Deep Desire (Going Deep Book 4)

by Virna DePaul

  For a brief moment, thoughts of Gabe as a client threatened to morph into thoughts of Gabe as far more to her. No surprise there.

  Since he’d walked her home, she’d dreamed of him. And none of those dreams had anything to do with football, and everything to do with being naked and devouring one another.

  Determinedly, she pushed those thoughts away. Not exactly what she wanted to be thinking about when she saw her father.

  “Knock, knock,” Zoe said when she reached her father’s open door.

  He was sitting up in bed with his hands folded over his lap. His hair seemed even grayer and thinner than when she’d last seen him, and his cheeks looked more sunken, making Zoe choke up. All her life, her father had been the epitome of physicality and stamina—a man’s man, a great athlete. To see him this way broke Zoe’s heart into a million pieces.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said, taking his hand, shaking it gently. “I’m Zoe, your daughter.”

  Over time, she’d learned to open conversations this way. Alzheimer’s patients could get confused and frustrated easily if their family members just started talking, assuming they knew what was going on.

  “I have a daughter?” Kip Reynolds asked in a frail voice, his mouth partially open in surprise at the news.

  Zoe pulled up a chair and took The Grapes of Wrath out of her purse. It was her father’s favorite book. “Yes, you do, and she’s pretty great, too.” Zoe forced out a laugh. It took time and practice not to take responses like these personally, but she’d have been lying if she said it didn’t affect her.

  She wanted the miracle all family members of people with Alzheimer’s wanted—to come in one day and discover that their loved one actually recognized them. Most days Zoe was happy if Dad just smiled. Sometimes she could make that happen by reading to him. “I’m going to read from your favorite book. Grapes of Wrath.”

  “My favorite book is by Plato,” Kip said.

  No, it wasn’t. As far as she knew, he’d never even read anything by Plato, but she just smiled and said, “This might be by Plato, who knows.” There was never any point in arguing with him. When she walked through the doors of Savannah Oaks, it was into her father’s reality, not hers.

  Her father made a sound deep in his throat, as if trying to clear it. As she opened the book to one of his favorite passages, he faced the window.

  “Anyway, let’s see how you like it.” She took a deep breath. “’And in the eyes of the people there is the failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people, the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy…’”

  “Growing heavy for the vintage,” he said softly.

  She looked up from the book and stared at her father. The way the sunlight lit up his profile made him seem like an angel glowing from within. Zoe held down a wave of emotion in her chest. “Yes,” she said. “Growing heavy for the vintage.”

  It made her so sad to think of what people who admired her father would think if they could see him, Gabe included. Her mother had been right—before she’d died last year of a massive stroke, she’d told her children it was better not to let people know about their father’s Alzheimer’s. It would completely alter their view of him, and Zoe wanted his legacy as one of the greatest athletes of all time to live on. Yes, the truth was nobody lived forever, but there was no reason to humiliate the man and show everyone just how much he had degraded.

  Her father wouldn’t have wanted that.

  And so this was his death sentence—living out his days at this memory care home, wondering where he was every morning when he woke up, who these people were around him, why some of them seemed vaguely familiar.

  Alzheimer’s was a cruel, insidious disease. But as usual, she kept her chin up and continued reading. Every so often, her father would nod or utter a word to the passage.

  “How did you like Plato?” she asked when she was done reading.

  Her father turned to her, hazel eyes analyzing the young woman sitting next to him. “You mean John Steinbeck.”

  Tears brimmed in Zoe’s eyes. “Yes, Dad. John Steinbeck.”

  After seeing her father, Zoe had planned on squeezing in a workout for herself for a change, but at the last minute she decided to go home and catch up on the sleep she’d missed the last two nights thanks to her boiling house. It wasn’t too hot yet, and with the fan blowing directly on her, she might be able to catch some Zs and even forget her troubles for a while.

  Did that mean she was depressed?

  Maybe, but so be it. Besides, she’d emailed with Gabe yesterday and they’d hammered out a tentative schedule, with his training officially beginning in four days. That meant being on, being vigilant, being in total control so she didn’t make another mistake like the one she’d made the night she’d invited him into her house for…water.

  She mentally snorted.

  Right, like that’s what you really wanted to give him, Zoe.

  On the drive home she pushed Gabe from her thoughts. When she walked from her car to her house she pushed him from her thoughts. When she took off her clothes, pulling on just a thin T-shirt without any underwear, she pushed him from her thoughts.

  But as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the white noise of the fan beside her, Zoe finally had to admit it: Gabe wasn’t going anywhere. He was stuck firmly in her consciousness and he had been since the day she met him.

  But if she couldn’t beat him, why not enjoy him?

  Telling herself it was perfectly okay to masturbate to images of Gabe—she’d done so even before she’d met him thanks to that soap commercial she’d seen numerous times—Zoe lowered her hand between her legs. She pictured him in the shower cleaning himself off with soap. She pictured him when he’d been working out at Iron Maiden, so damn strong and sexy. She pictured him when he was in her house, looking so fine she’d wanted to jump up, wrap her legs around him, and kiss him for hours. By the time she pictured Gabe lying between her legs, their sweating bodies moving together till the springs gave out on her bed, she was close to coming.

  Just a little more. She whimpered as she circled her clit in firm circles.

  That’s it. Yes, Gabe. Please, fuck me. Please…

  A shrill ringing caused her eyes to fly open.

  Her phone. Groaning, she paused to catch her breath, then dragged herself to her nightstand to pick up her phone in case there was an emergency with her father.

  But the number on the screen wasn’t Savannah Oaks’s—it was Gabe’s.

  “Shit,” she muttered under her breath as she used her free hand to fling a cotton sheet over her body. She could still see her hard nipples as clear (and as horny) as day and she hastily threw an arm over her chest despite her being completely alone in her bedroom.

  Finally, when she felt she’d composed herself enough, she answered but ended up wincing at how breathy her "Hello?" came out.

  "Zoe?"

  "Uh, yes, hi Gabe,” she said, trying to control her racing heart that threatened to leap out of her sweat covered chest. "Hi, hey, hi there."

  "Um, is this a bad time?" Gabe asked, concern in his voice.

  Zoe lifted her head to peel her dampened hair from the back of her neck. "No, no, now is great," she assured him. "Why? I mean, why would you ask? Um, why? Is everything alright?"

  Zoe smacked her palm over her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut.

  "Well, you just sound a little out of breath," Gabe answered. "Did I catch you in the middle of a…workout?"

  If by working out he meant 1) working the fingers she’d moistened with her mouth over and over her clit while imagining it was Gabe's tongue; or 2) the muscles of her lower stomach spasming as she imagined it was Gabe's teeth and not her own fingers pinching her nipple; or 3) her back arching as she imagined Gabe's cock pushing deep inside her as she rushed toward her orgasm, then yes, Gabe had definitely caught her in the middle of a workout. Hell, her heart rate had been approaching the red zone, the muscle
s of her inner thighs were still contracted, and she was covered in more sweat than when she did five minutes straight of burpees.

  Zoe's cheeks burned as if Gabe had actually walked in on her naked and moaning and pleasuring herself, and her imagination went wild as she pictured how he might respond.

  Would he slam the door and mumble a hasty apology?

  Would he linger in the doorway, his eyes tracing her fully exposed body as his pupils widened and his cock hardened?

  Would he palm his erection, unable to stop himself as he took in the sight of her hand digging greedily into the swell of her own breast, nipple hard and eager for his touch between her fingers?

  Would his eyes, just a ring of stormy blue around a wide, black pupil, move down to her wet pussy between her clenched thighs?

  Would he lick his lips as he slowly closed the door behind him then—

  "Zoe? Zoe, hello?"

  "Huh?" Zoe blinked and yanked her hand from beneath the sheet where it had been trailing down her sweat slick stomach toward the driving need between her legs.

  "You still there?"

  "Yeah, yeah, I'm, um, I'm still here," she stammered.

  "Oh, well, alright." Gabe was obviously confused by her rather odd behavior. "I just thought I might have lost you for a second."

  No, Zoe was far from lost. In fact, she knew exactly where she was: in deep fucking shit.

  And she needed to get off the phone with Gabe right now before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

  "Um, Gabe, hey, I, um, I actually was in the middle of a… " Zoe bit down on her knuckle before managing to force out, "um, a workout and I, um, I should get back to it before my heart rate lowers and all that, you know?"

  "Sure, sure," Gabe answered. "I was just calling because you suggested I see an acupuncturist. Do you have one you’d recommend? I know I didn’t seem very open to it when you mentioned it, but what can I say? I’ll try anything if it means getting back to 100%.”

  Well that wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, and she wondered why he’d called her when he could have just emailed or texted, but she simply rattled off the name and number of her own acupuncturist.

  “Thanks. So I’ll see you in a few days.”

  He would actually see her at practice tomorrow, but she didn't waste time telling him that. “See you then, Gabe.” Zoe hung up and exhaled loudly as she flailed her arms out beside her on the bed, her cell phone tumbling to the floor.

  Then she started her workout again, not stopping until thoughts of Gabe had her whimpering, arching off the bed, and coming hard.

  Chapter 6

  “Blue, thirty-two! Blue thirty-two!”

  Gabe leaped off the line and sprinted right, slicing past his defender with ease, focus as clear as glass. Right on cue, he turned his head to track the ball through the blaze of the early morning sun. A rush of adrenaline coursed through him, as he plucked the pigskin out of the air and poured it on in a controlled dash to the end zone, untouched.

  “Nice one, Murphy,” Coach called out.

  He nodded.

  Day one of practice with the Bootleggers, and they’d been at it for a couple hours, first with stretches and warm-ups and now with some scrimmage. He’d already met his teammates and done his social duty by making semi-polite small talk, but this was why he was here. His shoulder felt good, and Zoe was partially responsible for that despite the fact they hadn’t even started officially working together.

  For the past few days, he’d worked out on his own, but mostly he’d concentrated on the mobility and stability exercises that Zoe had shown him the day he’d met her. He’d noticed a difference already, a flexibility that he hadn’t attained by working with the physical therapist and trainer in Chicago.

  He’d only trained with Zoe once and already she’d done good.

  Too good, in fact. Not only had she imprinted herself in his memory because of what she could do as a trainer, but he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head for other reasons as well. Those smiles he’d seen at the bar… He’d been right—those dimples had come out while playing darts, when he’d made a mental note to try and make her laugh more often. After he’d walked her home and headed back to the bar to pick up his car, all he’d been able to think about was how dangerous it had been to accept her invitation to enter her house. Even before that, he’d been having a hard time keeping the lines between professional and not-so professional from blurring. While he felt bad for Zoe, he'd never been more grateful for a broken A/C in his entire life. Because while he’d wanted so badly to touch her, caress her hair, trail his fingers down her arms, cup her perfect breasts, and squeeze the supple swells of her mind-blowing ass—he couldn’t.

  He was not going to be distracted by Zoe any more than he already was.

  He had to get Zoe Reynolds out of his head. She was his trainer and nothing else.

  Though he felt strong today, he still wasn’t as resilient as before his injury, and he was going to need all the help he could get from her.

  It didn’t seem to matter how much he reminded himself to stop thinking of Zoe, however. Because while the rest of the morning went great, by lunchtime, random thoughts of her kept barreling into his head without warning, and he missed every other opportunity to catch the ball. Creamy skin, eyes like sparkling jade stones…he’d never seen green eyes that vibrant, sultry and mischievous. Sexy as fuck. Plus, she had a way of standing that was both athletic and feminine at the same time, and just when you thought she was straight as a board from one angle, from another, her curves popped out to play. It didn’t take much for him to slip into fantasies about her, just the way it had when she’d answered her phone sounding breathless from her workout. His two favorite replays were him tangling his fingers in her long, thick ponytail as he took her from behind and peach juice dripping down his chin as he buried his face in between her thighs for hours.

  “Hey, Murphy, good job out there.”

  Gabe looked up to see Heath Dawson reaching out to give him a high-five. Dawson was one of the Bootlegger’s established wide receivers and someone Gabe had always admired even before meeting him. Far from feeling threatened by Gabe, the other man had gone out of his way to make Gabe feel welcome.

  “Thanks.” Gabe jogged back two steps to connect hands with him, but moved along quickly. Not here to make friends, he reminded himself. The longer it took for him to know people, the easier it’d be when it was time to move on.

  Sad as hell to think that way, but it was a fact. A fact of the NFL.

  Lunch was catered by a local BBQ restaurant that was supposed to be amazing, but Gabe headed straight for the roasted chicken and greens, nothing else. He didn’t need his body struggling to absorb all that sugary sauce and fatty fries when he was trying to rebuild broken muscle.

  “You miss Chi-town?”

  Someone was talking to him. “I’m sorry?” Gabe looked up from the steel bin holding drinks to see quarterback Kyle Young, a tall guy about his height with dark hair. Last year, Young had been in the headlines, not for his prowess at football but because he’d gotten engaged to a bona fide princess. By all accounts, they split time between the United States and her European kingdom.

  Young laughed under his breath. “I said, do you miss Chicago? I bet you’re stoked about being in warmer weather instead of blizzard town, this major heat wave aside.”

  “No, not really,” Gabe said, taking a seat at one of the long benches in the dining hall. “Got family back there.” In addition to Mimi and Pop, he also thought he’d had friends in Chicago, but though he’d reached out a couple of times himself, most hadn’t made much effort to stay in touch.

  “Ah. I get it. I’m originally from New York. Small town took me a while to get used to, but you’ll love it here. You’ll see.”

  “Cool. Thanks.” Gabe wasn’t in the mood to talk. He’d been slowing down as the morning wore on, which needed to be remedied in the second half of the day. It didn’t help that he’d had a part
icularly hot dream of Zoe last night. His body aching, he’d been about to take care of himself in the shower, but he’d forced himself not to. He’d already masturbated to her once; making it a habit would be a dangerous road to start on. So would doing things like calling her just to hear her voice, something he’d done when he’d gotten her recommendation for an acupuncturist, when he should have just emailed her. No more. He needed to stop thinking of Zoe that way, not make it a habit.

  After lunch, practice went fine. He caught most passes but kept slowing down near the end zone. To be fair, he wasn’t the only guy slowing down, but that was no excuse. He wasn’t like the others—he was Gabe Murphy of the Noise…fuck…of the Bootleggers, and he needed to stand out in the best way possible.

  Nearing four o’clock, they’d just started another scrimmage when Gabe spotted Murph in the stands, sitting with …oohh, fuuuuck…

  Zoe. Why was she here?

  No sooner did he have the thought than the ball connected with his helmet.

  Wow. Did that really happen?

  Despite his embarrassment, Gabe shook it off and knocked on his helmet a few times, then gave everyone a thumb’s up.

  They finished the play.

  “It’s okay, Gabe! Come on, you can do this!” Murph shouted.

  No—just no. He shook his head at her, launching silent missiles her way to get her to shut up. He did not need little sis cheering him on right now.

  As Gabe ran back to the huddle to hear the next play, he told himself to focus. He'd had tens of thousands of people watching him live Sunday after Sunday and that wasn't even counting the millions watching on television around the world. What did he care if one woman he barely knew watched, too?