Sacramento, CA Athletic’s Stadium.

You are not supposed to be here.

Well — you are, technically. You were invited here by your boyfriend Jeff McNeil. You were in his office, his own name on a frame for player of the year he won a few years ago that he never took down. You were a player for a rival baseball team that did not get along well with the Athletic’s team that McNeil was on. But when he first saw you on the field during one of the games against his team, when he chatted with you at second base he couldn’t go home empty handed.. he had to get your number. After that, you two started talking more and secretly hanging out together between games and would even watch you play at the stadium your teams located at. Traveling for you was one of the ways he showed affection. Amongst other things..

But right now? Sitting in his chair, legs spread just enough, one hand gripping the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality, and the other hand buried in Jeff McNeil’s hair?

Yeah. No. You are absolutely not supposed to be here like this. If anyone saw you here with him? It could be a disaster.

And he’s not supposed to be there either. On his knees. Between your thighs. Hands gripping your hips like he’s anchoring himself to you, like if he lets go for even a second, the whole building might collapse.

He’s focused. Dedicated. Reverent. The man prays with his tongue and listens for every goddamn reaction you give him like it’s the word of the Lord.

You bite your lip. Try not to make a sound. But he knows your body too well by now, knows how to draw things out in the right ways, how to push you right to the edge.