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He possessively palms my ass again, but this time he strokes into me in one swift thrust. Oh God. He’s so thick and hard, and it’s been a long, long time for me, so he’s not all the way in. But already I feel so, so full of him, his wide girth a searingly luscious intrusion. More.
I whip my legs around his hips and dig my heels into his butt. He grunts—a long, drawn-out one that could pass for a groan—and its timbre vibrates through me down there.
His mouth crashes into mine, and a hand trails up my waist and cups a breast as he slowly pulls out. God, the drag of his cock away from me makes me even more desperate, even though I know he’ll be back. But it can’t be soon enough. I press my heels into him again, urging him back inside, just barely restraining from beating against his ass in my jittery, impatient anticipation. He slams back into me. Fully seated. Fully filling me.
We both still. And shudder. Holy shit. He’s huge.
“Thanks,” he grunts.
Mortification that I voiced that out loud burns up my skin, but it can’t compare to the urgency racing through my blood, pinging against me for release, starting from where he fills me so deliciously. I don’t care anymore. I just want him to fuck me. Fuck me hard.
“I plan to,” he drawls.
Good God. I’m hopeless, but it doesn’t matter because he’s pounding into me, his generous, rigid length relentless as it sears into me over and over, our greedy mouths kissing any surface we can reach.
Our breathy pants and needy hands are everywhere. We’re practically tearing each other apart in our desperation. Both of us chasing the orgasm. One of my high heels flings across the room, landing with a smack.
He growls against my neck, “God, please tell me you’re—”
At the same time I gasp, “I’m about to come!”
A tiny part of me is sitting in a corner—round-eyed and mouth agape—that I’m now a talker during sex. A dirty talker.
Then the orgasm that’s been hurtling toward me bursts inside.
Wow. Guess I’m a screamer too.
Chapter Four
Pepper
My Volvo’s tires scrunch over gravel as I pull in next to an overabundance of trucks, all clustered in packs under the shade cast by the live oaks lining the parking lot. I grab my field kit and car blanket and walk fast enough across the lot to reach the next patch of shade, but not so fast to work up a sweat. The Spanish moss dangling from the trees hangs like festive lace in the still but sultry air.
At the gate in the chain link fence bordering the soccer fields, I transfer the bag to my left hand and squeeze through. Shouts beyond the copse of trees ahead indicate which direction I need to steer toward.
The grass is squishy-wet from an afternoon sun shower, here and gone before you can even think of getting an umbrella, but leaving behind a languid mugginess. Nothing can diffuse my happiness, though. My body is deliciously sore from all the sexing yesterday, and I giggle just thinking that I can actually make such a statement. A newfound power, and heat, rushes through me, lending my steps a certain perkiness.
Rick and I did make it to his bed, where we tried out moves horizontally and other ways. Damn, that lawyer knew his way around the sack.
It was a new side of me. And I love it.
Hallelujah, I’m not cold. I’m not my parents. I’d just been asleep for a long time, sexually. At one point with Rick, my stomach growled. He launched out of bed and pulled me into the kitchen, where he chopped up veggies, threw some meat in a pan, and whipped up a late lunch as if it was nothing.
Part of me regrets my deal with him, but I’m squeezing that part to a pulp. The last thing I need right now as I embark on my career—finally—is a relationship. The older doctors in my practice are definitely wary of my age and judgment. You could practically see the words hanging above their heads like comic book thought bubbles—She’s so young. Can she be professional? Should we risk it? What if she gets married? Will she again write prescriptions cavalierly?—popping up over their heads as they looked at each other and then back at me during the initial interview. Plus, I’m only a locum, filling in for a Dr. Tekin while he’s on medical leave. They’re using this as an opportunity to test me out before they expand their practice next year.
The emotional rollercoaster of my residency taught me how to maintain a delicate balance of calm detachment, and even the mild, textbook relationship with Phil had ruffled that hard-won veneer. In the end, it hadn’t even been worth the trouble, while it also got me into so much trouble. So with someone like Rick? Who already made me feel so much? I could lose my compass before I’ve even established my bearings here.
Up ahead, I see my new patients—a fit bunch of guys hitting a white ball around a soccer field with what looks like a pregnant hockey stick. Another reason my happy glow can’t be dimmed? This hurling team represents my first consultation as a bona fide doctor. It’s going to go great, despite the fact that the guy who poured Diet Coke down my winning science fair project will be there. Luke Haas. Or Haashole, as I called him. Yeah, I noticed that name on the roster passed along to our office.
Yes. Yesterday’s fling was just what the doctor ordered. I know, bad pun. But the fling proved something to me, and now I can start my new life in my old hometown looking forward instead of backward, ready to unleash my not-cold self when I’m ready and able. To indulge now would be irresponsible.
Luke
I’m late, and I don’t do late. I don’t do mistakes either. Ever. And taking Pepper home had been a mistake.
Yesterday, as it was happening, I somehow rationalized all of it, but the reality of exactly how much I fucked up slammed into me as soon as I walked her back to the coffee shop and kissed her goodbye. Yeah, I’d followed her lead. But she didn’t have all the facts.
It wasn’t right.
Well, the sex was right. More than right. Which makes this all wrong. So wrong.
As Shepherd Book in Firefly would say, I’m going to the special hell.
I pull sharply into a parking spot and yank up on the hand brake.
I’m gonna come clean, though. Find her, call her, and fess up. Yeah, she’ll never want to speak to me again, but I knew that going in, didn’t I? Dumb fucker that I am, I thought it’d be worth it just to spend time with her without her seeing me as an asshole. And then, good God, when she leaned forward and said in her sex kitten voice, “Let’s have sex,” I was a goner. A missile shot out of the rocket launcher of inevitability.
And now I have a goddamn boner.
I slam my door shut next to a blue Volvo that looks out of place, grab my gear from the back, and stride toward the gate and the gap in the trees ahead. Beyond is the clear field where our team practices.
Yeah, I’m gonna come clean, but first I have to find her. I’d spent the rest of my evening after she left running searches and calling in a few favors. So far…nothing. But when I find her, then…then I’ll…fuck, I don’t know, but it needs to be on the John Cusack with boom box level.
Fuck, I can’t face the guys with a hard-on. I palm and spin the sliotar, my fingertips brushing the soft white leather. The words in black font, “O’Neills All-Ireland,” come into focus on every other spin.
My phone rings from my gym bag. I’d ignore it, especially since I’m late, but I’m expecting an important call. “Haas,” I grunt out. Then silently curse myself for making such a non-civvie greeting. “This is Luke Haas.”
The sponsorship liaison with Langfield Corporation chirps across the connection, and I sift through her spiel, waiting for the magic words that’ll earn my spot on the team. It’s the call I’ve been waiting for all week. And then she says them— “…and so we’re budgeting sponsorship funds this year. I’ll have the contract pulled up and sent over. Honestly, I thought you were crazy proposing this. Hurling? But it turns out the CEO is totally fascinated with anything Irish, so…”
Yeah, not an accident. I’d drawn up a spreadsheet of all the major corporations in Sarasota and meticul
ously researched the interests of their CEOs. A longshot, but the research paid off upon discovering Scott Langfield is a frustrated Celtic scholar. It’s amazing what you can discover on Google. Hadn’t even needed to call in favors to find out this shit. From there it was a simple matter of drawing up a tactical plan.
I do a mental fist pump, but her next words yank me up short. “He’s a little nervous with this being such a new sport here in the US. Corporate image and all. Can’t afford lawsuits. So one of the requirements for securing the sponsorship is to submit all the players to a pre-participation physician examination to make sure everyone’s fit, as well as a drug screening.”
Cue eye roll. No problem there. We’re all a fit bunch of guys. The physical demands of the sport require it. Besides, we’d all agreed to treat it like a pro sport—go big or go home, right? I memorize the rest of the details and hang up, eager to dispense with that formality. Whatever Mr. Langfield needs, I’ll do.
Yes. Now my team can afford to send all fifteen of us to the division playoffs in Atlanta, and, if we win, to the national playoffs in Chicago. Most of us have our basic gear, but for some the travel, on top of the time off from work, was going to be hard to swing. This sponsorship can also pay for the flight from Ireland for the trainer we’ve wanted to put on the final polish.
While the national playoffs are still a ways off, we couldn’t even think of going until we secured financing. And now we have it, after we meet his stipulations. Shouldn’t be hard.
And for me, well, it just lets me extend this band of brothers thing for a bit longer.
I’ve no sooner hung up when it rings again, the ring tone announcing it’s the private security firm I freelance with. Typically, I keep my season clear, so the fact that they’re calling means it’s important.
“Haas.”
“Hate to tap you,” Dennis says, “but we need a body with your skill set, and Frank is on another assignment.”
“Hit me.” When I discharged with honor from the Navy, since I didn’t stay in long enough for a pension, I did what many with my special forces training do—hired myself out as a close protection officer. A bodyguard.
The rich snowbirds keep me booked solid during the winter—enough income to allow me the spring and summer off to do hurling.
“Slaine’ll be here in a week for a show at the Van Wezel. He’s requested a bodyguard for his stay, which includes several high-profile fundraising dinners and other meet and greets. Before he arrives, we need you to run background checks on all the people he’s scheduled to meet, scout the locations to assess the security and recommend upgrades, and supplement his usual entourage.”
All pretty standard for a rock star of his stature. “Is he expecting any trouble?”
“Nothing outside of what he normally attracts, no.”
I snort. Yeah, that dude always has some story in the papers. “When and how much?”
Because isn’t that what it always comes down to? I memorize the details, and since both the timing and the money work for me, I agree. This new work moves another chip into play—I can use the money to front the expenses for the Irish trainer and the uniforms until the sponsorship money comes through. And if it doesn’t, we’re still covered. And I’ll narrow the margin for error and prove my worth to the team.
Bodyguard work doesn’t come close to the satisfaction I felt working as a SEAL, but like hurling, it keeps me fit, mentally and physically.
I never want to lose that edge.
I’d fought hard for that edge. The fear of failure had driven me through the training, and once I made the teams, the expectations placed on my performance honed it into a razor sharp, lethal edge.
Not bad for a poor, trailer-park kid.
But while the bodyguard gig utilizes some of my unique skill set, it lacks one major component—working as a team. No camaraderie. Enter—hurling.
Pepper
Wham!
In front of me, a player slams into another, who stumbles to the side, his hand striking the ground and saving him from a complete fall. I’d been leaning back on my hands, but I straighten, cross my legs on the blanket, and lean forward. I’d heard of hurling but had never seen it played. The rules seem whacked, but my first impression is that it’s a rougher, faster version of lacrosse, with a mash-up of baseball, volleyball, field hockey, and rugby to add to the what-the-hell confusion.
And aside from the minimal lacrosse-style helmets, none of them wear protective gear. Not even shin guards. The testosterone permeates the humid air so thickly, I can almost taste it. None of them appear to be my science fair nemesis, but I can’t get a closer look from where I sit. I know which one it isn’t—I’d introduced myself to the captain when I arrived, letting him know what I needed to accomplish today.
I count fourteen instead of the fifteen I was told to expect, but then a straggler comes from the parking lot, his steps sure and long.
He taps a small white ball up, over and over, on the end of his stick, but I sense he’s not showing off, but rather warming up before he enters the fray. Like the others, he has a helmet on, but his stride completely owns the space around him.
Then I catch myself—what’s wrong with me? Did my completely out-of-character actions yesterday open me to finding men desirable everywhere I look? No doubt exists in my mind, though, that Rick awakened me in a way I didn’t know needed awakening.
And then he gets closer, and my breath just ups and leaves.
It’s him.
Rick.
My hot-as-hell fling is here. My back straightens, and my palms break out in a totally unfeminine sweat. Everything switches from the Simple column to Complicated.
Oh shit. He drops his gym bag behind the goal post and hustles to the others, joining them in their drills.
Panic has my stomach all scrambled. A fling. This was supposed to be a fling. And while, yes, I’d really, really, really love to see where things might lead, I know myself and I have to establish my career as a doctor first.
I’d already been having a hard time not slipping a note under Rick’s door. I kept repeating, be responsible, whenever that temptation gripped me.
But now? Out of the question. He’s a patient, and I can’t cross that doctor-patient line again.
I’m mesmerized watching him play, though. Sure, I’d gotten an up-close-and-personal tour of the abs gracing his torso, but good God, seeing him move through the drills, using his body as an athletic machine, is spellbinding on a whole ’nother level. No doubt about it, his body is meant to be seen moving. There’s also a bit of freedom in observing him from a distance, in the privacy of my…er, blanket, without him being aware. Jeez, I sound like a creeper. But it’s also helping me detach back into work mode.
That fascination of seeing the human body work as an athletic machine is precisely why I love what I do—helping athletes efficiently and safely use their strength and skills. And helping them heal when injured. I’m a bit of a dork about it actually.
Soon enough, the captain blows a whistle, and the players stop and beeline for the nearby table lined with water jugs.
After they quickly hydrate, the captain heads my way with Rick and the rest of the team. I stand because I want to be cool and professional when they greet me, which is a bit difficult, I admit, when my heart is beating so hard I fear it’s going to punch through my ribcage. My lady parts have also received the signal, and I shiver with anticipation and longing.
I wasn’t supposed to see him again. He’s now my patient.
But as they approach, Rick catches sight of me and his stride slows. I guess he’s not looking forward to seeing me, and that hurts, even though I knew it was just a fling. Which was my decision, I remind myself.
I snap open my clipboard, ruthlessly shunting aside this unreasonable pain. When dignity is at risk, take refuge in work, right? And since facing my science fair nemesis might be the distraction I need, I call out, “Luke Haas,” and hold out a medical questionnaire, the paper list
lessly flapping in a mild breeze.
Rick takes a hesitant step forward.
My brain and body freeze, and I gape at the man I was intimate with only yesterday, trying to process what that action means. Because, because…what?
I search Rick’s eyes. This can’t be right. But what I see there is resignation. And guilt.
No.
Shame and anger scour my chest, leaving me hollow and abraded. As if it had scooped out everything, and all I can do is shake from the lack of whatever it was that had been holding me together.
I raise my chin, plant a shaking hand on my hip, and say, “Hello, Rick.”
Chapter Five
Pepper
The name sits like a weight in the muggy air of the soccer field. An accusing weight. A shame-filled weight. Mocking me.
God. I’m such an idiot.
The other guys turn, slow as molasses, and stare with varying degrees of confusion at Rick. Or should I say, Luke.
“The Haashole,” I whisper, the words barely pushing past my constricted chest. But it must have been loud enough, because his eyes go wide for a split second and then dim into resignation.
The others are here. Witnesses. But it’s as if they don’t exist, and the world has narrowed to Luke and me and the space between us. And the shame, shame, shame I feel right now.
He slowly tugs the questionnaire from my stiff, numb fingers, and the rest of the world snaps back into my notice. Voices start talking all at once.
“That’s me,” he mumbles.
I want to curl up and die. I want to yell. I want to cry. My throat constricts, and everything goes all blurry, but I pull in a lungful of air. I will be professional here.
Luke
Mark crosses his arms. “I don’t know what the fuck’s going on between you and Dr. Rodgers, or why she called you ‘Rick,’ but you’ve gotta fix this, man. She’s not rubberstamping this like Conor thought.”
We’re still on the practice field, but Mark’s words are like so much blah-blah-blah, because me? I’m still reeling. She’s here. The drills had been my sole focus, so I didn’t notice her on the sideline until our captain, Conor, was walking me toward her.
