by Mina Carter
“Don’t get too comfortable,” he teased, kissing along her neck and up behind her ear, seeking the spot that made her wriggle and gasp. The sound was so sexy that he couldn’t resist doing it again. “I’m not done with you yet. Nowhere near done.”
She mumbled something that ended in a soft giggle when he nibbled her ear. His chuckle joined hers as she tickled him, small fingers digging with surprising strength into his sides. Why that surprised him, he didn’t know. He’d wanted to feel her hands on him for months, not just on his legs or shoulders where he was prone to injury, but everywhere. Anywhere she wanted.
Their tickle fight ended abruptly as he captured her hands, pinning them above her head. Holding them in one hand, he slid his other down her body, stopping for a second to slide his thumb over her nipple before continuing south. The hitch in her breathing, and the sparkle of interest in her eyes clued him in that she wasn’t as tired as he’d thought. When he reached her thighs, she parted them, allowing him access to her sweet pussy.
“You’re wet, again.” Fuck, his voice was hoarse. Low and guttural with need. Just stroking his fingers through her wet heat was enough to have him rising to the occasion, even though he’d only just come.
Her eyes widened. “You can, already? No way.”
He grinned and leaned in, whispering a kiss over her lips as he slid two fingers deep into her pussy. “Absolutely way… And this time, I’m not stopping until you scream my name.”
Then he set about making her do exactly that.
Chapter 4
She’d done it. She’d gone and slept with Harry James.
Ashley hugged the knowledge to herself all Sunday, waiting like a cat on a hot tin roof for work on Monday morning. She’d had to leave before Harry woke, so had hesitated before dropping a kiss on his cheek and letting herself out. Like an idiot though, she’d forgotten to get his cell number, and she had no idea if he had hers. Obviously not, or else he hadn’t seen fit to call her all of Sunday.
Probably just didn’t have her number, she reasoned as she pulled into the car park behind the training ground, avoiding the big pothole to the left of the entrance, and scanned the cars. Harry wasn’t here yet. She frowned. It wasn’t like him to be late for practice.
Shrugging the thought off, she grabbed her bag from the back of the car and made her way inside. The clubhouse was just a couple of years old, but was already showing signs of hard use. The noise from the players’ changing room when she walked by told her that not all had made their way outside just yet. Smiling, she shook her head, and headed for the treatment rooms. Most needed a rocket up their backsides to get them moving the Monday after a big game, so their dawdling didn’t come as a surprise.
She reached her room and opened the door. Her bag and coat went on the hook behind the door, and she snagged the clipboard with her treatment list from the couch in the middle of the room. Paper rustled as she flipped the sheets over. Legs. Calves. One player with torso issues and a shoulder. She scanned the names eagerly, but Harry wasn’t on there. Damn. She was hoping to talk to him. See if he wanted to go for a drink after work.
“He did it you know. Finally fucked her.”
Her thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of studs and voices in the corridor outside. Without saying a word, she put the clipboard on the wiped-clean surface of the couch and glanced toward the slightly ajar door. Who were they talking about?
She closed her eyes. Uneasiness crawled through her veins, cramping in her stomach. Please don’t let them be talking about me and Harry.
“Who? Harry?”
Her eyes snapped open to stare at the opposite wall. It held all her qualifications, hanging in neat rows, but she barely saw them, focusing instead on the voices outside. Please, don’t say Harry. Let it be one of the others.
“Yeah… our boy finally got Miss Parks in the sack. She’s a right goer by all accounts. Said she was well up for it.”
Her heart sank, nausea rising. So it had been just a thing for him. Why else would he tell the other players about their night? She pressed a hand to her mouth as tears prickled at the back of her eyes. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t stay and look each player in the eyes, knowing what they knew. Knowing that Harry had bragged about her in the locker room hit her like a punch in the stomach. She’d never known him do that before. Ever. He’d always been the sole of discretion. Except, it seemed, with her.
Grabbing her clipboard, she started for the door, determined to find John, head of the medical team, and tell him she felt ill. The winter vomiting bug was going around, she could claim she felt sick—which she did, but not for that reason. He’d send her home quick-smart, rather than risk infecting half the squad.
Her steps slowed, and then stopped as anger filtered through the sick feeling in her stomach. No. Fuck it. She’d done nothing wrong. She was an adult, so was Harry. It wasn’t her fault if he couldn’t behave like it. Slamming the clipboard on the counter at the side of the room, she set about making up the treatment couch with swift, angry movements. If he wanted to play it that way, then fine. As far as she was concerned, Harry James and his gossipy, tight, firm backside no longer existed. Lips compressed in a tight line, she grabbed her kit bag and left the room.
The corridor was empty, thankfully. Head held high, she marched toward the pitch. Squinting as she emerged, her gaze went to the players running around for their warm up. Harry was easy to spot, his back to her as she took her place by the side of the pitch. The other physio’s nodded, but no one attempted conversation this early in a morning. Most needed their regular caffeine intake before they communicated in more than a grunt. She let out a small sigh of relief. Okay, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.
She’d spoken too soon. The first of the players rounded the corner of the pitch and spotted her. His grin was wide and far too knowing as he jogged by, but it was the wink that clinched it. She froze, a half-smile on her face as her stomach lurched. Even players in the main squad knew. Folding her arms, she watched the warm-up, concentrating on arms, legs…anything but faces as she waited for practice to be over so that she could escape.
Escape, go home, and kick seven bells out of her lounge cushions. Then cry herself into oblivion before hitting the ice-cream.
Who needed men anyway? Bastards, the lot of them.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
As soon as Harry saw the set of Ashley’s shoulders, he knew something was up. The defensive curve was all wrong, as was the way she avoided eye contact with everyone. Including him. Throughout practice, he tried to get in her line of sight, but she turned away each time. Not enough for him to worry at first, but then he managed to get direct eye contact.
She stared right through him.
Fucking hell. Shock coursed through him, freezing him long enough for him to miss a pass, the ball hitting him mid-chest and falling to the ground.
“Fucks sake, James… What’s up with you?” Tom growled as he stormed past. All Harry could do was shake his head and try and get back in the game. Practice crawled by, the longest he’d ever known it to feel. Every so often, he glanced Ashley’s way, but she ignored him.
Every. Single. Time.
What the hell was up with that? So she’d had her fun, and that was that? Women weren’t supposed to pull shit like that. Being a dickhead was supposed to be a solely male preserve. Anger and frustration simmered as he concentrated on practice, ignoring her in turn as the players filed off the pitch. He wasn’t scheduled in for work, so he had no reason to head to the treatment rooms, but he found his steps slowing as he reached them.
The door to Ashley’s room was already closed. He clenched his fists, wanting to kick the thing open and drag out whichever guy she had her hands on. No one touched her but him.
“What’s up, James?” Kevin, one of the other physio’s, grinned as he leaned one shoulder in his doorway. “Another cramp?”
“Screw you!”
How he managed a laugh to go with his on
e-fingered salute, Harry had no clue, but Kev wasn’t to blame for his mood. No, that honor belonged to the woman who’d had her fun with him, then decided he wasn’t worth even a fucking smile. He’d wondered why she hadn’t left her number. Now he had his answer.
Studs clattering against the floor, he headed to the changing rooms. He’d almost reached them when the click of a loose stud pissed him off enough for him to stop and bend to remove it. The door swung ajar as he leaned against the wall, foot on his opposite thigh. The sound of voices burst loud into the silence of the corridor.
“Yeah, he fucked her. That’s why they left the bar early the other night.”
Harry rolled his eyes, recognizing the voice. Callum Wright, otherwise known as motor-mouth, was a notorious gossip. And if he didn’t know the facts, he made shit up. Harry worked at the stud, swearing under his breath as it refused to unscrew. It was loose and the click-click-click it made was enough to get on his already frayed nerves.
“Yeah,” a new voice pitched in, that of Pete Hubbard, a kid just out of the academy who worshiped the ground Wright walked on. “Told Cal she was a right goer, didn’t he Cal?” His voice turned wistful. “Didn’t know Miss Parks was into players. I’d do her.”
Harry’s hand froze mid-screw on the stud. What? Who told Callum what, exactly? And where?
This time it was Tom Sexton, the team’s hooker, who spoke, his deep voice warning. “Unless you two had that from the horse’s mouth, I’d shut the fuck up. Gossip causes problems—”
Harry shoved the door open so hard it slammed into the wall behind, and cracked the plaster work. Standing in the doorframe, he glared at Callum and Pete.
“Who told you what?”
The two younger men froze, their eyes wide. The older players behind them started to sidle away, clearing space. No one wanted a piece of Harry when he was annoyed. On or off the pitch.
Pete darted a glance at Callum, his mouth working before he started talking.
“Errr…you. Told Cal, didn’t you?” He looked from one to the other with such confusion, it would have been laughable if Harry wasn’t so pissed.
Harry transferred his attention to Callum, who looked like he wanted to disappear up his own asshole. “Go on then, Callum. Why don’t you tell the lads exactly what we talked about?” he invited, his voice dangerous and low. In the corner of his eye, he noticed Tom and Will move into position either side of him. Ready to take him down if he went for Callum. He waved them off with a warning gesture. This wanker was all his. He’d take the rap from the coaches for fighting. Happily.
Callum opened and closed his mouth, obviously struggling for something to say. Some excuse that would get him out of the grave he’d just dug.
Harry advanced on him. “No, I thought not.” Callum was taller, but Harry was probably twice his weight, most of it muscle. He went toe to toe with the other man, eyeballing him. “Say anything about Ashley again, and I’ll rip your fucking head off and shove it up your arse. Are we clear?”
The changing rooms were silent. So silent that the dry clack of Callum’s throat as he swallowed was clearly audible.
“I’m sorry,” Harry frowned. “I didn’t quite hear that?”
“Yes, clear.” Callum nodded, his voice little more than a croak. “Perfectly clear.”
“Excellent. Glad we got that sorted. Wright, you’re showering at home today.” Tom’s hand landed on Callum’s shoulder, the hooker propelling him toward the door even as he threw instructions over his shoulder. “Will, grab his bag. The rest of you, show’s over. Get showered, now.”
Harry closed his eyes, a sigh escaping him as the changing room cleared. He opened his eyes to find Tom watching him.
“What?” he growled. “You want me to thank you for not letting me knock his fucking block off? Sorry mate, not gonna happen.”
Tom started to pull the strapping off his wrists. “No, it’s not that. He’s a prick, but he’s had a thing for Ashley for years. Then you arrived, and it was all you, everyone knew that.”
The hooker frowned in concern. “Given that and given the way gossip spreads around here? I think you’d better check your girl hasn’t heard something that’s gonna cause problems.”
Harry closed his eyes and groaned as all the pieces fell into place. He’d lost her, through no fault of his own, before he could make sure he really had her. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks.
He loved her. He loved Ashley.
“Fucking hell!”
Ashley’s first appointment was a lesson in patience. Thankfully, Rich Valentine, one of the older players on the team, wasn’t the sort to make comments. In fact, she’d only ever heard the guy talk in one-syllable sentences. Silence had reigned as she’d worked on his legs, a little concerned over the tightness there. On the whole though, his recovery from a bad leg injury last year was going well.
“Looking good, Rich,” she said, wiping her hands free of oil as he sat up. “Just be careful on the left leg, you’re a bit tighter there than on the right, okay?”
Rich nodded, a grunt passing for conversation and grabbed a pair of sweats to pull on over his shorts. He paused, one leg in, one leg out of the pants.
“Heard some gossip,” the big man rumbled, surprising her. Of all the players, she expected to broach the subject, she wouldn’t have picked Rich in a million years. But regardless, as soon as the words left his mouth, her face went for a full-on imitation of a lobster.
“Yeah?” She folded her arms, trying to brazen it out. “What gossip would that be?”
He shoved his foot into the other leg of the pants and pulled them up, snapping the elastic waistband into place around a trim midriff. “The thing you gotta remember about gossip is that it’s usually crap spread by people that don’t know shit.”
She picked up his treatment chart and pretended to make notes. That was the longest speech she’d ever heard Rich give. Ever. She wanted to believe him, truly she did. But…
“Miss Parks?” The big player moved, his feet now in her line of sight, and she looked up. His deep brown eyes were concerned, no hint of amusement at her predicament. “Seriously. James isn’t into locker room gossip. Give him a chance to explain, okay?”
Touched by Rich’s concern, she couldn’t get the words out past the lump in her throat and just nodded instead. She was still thinking about what he’d said when the door opened a few minutes later.
“Couch is ready for you,” she said, assuming it was her next patient, but the lack of movement made her lift her head. Harry stood by the closed door, his gaze fixed on her. Her heart leapt at the sight of him, butterflies swirling in her stomach. Despite what Rich had said, she wasn’t ready to talk to Harry. Not after what she’d heard. He had to have said something to someone, how else did they know?
“Go away, Harry. I’m busy.”
Hiding her hurt, she turned back to her desk, continuing to write rubbish on the treatment chart in front of her. She just wanted, needed, him to go, until she could sort out the messes that were her emotions.
Until she could look at him without blurting out that she loved him.
The thought hit her blind-side, catching her unawares. Pain and emotion arced through her, warring with each other. She wanted, needed him here, but at the same time she couldn’t bear it. Not with what he’d said, talking about their night to the other players. Gossiping about something she’d thought was special. It had been to her.
The lock on the door clicked, and she yanked her head up and around, but he was already there beside her.
“Ashley, I know what you’ve heard, and I know it sounds bad…” He took the clipboard from her, throwing it to the couch behind him before crouching in front of her chair to take her hands in his. She fought him for a second, but it was no good. He wasn’t taking no for an answer.
“Cal Wright saw us leave the bar the other night and made a bunch of shit up.” Looking into her eyes, he stroked a thumb over her hand, his voice serious. “You h
ave to believe me. I would never say stuff like that. Not about you. About us.”
Her face stony, she glared back and did her best to ignore the warm feeling trying to crack through the wall she’d erected around her heart earlier.
He moved closer, drawing her hands up to his lips to press a kiss across her knuckles. “Please, sweetheart, you have to believe me.”
She arched her eyebrow. “Now why would Callum start spreading gossip, unless someone had said something to him?”
Surprise flowed over his features, his thumb pausing. “You don’t get it, do you? You don’t know.”
“Know what?” Irritation joined discomfort, which made a peculiar dance partner with the butterflies that crowded her stomach at his touch. Quite inappropriately, her memory chose that moment to replay the highlights of their night together. Their very hot, very sexy night.
Harry dropped his head back, blowing out a breath, and then looked at her. “Callum’s had a thing about you for years. He can’t accept you’re mine. So he made shit up to make you mad at me.”
“Huh?” It wasn’t the most intelligent rejoinder, but it was all she could come up with at the moment as she tried to process that nugget of information.
Harry surged into movement, pulling her to her feet and into his arms. In as slick a move as she’d seen on any dance floor, he turned her, and she found herself up against the couch in the center of the room. Without effort, he lifted her to sit on the towel-covered surface, and put his hands on either side of her hips.
“You’re mine,” he declared, determination written on his face. “Have been since the moment I saw you. Callum’s still pissy about it. Hence playing fucking games to upset you and break us up.”
Her head whirled with all the new information. It was just too much.
“Stop.” She planted a hand in the center of his chest, pushing him so she could get a little breathing space. “Back up. Callum’s pissy about what? And when did I become yours?”