Hitting to Win (Over the Fence #2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

in my lungs. We stand, pressed against each other, as the song fills the air around us. Neither of us breaks the connection, and it feels like I've been struck by lightning. My nerve endings are out of whack, fried, sending signals to the wrong places in my body and making me feel loopy.
    I can't read the expression marking Miles's face, but I hope to god he's feeling this too. Bad enough I have to sit here with you.
    The thought wrenches me from the moment, and I can't help it that my voice comes out in a throaty whisper when I begin to count. "And two, four, six, eight..."
    We glide across the studio floor in a basic eight-step tango. At first, our moves are a little disjointed, each of us getting used to the other's physique, the way the other's figure moved. Even though Miles is the size of mammoth, he's surprisingly light on his feet. I'd even go so far as to say graceful, but never to his face.
    We cross the floor several times before coming to a stop when the music ends, Miles holding us in position for five seconds as if practicing an ending pose. Then he drops my arms completely, bringing his back to the safety of his own body.
    My heart is beating too fast, and it has nothing to do with the way we performed those steps. I put all my hope into the prayer that my cheeks are a normal color.
    "That wasn't bad..." Miles claps his hands once, looking, if I must say, a bit pleased.
    "Is that an almost-compliment?" I smile, laughing.
    "Don't get used to it, princess." His usual glower returns to his face. "Alright so, practice Saturday?"
    He has no intention of getting to know me. Or spending any extra time with me. The thought wounds me, but it shouldn't. He's made everything plain as day.
    "Yep. I'll email you about songs and costumes. How do you feel about Man of La Mancha?"
    Miles just rolls his eyes.

5
Miles
    T he crack and hiss of the beer can as it opens sends a satisfying tremor through my pores. There is nothing I need more now than this third, no, make that, fourth, beer.
    Sitting on our couch, post-Friday classes but pre-Friday night parties, I've tried to forget the way Chloe's silky skin felt under my fingers Thursday night.
    Its been consuming my mind for thirty-six hours, all of that delicate, bronzed skin under my hands. And her smell, I can’t get that fucking heady combination of cinnamon and vanilla out of my nose. Its like she marked every inch of me with her smell, I can’t escape it.
    That fucking princess.
    I take a hard swig of the ice-cold IPA, trying to focus on the afternoon game gracing the television screen. There is nothing better than baseball and beer. Besides maybe a good woman. One who wouldn’t open her mouth or direct bright, sunny smiles at you.
    Her niceness was irritating. Every insult I threw at her seemed to repel off of her, coming back onto me and making me feel doubly shitty. She was definitely one of those people who thought therapy helped. You could just tell it about her. Its like she was trying to figure out my head, treating me with kid gloves. I loathed it.
    But for one second there, just an instance on Thursday night, I’d been ready to take her against the studio wall. When our eyes held as her slim form was pushed up against me, I’d felt like an animal. I was ready to tear at her tiny leotard and expose those hardened nipples, the ones I could feel brushing against my chest. I was stiff as a board just thinking about it.
    “Fuck.” I growl at no one in particular.
    So I wanted to fuck her. That wasn’t anything special. She was a chick, a good-looking one at that. It didn’t mean anything. I just had to get through this dumbass dance competition.
    Dancing. I hadn’t done it in so long, but you know what they say about riding a bike. Bet the guys didn’t count on me having skills when they’d voted me in as the Kappa Sig contestant. But I had them alright. My mother had me in those stupid classes until I was fourteen.
    That’s when I was offered a spot on the