turned her into a quivering teenager again, only in a thirty-two-year-old body.
As she licked her parched lips, people started running past her, women, screaming with crazed looks on their faces while security guards scampered right behind them. Immediately she grabbed her purse in case some terrorist attack was about to go down. Normally, running, screaming people scared the crap out of her, but she followed behind them out of curiosity down the long concourse. She tried to look over the heads of what seemed to be thousands of people populating Gate F19 but could see nothing.
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