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Greta is somewhat taken aback when Carson bursts into the bedroom saying her name. But when she gets a good look at the purposeful smile on Shaw’s face there’s an instant, answering tightening in her chest. In her belly.
Before Carson can drop them in a whole lot of hot water Greta cuts her eyes in Jess’s direction. The short stop is being ridiculous, hunched on her bed cutting her damn toenails. Jess’s ball cap, ever present, perched on top of her head. Greta can feel Jess watching them intently, bemused but alert.
So she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t trust her voice not to crack and betray her sudden excitement as Shaw stumbles her way through an excuse. Of all things, a rash? She wants to laugh at just how awkward Shaw is, how unpracticed and unused to deception, but the glee she feels overrides everything. She can feel it pulling her face into a grin.
Conscious of their audience of one, Greta tries to school her face. Raises her eyebrows. Rolls her lips in. Keeps brushing the ends of her hair.
And when Carson gestures at her, blurts out a request for Greta to come and look at this fictional rash… what can she do but comply? She puts the hairbrush down without even looking at the bedside table, unwilling to tear her gaze away from the adorable, hopeful mess that is Carson Shaw.
When Jess, the little turd, calls after them to ask if it’s spots or bumps Greta knows that Carson hasn’t fooled anyone. She’ll need to speak to her about being more discreet. More practiced. But for now…
For now she cannot keep the smile off her face.
Luckily they don’t run into anyone as Carson leads them down the stairs and out the side door of the boarding house. Because Greta is sure her smile and Carson’s urgency would raise even the dimmest of their teammates eyebrows. But thankfully they make it into the darkness unscathed, and almost before they’ve cleared the circle of the porch light Carson has grabbed her hand, is tugging Greta faster and faster toward the garage.
Greta just surrenders to this determined version of Carson, lets herself be pulled through the yard. She can’t help the caution though, has to glance back at the house briefly just to check the blinds are all drawn, that no one is looking out into the night.
No faces stare back at her.
They are safe.
And Greta feels her smile widen further. Because she can relax into… whatever this is for a few minutes.
She’s got a fairly good idea of what’s on Carson’s mind from the pure determination on her face, the way she persevered through her stuttered excuses rather than just retreating, the tight grip she’s keeping on Greta’s hand. But with Carson, you just never knew what would come out of the catcher’s mouth.
In the end, Carson didn’t need to speak.
She tugs Greta into the garage so hard that Greta almost can’t reach the door to close it behind them. Just about stumbles into Carson’s arms as the catcher grasps at her hips. Pushes her backwards into a nearby table. Reaches up to kiss her.
And oh it is like that first night at the bar, but tonight Greta can feel Carson’s desperation vibrating through her body, can hear it in the whimper caught in the back of Carson’s throat when their bodies connect and the catcher pushes against her, forces her ass into the low table. It’s far from comfortable but Greta could not care less.
She lets Carson press into her, flexes backward gently to accommodate Carson’s forcefulness, meets her eager mouth, and lets her own desire speak to the catcher through her lips.
And then there’s this moment… this moment when Carson just relaxes, and she just… surrenders to everything.
And it’s fucking perfect.
Carson’s breathing slows. The muscles in her arms loosen where they’re grasping onto Greta like a lifeline. Her fingers uncurling.
They breathe the same air, for a split second, and then Greta is able to lean forward. Able to kiss Carson like she’s been dreaming about for days now. Long and slow and intense and holy shit it was everything Greta wanted it to be, and more.
Grasping hands meld into caresses. Bruising lips become soft, pliant. Welcoming.
Greta reaches up into short brown locks, grasps a handful at the back of Carson’s head. Her other hand cupping Carson’s jaw. She wants Carson to feel everything in this moment, as she swipes at Carson’s top lip with her tongue.
She swears she can feel Carson’s heart stop for a second. Then it pulses wildly beneath Greta’s fingers as Carson responds ardently, tangles her tongue with Greta’s and honestly Greta cannot contain the gasp, the strangled rumble that escapes the back of her throat.
She lets it continue for another blissful minute, sinks into every sensation with abandon. But Carson’s breathing shifts up another notch, and she’s clutching at Greta again, and there’s a low growl emanating from deep in her chest, and…
Reluctantly, Greta gentles their kiss, strokes soothing caresses down the catcher’s shoulders and arms.
Carson whimpers, disappointed. Tries to prolong their kiss.
And Greta is tempted. So tempted.
But she knows Jess is waiting upstairs, knows the short stop won’t ask questions, won’t make a big deal. Won’t tell. But she’s likely to give Greta a bit of good natured grief and she just doesn’t want to deal with that.
Or necessarily trust that Carson will be able to come up with any coherent explanation for Shirley if they’re absent much longer.
So she breaks away. Knows she’s still grinning as she deposits a kiss on the tip of Carson’s nose, to calm the catcher down and to lighten the mood.
The shy grin on Carson’s face is her reward.
Greta brushes her fingers through Carson’s unruly locks, detangling the mess she’d made. Wipes the lipstick from around Carson’s mouth.
Brown eyes just stare up at her, entranced, and Greta feels her heart tremor in response to that look. That devotion.
It was going to be her ruin. She just knew it.