Risking the Crown

by Violet Paige

  I smiled. It was exactly what I was thinking. The perfect distraction to get my mind off my damn hand. I could already feel myself getting hard. She was beautiful. High cheekbones and the cutest damn nose I had seen on a woman. My dick stiffened as I pictured her lowering herself on me. I didn’t realize I’d had a fantasy of getting sucked off in a hospital until she walked in.

  “Are you going to lock the door?” I asked.

  “It’s not going to take long. I don’t think anyone will interrupt the exam.”

  “If you say so.” I grinned. God, this was going to be one hell of a story to tell the guys—how I got off right after surgery to a sex kitten in a doctor’s costume.

  She made a note on the clipboard she was carrying, then placed it on the table next to the bed. “I think I’ll take a look.”

  “What if I help you out?” I pulled back the sheet and gown, showing her how hard and ready I was for her mouth.

  She jumped back. “What are you doing?”

  “I know the guys got you for me. And I have to say, they’ve stepped up their game. You’re fucking sexy as hell.”

  She blinked in horror. “You think I’m a hooker?” Her eyes hardened in a straight line, and I thought the cobalt shade might have fired amber a few times.

  “Aren’t you?” I looked her up and down again. She was drop-dead gorgeous, and as hard as my dick was, she must have realized I thought so.

  She glared at me. “No. I’m your surgeon.” Her hands were on her hips.

  “So no blow job?”

  “Oh my God! No, no blow job.”

  I covered myself back up, but my current situation pitched a tent under the sheet.

  “That’s a shame. Those pretty little lips would—”

  She put her hand up. “Stop. Stop right there. I am your doctor, not a rent-a-whore.”

  I chuckled. “Don’t see why you couldn’t be both.”

  She inhaled slowly, and I could see the color deepen in her cheeks. I had pissed her off royally. “I can put you in the hands of one of our other doctors.” She picked up the clipboard. “I am a trained surgeon. I don’t have to put up with shit like this, even if you do play for some team.” She turned for the door.

  “Some team?”

  “Yeah, apparently, I’m the only one in this hospital who doesn’t know who you are or what it is you do for a living that involves playing with a ball. Although after that stunt, I’m starting to get a better picture of what kind of man you are.”

  This was a first. “You don’t know who I am? You’ve never heard of Wes Blakefield? You expect me to believe that?”

  “Seeing you on the operating table was the first time I’d laid eyes on you, Mr. Blakefield. And this is the last time.” Her hand was on the door.

  “Wait, Doc. Wait.” I don’t know what made me do it. Hell, I could have let her walk out pissed and fired up. But I didn’t want to. She hadn’t even looked at my hand. And she was the most fucking beautiful woman I’d seen.

  She breathed heavily. “What?”

  “Aren’t you even going to look at my hand before you leave? If you’re the one who performed the surgery, I’d like you to take a look. They told me you were the best.”

  I could see her debating whether it was worth it to give me another chance. She paused in front of the door.

  “I’ll check it this once, and then I’m handing you off to Dr. Evans. And you should know he’s very old and has a really huge mustache,” she huffed.

  I laughed. “That’s fair.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And he has bad breath.” As if that jab would put me in my place.

  I watched as she gently pulled back the bandage and looked at my hand. It was set in a foam mold so that my fingers were aligned an equal distance apart. She tilted her head from side to side, examining each finger. A curl of hair slipped from behind her ear.

  “I think for a post-surgery hand, it looks exactly like it should.” She stood back, holding the clipboard tightly to her chest.

  “That’s good news.”

  “It is. I’ll let Dr. Evans know what to look for during your recovery. And I understand your team trainers want to be involved.”

  “They always are.”

  I didn’t want her to hand me over to some old, decaying bastard. I wanted her to be my doctor. I wanted her leaning over my body. Her inspecting my skin. Her advice on how to recover.

  “Look, Doc, I’m sorry about earlier. That was out of line. I shouldn’t have assumed you were a stripper.”

  Her lips twitched. “It was a first. Most people come out of surgery groggy and just think I’m their mom or something.”

  I shook my head. “Can we chalk it up to me still being under the influence of whatever drugs you gave me?”

  “You seem pretty alert, Mr. Blakefield.”

  “Come on, give me another chance. I’ll be a model patient. I’ll even pretend I didn’t look down your dress.” I flashed a wicked smile.

  She blushed, pulling her white coat closer to her chest, knocking her stethoscope to the side. I liked that I was affecting her somehow. It was a distraction from the beeping and the lines running into my arm. She was the sexiest distraction I could have wished for.

  “I’ll check in on you in the morning.” She walked toward the door, looking over her shoulder. “Have a good night.”

  “Hey, Doc, before you leave…”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have a first name?”

  She paused. “It’s Lennon. But my patients call me Dr. Ashworth.”

  “So does that mean I should call you Dr. Ashworth or Lennon?” I taunted. I liked her name. I’d never heard it before. It seemed to fit her—strong and beautiful. She wore brains and sex appeal well.

  I grinned as I watched her leave. I should have been feeling a whole lot worse than I was, but something about Dr. Ashworth was like a dose of good medicine.

  4

  Lennon

  I held on to the counter at the nurses’ station, knowing my knees were knocking together and my legs were barely holding me up. I was furious. Livid. I’d never been so insulted in my professional life in such a degrading way. What was more messed up was that I was so turned on by that asshole, I could barely hold myself together. He had managed to insult me and flirt with me at the same time. He was infuriating.

  I hadn’t bothered to look at his face during surgery. Most of it had been covered with a cap, and I was so rushed to get in and repair his hand quickly that I never thought to see what he looked like.

  Most of my patients came out of surgery looking pale and listless. They didn’t react well to the anesthesia. Some could barely talk, let alone string together coherent sentences. But not this man.

  Wes Blakefield was the definition of perfection. His jaw was set in straight, solid lines. His skin was tan, and he had the greenest eyes this side of Ireland. Not to mention he was well over six feet tall and had broad shoulders and arms to match. On top of that, he had one hell of a dick. I covered my mouth. I wasn’t supposed to look at him like that. He was a patient. Not a demi-god. Not a male model that could melt the panties off every nurse in this hospital. No, he was a patient. My patient.

  “Dr. Ashworth? Dr. Ashworth?” I jumped, startled to hear my name intrude my lewd thoughts about what Wes wanted me to do with his erection. Was he serious?

  I twirled around, blushing. “Yep?”

  “Mr. Hamlin’s knee is still swollen, and Ms. Parish’s elbow is definitely not getting any better,” the nurse reported. “They’re both asking for you.”

  “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

  I closed my eyes and took a slight inhale, pushing out the dirty thoughts of Wes Blakefield. It wasn’t my fault those thoughts were there, I told myself. He was the one who thought I was a hired whore and flashed me with all his glory. It made me hot again just thinking about it. Hot and mad. I tried to remember how offensive he was. How he thought I was just some cheap piece of ass sent to pleasur
e him. I was a brilliant surgeon—not a call girl.

  I stormed toward Ms. Parish’s room. Elbows and knees first. I’d check on my horny patient again later.

  I guess I always thought when I moved to San Antonio, I would find a place in the city, close to the hospital, and put down some roots. But as I flung my keys on the kitchen counter in my efficiency apartment, I realized I wasn’t anywhere near that step. I hadn’t even started looking at houses or apartments. I kept renting the same extended-stay studio, waiting for a sign that San Antonio was the place for me.

  The furniture was generic. So were the horrid, pale paintings on the wall of scenes from the Alamo. But for some reason, they reminded me it could all be temporary if I wanted it to be. I could leave. I was on a week-to-week lease with this place. Nothing to move except my clothes. I wore scrubs most of the time, anyway. I hadn’t been on a single date since I moved here. There was no reason to pull out that little black dress or put on a strappy pair of fuck-me heels. Life was work. And work was my life.

  I heated up a bowl of soup, poured a glass of wine, and sat in front of the TV. Today at the hospital had been nothing but non-stop chaos. It started when everyone flipped out about the Wranglers’ quarterback, and ended with the director of orthopedics calling me in his office to talk about our high-security protocols. I swear, everyone had lost their damn minds over this patient. I never discussed my patients’ conditions with the press, and I didn’t need a lecture reminding me that a high-profile patient had to be able to trust that the hospital would never report his injury.

  I finished my soup and reached for my laptop. I typed Wes Blakefield into the search engine. I clicked on the star’s website. He had his own page dedicated to his records. I skimmed the stats, but they meant nothing to me. He had won awards I’d never heard of. I didn’t care about football. I hit the back button and clicked on an article.

  I chewed my bottom lip as I moved from article to article, picture to picture, studying him. Absorbing information about his social life. The man was single and seemed to be at every social event in the city. His killer smile was beyond photogenic. There were women. Lots of women. It seemed he had a new girl on his arm at every restaurant, charity event, or party. I never saw the same one twice.

  I slammed the computer shut and headed for the shower. I peeled off my scrubs and stepped into the warm water. If I could wash away everything that happened today, I would. But in less than twelve hours, I would be right back there, starting all over again. I ran the loofah over my body, when an image of Wes flashed in front of me. I scowled at myself. He was the wrong kind of man to start thinking about. He was clearly a womanizer. An egotistical maniac. He may have the rest of the world fooled, but I knew a narcissistic prick when I met one. I should—I had lived with one for a year.

  I made the decision right then. I had to give him to Dr. Evans. There was no way I could keep him as a patient. There was something bad about Wes Blakefield. The more I scrubbed the bubbles into my skin, the more I knew I had to stay far away from him. He made me uncomfortable. He made me think things I shouldn’t think about. He made me want to wipe that smug playboy look right off his damn perfect face.

  I turned off the water and wrapped a towel around my body. I placed my hand against my cheek. Did he actually think I was attractive? When I looked in the mirror, I saw a doctor. A surgeon. A woman who put her patients first. I let my hair tumble from the clip holding it in place.

  I quickly twisted it back into a bun. It didn’t matter what Wes Blakefield saw. After tomorrow morning, he would no longer be my patient, and I’d never have to see him again.

  5

  Wes

  I rubbed my eyes, grumbling about the lack of sleep I got last night. Every fifteen minutes, there was a nurse taking my vitals. And they sure as hell didn’t look like the hot nurse I fucked the other night. I even offered to pay them to leave me alone, but they only laughed, thinking I was joking.

  I let my head sink into the pillow, hoping I could at least catch a nap before the next one came in, poking me with some kind of torture device.

  “Good morning, Mr. Blakefield.” The door swung open and in walked Dr. Ashworth.

  I sat forward, forgetting how exhausted I was. I suddenly had a new burst of energy.

  “Hey, Doc.”

  She walked toward me, and I noticed her hair was down today. It was layered in long strands over her shoulders. She was more beautiful than she was yesterday.

  “How’s your hand feeling?” She bent to take a look at the incision.

  “Hurts like hell.” I tried to catch a glimpse of her eyes, but she was studying my fingers.

  “Well, it’s not swollen much.” She twisted her lips together. “But I’m not happy with this finger.” She pointed to my index finger.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s the most swollen.” She jotted something on her clipboard before placing it on the table. She retrieved the stethoscope from her neck and adjusted the ends in her ears. “Let me take a listen.”

  I had had more physicals than I could count. The trainers for the Wranglers were constantly checking my heart rate. Checking for hydration and iron count. Physical therapists examined every muscle on my body. But I’d never in all those exams reacted like this. My heart started to pound as she leaned over and placed the cold disc on my chest. She moved it down my rib cage, and I could feel the heat of her fingers. I wanted to grab her and pull her on top of me—she smelled like sweet shampoo and vanilla. But I only had one good hand, and she’d already made it clear what she’d do if I tried anything again.

  She moved the stethoscope to my right shoulder and slid it along my bicep. I could hear my veins hammer from my pulse as her fingertips explored my skin. She traced over the tattoo covering my right arm.

  She stepped back, wrapping the stethoscope around her neck again. “Your circulation is fine. And you have a strong heartbeat. I’m not worried about blood flow.”

  “Oh, you never have to worry about that.” I waggled my eyebrows.

  “I’m talking about your broken hand.” She glared at me.

  “Come on, Doc. Just a little joke. Thought I’d break the tension from yesterday.”

  “Mmmhmm.” She scribbled more notes. “As far as I’m concerned, yesterday never happened.”

  “It was funny. Don’t you laugh?”

  Her eyes hardened. “I’m a surgeon. Your surgeon. And if you want to get back to football, then I suggest you take this more seriously and stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?” I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I’d never wanted to fuck a woman so badly. I didn’t know if it was her attitude or her body, but I had a primal need for her I’d never felt before.

  I wanted to kiss her smartass lips until they were red and swollen. I wanted to rip that doctor’s coat off and bend her over this bed. I knew I could have her screaming my name. She’d already seen my dick, and the way she reacted to it, I knew she was impressed. All women were.

  “Mr. Blakefield?”

  I looked into her eyes, dragging my stare from her tits. “What?”

  “Do you agree with the pain management plan?”

  “What?” She must have been talking while I was planning how to get her uptight ass into my bed.

  “Do you have someone you want to bring in for this? Someone who is going to help you at home?”

  I laughed. “I don’t need any help at home, Doc.”

  “Aren’t you right-handed?”

  “Yeah,” I scoffed.

  “Then you haven’t really thought through what it’s going to be like not being able to use your hand for eight weeks.”

  “Eight weeks!” I almost jumped out of the bed.

  “You have a fracture and I had to surgically realign two of your bones. This is easily an eight-week recovery.”

  I shook my head, feeling the fire behind my eyes. Now she’d pissed me off. “That’s not happening. The playoffs will be over.”


  She closed her eyes. “Playoffs, games, that’s all anyone talks about since you were wheeled into my OR.” She pursed her lips. “This is your hand we’re talking about. If you reinjure it, you could do permanent damage.”

  “Give me some HGH. I know you’ve got something that will speed up the recovery process.”

  “I don’t. I have pain meds to help you get through the first week, and I have an excellent physical therapist if the team isn’t able to handle your recovery. But that’s it. There’s no magic cure. No special injection that’s going to work. You have to heal.”

  I chuckled. Of course there was. We all knew about the recovery drugs players used to get back on the field. I wasn’t going to be any different. I’d find a way to get my hands on some. The Super Bowl was on the line. The Wranglers would be behind me one hundred percent.

  “When am I getting out of here?” The quicker the hospital released me, the quicker I could talk to the trainers about super meds. Eight weeks to recover was not an option.

  “You need to be fitted for a brace and a sling.” She looked down at her watch. “We could have you out of here in a few hours. I’ll get started on the paperwork.”

  It was instinct. I reached out to touch her wrist, but my right hand was still bound to the mold. I winced at the reminder of my injury.

  “Thanks.”

  She tucked a pen into her pocket. “You’re welcome, Mr. Blakefield.”

  “You know you can call me Wes.”

  She had thrown up a professional wall so high I didn’t know if I was strong enough to break it down, but I sure as hell was going to try. I was used to getting what I wanted, and I wanted this woman.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.” Her blue eyes softened. “I’ll see you back here in two weeks to check on your progress.”

  I could have argued and said the trainers would take care of me. The team doctors would oversee the rest of my recovery and wouldn’t want any interference with the treatment, but I didn’t disagree.