Free My Front Page Scandal by Carrie Alexander Page A

stroke her at the same time, ensuring her readiness. With any other man, she might not have been. But right here, right now, free of rules and expectations, she was ready.
    His first thrust drove her a couple of inches up the bed. The second slammed the breath from her lungs. When he lunged a third time, she was prepared, and wrapped herself around him, absorbing the thrust like a blow that reverberated through her entire body.
    “Jeez, Brooke,” he said in a hoarse voice she didn’t recognize.
    “Keep going. I want it like that. Hard and fast.”
    And that’s how she got it. Her climax burst from her like fireworks, a sudden blinding flash that was over in an instant, raining sparks across her nerve endings. He held himself still for a moment, embedded inside her, then let go with a low groan and a deep shudder.
    Brooke went limp, so exhausted, so shattered, that she felt on the verge of passing out.
    David collapsed on top of her, nestled his face in the side of her neck and mumbled something. Even though physically she was done for, her mind spun off into another orbit entirely, she was fairly certain that he’d whispered, “Stay the night.”
    Which was the one thing she would not do for him.

Chapter 5
    Rick Arnsberger barreled through the door of their favorite coffee shop on Brattle Street, took one look at David hunched over a cup of hot, black coffee at the counter and swore. “What the—? You look like something the cat threw up on the doormat.”
    David said, “Hunh,” and slid a folded copy of the Globe across the counter so he didn’t have to talk. They’d run a more thorough rehash of his adventures in the city, framing him in an even worse light. The idea that had been in the back of his head, to schedule an appointment with the Red Sox brass while he was in town, was looking like the right move at a very wrong time.
    Rick sat and ordered his usual massive breakfast before reading the article about David’s flight from the paparazzi and resulting motorcycle crash.
    “Nice picture.” He put the paper down. “How’s the Shadow?”
    “A few dings and scratches.”
    The waitress put a thick ceramic mug in front of Rick. He slurped. “You?”
    “Ditto.”
    “Good enough.”
    The food came. David stole a piece of Rick’s thick-cut rye toast. When he attempted to grab a strip of bacon, he got his hand stabbed with an eggy fork.
    Rick waved the waitress over and circled his fork above his plate. “Give him one of the same.” He mopped yolk with a crust, considered his friend’s glum expression, then sliced into the pancakes. “Hangover?”
    David frowned. “Nope.” Unless a sex hangover counted. “I’m a little sore from the crash. Haven’t had much sleep the past couple of nights.”
    He rubbed his throbbing temples. The small headache he’d wakened with had turned into a skull-buster once he’d realized that Brooke had sneaked out in the middle of the night. He’d done his share of that in the past, but being the left-behind half of a one-night-stand was another thing. Once again, karma was proving to be a bitch.
    “You gotta take better care of yourself, man. I thought you claimed that a couple of months of pulling beets had straightened you out.”
    Rick was a starting pitcher for the Sox. The two of them had become good friends over the course of several years of extended road trips. They’d taken advantage of their status as eligible bachelors, too, until Rick had married Emily, a pretty editor for a small but prestigious Cambridge press, and moved into a big new house near her office. It was the kind of place that came with a gardener and pool service. David had been invited over a few times, but he’d never fit in with the bookish crowds at Emily’s cocktail parties. They talked about Sartre and the best place to buy fresh tilapia. He and Rick had always talked strikes and balls and the best place to scout fresh trim.
    David shrugged. “Maybe this city’s just plain old