🔥 The Cabin — Drew’s Version 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Caught Looking

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You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve survived the chainlink, the midnight cage sessions, the equipment room floor, a woman who struck out looking because a catcher whispered your hands are beautiful, and a championship kiss in front of two thousand people. You’ve watched Sloane Kessler learn to let go of the bat and Drew Castellano learn to let herself be caught. Thank you for giving Sloane and Drew your time. This exclusive chapter is our gift to dedicated readers like you.

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⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains extremely explicit FF sexual content including extended oral sex, fingering, edging, praise kink, body worship, emotional intensity, D/s dynamics, mutual orgasm, crying during sex, and graphic descriptions of arousal and pleasure. This is the cabin night from Chapter 15 — retold from inside Drew’s head. Every sensation, every thought, every moment of composure cracking. Set during the main novel. Drew’s POV. Intended for readers 18+ only.

The Cabin — Drew’s Version

Set during Chapter 15.
Drew’s POV.

I. The Drive

The drive to the cabin took two hours and eleven minutes, and Drew Castellano spent every one of them having a conversation with her steering wheel.

Not out loud. She wasn’t unhinged. But the internal monologue had reached a pitch and volume that the steering wheel was the only audience qualified to receive it, on account of being inanimate and therefore unable to judge her for the fact that she had pulled over twice — once to check the cabin booking confirmation, once to buy wildflowers from a roadside stand run by a teenager who’d said “those are nice, who’s the lucky person” and Drew had said “the best hitter in the Pacific Northwest” and the teenager had said “cool” with the magnificent indifference of a sixteen-year-old.

The wildflowers were on the passenger seat. Purple and white, wrapped in brown paper. They looked like something a person who had their life together would buy — casual, effortless, the kind of gesture that said I saw these and thought of you rather than I’ve been planning this night for a week and I am vibrating at a frequency that could shatter glass.

Drew was vibrating at a frequency that could shatter glass.

She’d booked the cabin six days ago. Found it on a rental site at 2 AM, scrolling through listings with one hand while the other pressed the phone to her ear, listening to Sloane breathe in her sleep — the slow, deep rhythm that meant Sloane had fallen asleep mid-conversation again, which happened three or four times a week and which Drew had stopped hanging up on because the sound of Sloane’s breathing was the most calming thing in her life and she wasn’t going to apologize for listening to it.

The listing had shown a queen bed. A fireplace. A deck overlooking the ocean. And something in Drew’s chest had shifted — a tectonic, foundational movement — because every time she’d touched Sloane, every time she’d held her and tasted her and watched her come apart, it had been on concrete. In cages. On hotel beds with Birdie’s stuff on the other nightstand. Against chainlink that left diamond patterns on Sloane’s back.

Drew wanted to give Sloane something that wasn’t concrete. Something that was chosen, not stolen. Something with a fireplace and a bed with too many pillows and the sound of the ocean instead of the buzz of fluorescent lights.

She wanted Sloane to be worshipped somewhere worthy of the worship.

She’d called Ava from the car. Thirty minutes in. Because she needed to hear a voice that wasn’t her own internal monologue.

“I’m nervous,” Drew had said.

“About what?”

“About tonight. Every other time has been fast. Stolen. We’ve never had a full night with no interruptions and no curfew. Tonight it’s just us. All night.”

“You’re terrified because this is the first time you’re not performing,” Ava said, with the clarity of a sister who could see through concrete. “In the cage, you’re the coach. In the hotel, you’re the dominant one running the show. Tonight there’s no show. There’s just you and her and a bed and the real question: can you let her see you when you’re not being useful?”

Drew had gripped the steering wheel. Hard. The old grip. She loosened her fingers consciously.

“What if she doesn’t like the wildflowers?”

“She’ll love the wildflowers. Drive the car. Build the fire. Put the flowers in water. And when she walks through the door, stop trying to earn the moment and just be in it. You’ve spent your whole life catching. Tonight, try throwing.”

Drew pulled into the gravel pad at 6:47 PM. The cabin was small and cedar-shingled and perched on the bluff like it had grown there. The ocean was enormous and indifferent below.

She got out. Held the wildflowers. Looked at the cabin.

Her hands were shaking.

She went inside.

• • •

II. Preparation

The fire took three tries.

Drew had never built a fire in her life — she was a catcher from Ballard, not a frontier woman — and the YouTube tutorial she’d watched that morning had made it look significantly easier than it was. The first attempt produced smoke but no flame. The second produced flame but in the wrong place — the newspaper she’d used as kindling had caught and floated, still burning, onto the cabin’s hardwood floor, prompting thirty seconds of controlled panic and a dish towel. The third attempt, aided by the realization that the flue needed to be open, produced a respectable fire that settled into a low, steady burn.

She stood in front of it and wiped her hands on her jeans and thought: I almost burned down the cabin. Romance.

The bed was next. She stripped the rental sheets — clean but impersonal — and found a set in the closet that smelled like nothing at all, which was better. She made the bed with the same precision she brought to everything: corners tucked, pillow centered, the bedspread smooth. Then she added two more pillows from the closet. Then she took one away. Then she put it back.

She was losing her mind over pillow count.

The wildflowers went into a glass jar she found under the kitchen sink. They looked — fine. They weren’t roses. They weren’t a grand gesture. They were just flowers she’d seen on the side of the road and bought because they were beautiful and Sloane deserved beautiful things.

She showered. Stood in the bathroom afterward and looked at herself in the mirror — really looked. The broad shoulders that made blazers fit wrong. The functional muscle of a body built for catching. The calluses on her palms. The scar from a foul tip near her left collarbone. The skin a shade lighter where the sports bras lived.

Tonight Sloane is going to look at you. In lamplight. With time.

The thought made her want to put on a sweatshirt and never take it off. It also made her want Sloane to see everything.

She put on the flannel. Left it unbuttoned. Sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

At 8:51, tires on gravel. Headlights sweeping across the curtains.

Drew stood. Smoothed her flannel. Crossed the cabin. Her hand on the doorknob. The metal was cold. Her palm was warm.

She opened the door.

Sloane.

And the night began.

• • •

III. Every Inch

Drew had a plan.

Not a rigid one — not a sequence of positions and techniques like a game plan taped to the dugout wall. A framework. An intention.

The intention was: every inch.

She was going to kiss every inch of Sloane Kessler’s body. Not as foreplay. Not as a prelude. As the thing itself. She was going to start at Sloane’s fingertips and work inward and downward until she had mapped the complete territory, and at every stop she was going to say out loud the thing she saw. The thing that made that specific part of Sloane beautiful. The thing she’d been cataloging for months and had never said in full because there was never enough time.

Tonight there was enough time.

She started with the hands.

She sat Sloane on the edge of the bed and knelt in front of her and lifted her right hand and pressed her lips to the inside of her wrist. Sloane’s pulse hammered against Drew’s mouth. She counted it. Ninety-four beats per minute. Elevated. Rising.

“Your pulse,” Drew murmured against the skin. “Ninety-four. I’ve been counting your heart rate since the first night in the cage. A hundred and twelve that night. You were terrified.” She kissed the spot again. “Ninety-four now. Your body trusts me. It’s beating faster because it wants me, not because it’s afraid of me. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for that distinction?”

She moved to Sloane’s fingers. Each one. Both hands. She kissed Sloane’s thumb — the top hand anchor, the finger that set the pressure of the entire grip. “This thumb. You used to press it so hard against the bat that the nail bed went white. I could see it from behind the plate.”

She kissed each index finger. Each knuckle. Told Sloane what each one did in the swing, what each one meant, how each one had changed since the night Drew loosened them. And when she reached the left pinky — the bottom finger of the bottom hand, the last finger to loosen, the one that had held on longest — she pressed her lips to the smallest knuckle and said: “This is my favorite finger on your body, and I’m including the ones that have been inside me.”

Sloane made a sound that was half laugh, half sob.

Arms. Drew worked up the inside of Sloane’s forearms — kissing the tendons that ran like cables, the bend of each elbow where Sloane flinched because she’d never been touched there. Sensitive. File that.

Shoulders. The knots — smaller now, but present. Drew pressed her mouth to each one. Not massaging. Acknowledging. Saying, with her lips against the tension: I see where you carry it. I’m here.

“You’ve been carrying the world in your shoulders since you were six years old,” Drew said. “And you’ve never once asked anyone to help you hold it.”

“I’m asking now,” Sloane whispered.

Drew’s chest cracked. A clean break. The kind that healed stronger.

She moved to Sloane’s chest. Unclasped the bra. And Drew’s internal experience of seeing Sloane bare in firelight — not fluorescent, not the harsh light of cages and hotels — was different from anything she’d prepared for. The light turned Sloane’s skin golden. Her freckles became constellations. Her breasts were small and perfect and Drew wanted to put her mouth on them with an urgency that bordered on religious.

She didn’t. Not yet. She kissed the sternum first. The flat bone between the breasts, where the heart beat closest to the surface.

“Your heartbeat. A hundred and six. Going up.” She pressed her lips to the spot. “I love knowing I’m close enough to count the beats.”

She circled. The concentric approach — each orbit tighter, each kiss closer to the center. From the inside, the patience was annihilating. Drew wanted to skip ahead. Wanted to close her mouth over Sloane’s nipple and suck and hear the sound she knew Sloane would make. But tonight wasn’t about what Drew wanted. It was about what Sloane needed: to be seen completely before being touched where it mattered.

When Drew’s mouth finally found Sloane’s nipple, the sound Sloane made went through her like a current — straight from her ears to her core. Drew’s thighs clenched. Her own arousal — building since the wrist-kissing, since the I’m asking now — spiked so sharply she had to press her knees together.

She was soaked. Had been for twenty minutes. And she hadn’t been touched. Wasn’t going to ask to be touched. Because making Sloane feel this way was doing more to Drew’s nervous system than direct stimulation ever had.

She spent what felt like hours on Sloane’s breasts. Cataloging each response. The gasp when she used her teeth. The moan when she sucked firmly. The sharp, high cry when she bit the underside curve. File that. Teeth. Harder than she thinks she likes.

Lower. Stomach. Ribs. Each hip bone — kissed slowly, open-mouthed. These were hers. These hip bones belonged to Drew the way third base belonged to a coach.

“I’ve been obsessed with your hips since the first at-bat,” Drew said, her voice rough. The composure was thinning. “The rotation. The power that starts here. I’ve spent two years watching it from sixty feet away wanting to put my mouth exactly here.”

She put her mouth exactly there. Sloane’s back arched off the bed.

• • •

IV. The Edge

Drew’s hands were shaking when she reached the waistband of Sloane’s jeans.

Not from nervousness — she was past nervousness. She was shaking from restraint. From forty-five minutes of focused worship while her own body screamed for contact. Her underwear was ruined. Her clit was throbbing. She hadn’t been touched and wasn’t going to be touched and didn’t care because the sounds Sloane was making were better than touching. The sounds were everything.

She unbuttoned Sloane’s jeans. Pulled them down. Sloane lifted her hips. The underwear followed. And Sloane was bare. Completely. In firelight.

Drew looked at her.

The word beautiful was insufficient. Sloane Kessler, naked on white sheets, hair loose, eyes bright, body flushed from sustained attention. Every muscle visible. Every curve mapped. The evidence of a lifetime of athleticism written in the lean lines of her body, and the evidence of three months of letting go written in the softness of her face.

She looked like freedom.

“Eyes on me,” Drew said. Her voice was barely recognizable. “I want you to watch me.”

Sloane watched.

Drew lowered herself between Sloane’s legs. Hands on her inner thighs, pressing them apart. Sloane was wet — visibly, extensively, glistening in the firelight. Drew breathed her in and her vision blurred. This is what it smells like to be trusted completely.

She pressed her mouth to Sloane’s inner thigh. Not the center — not yet. The thigh. An inch away. A kiss that said almost and soon.

Sloane’s thigh trembled against Drew’s mouth.

Drew kissed closer. The crease of the thigh. The hollow where leg met center.

And then — there. The first touch. Her tongue, flat and slow, tracing the full length of Sloane’s center.

From inside Drew’s body, the sensation was explosive. The taste of Sloane — warm, salt-sweet, devastating — triggered a cascade that started in her mouth and ended between her own thighs. Her hips pressed into the mattress involuntarily. She moaned against Sloane, the vibration traveling through sensitive flesh, and Sloane cried out above her.

She likes the vibration. The moan against her. Remember that.

Drew cataloged everything. The catcher’s instinct. She tracked which strokes made Sloane gasp, which made her moan, and which made her go silent — the held-breath silence that preceded the biggest waves.

When the silence came too early, Drew eased back. Slowed the rhythm. Pulled Sloane from the edge.

“Not yet,” Drew murmured. The vibration made Sloane whimper. “I want more of this. More time.”

“Drew — please —”

“I know. You’re going to come so hard when I let you. But not yet. Stay with me.”

She built Sloane up again. Methodically. Tongue and lips and relentless attention. She brought Sloane to the edge three times. Pulled her back three times. Each time the sounds got louder, the trembling more violent, the begging more explicit.

“Drew — I can’t — I need — please, I’m —”

“What do you need? Tell me.”

“Inside me. Your fingers. I need to feel you inside me. Please. Please.“

The words went through Drew like a lit fuse.

She slid two fingers inside Sloane.

The feeling of Sloane clenching around her fingers — tight, hot, the muscular grip of a body wound to the breaking point — nearly made Drew come. Untouched. From the sensation alone. Her hips ground into the mattress and she made a sound against Sloane that was pure want.

She curled her fingers. Found the spot — the textured ridge she’d mapped weeks ago. Sloane’s body jackknifed. Her hands flew from the sheets to Drew’s hair. Her mouth opened but no sound came out.

The silence. The held breath. The diver going under.

Drew sealed her mouth over Sloane’s clit and sucked in rhythm with her fingers and said, against her: “Let go. You’re safe. I’ve got you. Let go.”

Sloane let go.

The orgasm was tectonic. Drew felt it through her fingers and her mouth and the press of her forehead against Sloane’s hip — deep, rolling contractions that started in Sloane’s core and radiated outward in waves. Sloane screamed. Full volume, full lungs, Drew’s name and something that wasn’t a word. The sound filled the cabin and mixed with the crash of the ocean outside.

Drew held on. Worked her through it. Gentled her fingers, softened her mouth, rode the aftershocks. She felt Sloane pulse around her fingers — once, twice, a third time — and each pulse drew a smaller sound until Sloane’s voice was a whisper and her body was liquid.

Drew climbed up the bed. Gathered Sloane into her arms.

And felt the tears start.

Not Sloane’s. Hers.

Drew Castellano was crying. She hadn’t planned to. The tears came from the same deep, sealed place they always came from with Sloane — the twelve-year-old place, the place that opened when someone trusted her completely. But tonight they were different. Tonight she had just spent forty-five minutes pouring herself into another person — every ounce of attention, every fragment of love she’d been accumulating for two years — and had felt, in the moment of Sloane’s release, the full weight of that love reflected back.

This is what throwing feels like, she thought. Not catching. Throwing. Giving everything you have and trusting someone to receive it.

Ava had told her to try it. She’d tried it. And the result was this: a cabin on the coast, a woman in her arms, and the staggering feeling of being exactly where she was supposed to be.

• • •

V. Rounds

They made love two more times.

The second time, Sloane was on top. Drew lay on her back with her hand between them, fingers inside Sloane, and watched — from below, from the angle she’d never had in the cage or the hotel, the angle that revealed the full architecture of Sloane’s body in motion.

Sloane rode her hand with the same athletic precision she brought to her swing. Setting her own pace. Finding her own angle. Rising and falling with the controlled, powerful rhythm of an athlete who understood her body’s mechanics and was applying that knowledge to the pursuit of her own pleasure.

Drew watched her face. This was the thing she hadn’t seen before — Sloane taking. Not receiving, not surrendering, not letting Drew lead. Taking. Actively, intentionally pursuing pleasure with the same focused determination she pursued a fastball. Her jaw was set. Her eyes were half-closed. Her hips moved in circles that were precise and devastating, and each one drew Drew’s fingers deeper and Drew’s sanity further from shore.

This is what she looks like free, Drew thought. This is the woman who was inside the grip the whole time.

“You’re beautiful,” Drew said. Looking up at her. Not the coaching voice, not the cage voice. Just her own voice, raw and awed. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sloane’s rhythm faltered. Her eyes opened. She looked down at Drew with an expression that was equal parts desire and something deeper — the expression of a woman hearing praise she’d spent her life starving for, from the one person whose opinion had become the only opinion that mattered.

“Say that again,” Sloane whispered.

“Beautiful. Extraordinary. Mine.“

Sloane came with Drew’s fingers inside her and Drew’s eyes on her face and the firelight painting her skin in gold. She came loudly, unashamedly, her head thrown back and her body clenching and the sound of Drew’s name filling the room like a bell being struck.

Drew held her through it and felt something shift inside her own chest. Not the crack from earlier — something quieter. A settling. The feeling of a foundation finding bedrock. She was lying beneath the woman she loved watching her experience pleasure, and the sight of it — unfiltered, unperformed, Sloane in her purest state — was doing something to Drew that she would spend years trying to articulate and never fully succeed.

It was enough. Just watching. Just being the surface Sloane rested on. Just providing the hands that Sloane moved against. It was enough in the way that catching had always been enough — not flashy, not visible, but essential. The thing the whole system rested on.

• • •

The third time was slow.

They lay on their sides, Drew behind Sloane. Spooned. Drew’s arm around Sloane’s waist, her hand between Sloane’s legs, her mouth against the back of Sloane’s neck. The position was intimate in a way that their other configurations weren’t — not face-to-face, not the athletic tangle of bodies competing for angles. Just two women lying together in the dark, one holding the other from behind, the firelight gone to embers and the cabin lit only by the faint gray wash of moonlight through the curtains.

Drew’s fingers moved slowly. No urgency. No building toward a peak. Just the constant, gentle, rhythmic pressure of a hand that knew exactly where to be and exactly how much to give.

And she talked. Into the back of Sloane’s neck. Against the fine hair at her nape, her lips forming words that traveled through skin and bone and settled directly into Sloane’s nervous system.

“You were enough when you were six,” Drew whispered. “Enough when you were sixteen. Enough every time you stepped into the box and swung for a man who couldn’t see what he had. You were enough when he died, and you were enough every day after, and you are enough right now, in this bed, in my arms, exactly as you are.”

Her fingers moved. Slow circles. Steady pressure. The rhythm of a heartbeat.

“Not the hitter. Not the stat line. You. Sloane. The woman who laughs in batting cages and cries when she’s held and grips everything too tight because she’s afraid it’ll leave.”

Sloane’s breath was hitching. Not from the orgasm building — from the words. The words were doing more than the fingers. The words were reaching the place that fingers couldn’t touch.

“Nothing is leaving,” Drew said. Her lips pressed to the ridge of Sloane’s spine. “I’m not leaving. You can let go of everything. I will still be here when your hands are empty.”

Sloane came quietly. Not a scream, not a cry. A long, shuddering exhale that Drew felt through her fingers and her chest simultaneously. The gentle, full-body release of a woman who had been held at the intersection of physical pleasure and emotional safety and had let both wash over her at once.

And then — Sloane reached back.

Drew hadn’t been expecting it. She’d been focused entirely on Sloane, the way she was always focused on Sloane. But Sloane’s hand found her. Slipped between Drew’s thighs from behind. And Drew was so wet, so sensitized from hours of providing pleasure, that the first touch of Sloane’s fingers on her clit sent a bolt through her body that made her gasp against Sloane’s shoulder.

“Let me,” Sloane whispered. Not turning around. Just reaching back. Firm, direct, none of the teasing Drew used on her. The straightforward, competent touch of a woman who had studied Drew’s responses with perfectionist focus.

Drew came in under a minute. Fast, sudden, the orgasm arriving with no warning — the instant, full-body detonation of a woman who had been aroused for two hours and touched for thirty seconds. She made the sound — the high, helpless one that was nothing like her catcher’s voice — and pressed her face into Sloane’s hair and shook.

Sloane held her hand through it. Didn’t say a word. Just maintained the contact, riding Drew through the aftershocks, while Drew’s tears soaked into auburn hair.

• • •

VI. After

Sloane slept.

Drew didn’t. Not yet.

She lay in the dark with Sloane’s breathing against her chest and thought about the future. Not logistics — not cities or leases or coaching jobs. The feeling of it. What it would be like to have this every night. To hold Sloane and hear this breathing and know that the morning would bring coffee in a kitchen and a practice bat in the corner and the long, ordinary business of building a life together in daylight.

She thought about the cage. The fluorescent lights. The concrete floor where they’d started. The ugly, industrial, midnight cathedral where two women had found each other and built something that didn’t need the dark anymore.

She thought about Ava. Try throwing. Drew had thrown. Everything. Her whole self, into a woman who caught it. Who held it. Who looked at it and said this is exactly what I needed and meant the person, not the performance.

Drew pressed her lips to Sloane’s hair. Breathed her in. Salt and citrus and cedar and the warm, intoxicating scent of a woman who had been thoroughly, devastatingly loved.

Home, Drew thought.

Not the cabin. Not the apartment in Ballard. Not the cage, not the diamond, not any of the places she’d lived and played and caught.

Home was here. In this bed. With this woman. In the space between letting go and holding on.

Drew closed her eyes.

She whispered, to no one and to everyone: “Enough.“

She slept.

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Aurora North