I nod. It’s all I’m capable of. That, and the hand I’d put on his thigh earlier. Yeah, I’m a regular sex vixen, all right.
I grab the neckline of his gray T-shirt and yank him the rest of the way across the sliver of charged space still between us. Somehow our foreheads or noses don’t crash together from the force of my tug, but our mouths do, and we both take, take, take, as if we’ve been waiting all our lives to do just this. He nudges me back into the door with his hips, and his strong hands cup my jaw and cheeks as if I’m a delicate creature.
But his kisses aren’t delicate. Not at all. His tongue strokes mine, and that taste punches my sensual fever higher. I brush my hands up to his muscled shoulders and do a half-grab of his neck, half-grab of his hair.
He hisses and breaks our kiss, his eyes closing.
“I’m sooo going to hell,” he mutters.
Before I can think or ask what he means, he hikes me up as if I’m some lightweight and presses his hard cock against my clit, one of the metal buttons of his Levi 501s pushing right against… Oh shit, yes. I whip my legs around his waist. Apparently, I’m channeling a gymnast now too.
He trails his hypnotic mouth across my jaw and down my neck. And that delicious weight is just…pressed there. Driving me wild. I squirm against him to relieve the building pressure, and, oh Jesus, it winds me tighter and tighter.
He growls and thrusts his hips, picking up on the rhythm I crave. Need. And then I’m panting, pulling his hair, grinding against him as if he’s my own personal sex toy, looking up at his pebbly ceiling, and thinking, holy shit, this is the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. The tension is coiling and building inside me, desperate, feverish.
And just like that, I shatter.
Didn’t I say I needed to get out more?
Because, yeah, I just came against a door by grinding on a guy. Fully clothed.
Heat rushes up my skin, my legs and arms tightening around him as I ride out my climax, trembling.
“Fuck, that was hot,” he grits out. He lifts his head and glances behind him, the tension and control obviously fighting for dominance in his rigidly taut muscles, the strain around his mouth and eyes. “Not here.”
He spins around with me still clinging to him. But since my muscles feel gooey, he must be the one holding me in place.
“Bedroom. Back there.”
Apparently, he’s also reduced to simple statements. I cinch my noodle arms around his neck as best I can, and his mouth slants against mine, his breaths and lips frantic, needy. Urgent.
He heads for his bedroom, his strides long and purposeful and powerful, the movement massaging his cock against my core. I’m still all languid and limp from my release, but this sparks a new flare of desire. We pass the breakfast bar facing his galley kitchen, and his steps slow. He stops and places his forehead against mine, pulling in a deep breath and slowly letting it out. Then again.
What the—?
He pushes aside a wooden stool with his foot, crashing it to the floor. My butt hits the countertop, and his hands are grazing up my thighs, bunching my red sundress up against my hips. The soft cotton teases across my now sensitized skin. I’m totally on board, because I can’t wait either. I want him inside me.
Shit. I’d chosen plain white boy shorts in defiance of this date. A statement that I knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. Minus one for me in the sex vixen role. But he doesn’t seem to mind. His devastating eyes are hooded, and he skims his hands farther up, cupping my ass. The possessive grip makes me shiver.
He tugs me toward him—my ass sliding smoothly across the surface—and traces a hand down my neck. “Just one more taste,” he rumbles.
I love that he can’t wait until we get to his room. His lips brush mine, gently this time, but apparently that’s just too damn slow for me because I’m gripping the back of his head and increasing the urgency of the kiss. All of the post-orgasmic lusciousness has transmuted into a growing need for him.
He breaks away on a sharp inhale, eyes closing. “Shit, sweetheart.”
It’s endearing he calls me that when it’s just sex, but I’m again confused by the slow-down.
My question is answered with his next words. “We can…” He clears his throat. “We can still end this now if you want. You got off…”
Does he not want…? I glance down. No. I can see the evidence that he very much wants to continue.
I shake my head. “I want this. I need this.” And I do. I’ve already learned so much about myself this afternoon, with him, and somehow I feel as if this is my one chance to explore this new side of me—try it on for practice until I’m ready to implement it in my life.
I can see he’s still hesitant.
“Whatever noble ideas you’ve got pinging around in there, stop. I want this. I want you. Now.” I take another breath. Own it, own it, own it. Now I’m the one who grabs his ass possessively. “Please.” I follow up with a nibble on his ear lobe.
On a curse, he whips his wallet from his back pocket and tosses it onto the counter, the rippling and flexing of his muscles as he moves, a thing of beauty. His wallet spins and thumps against my hip. His hands fly to his waist, and he’s tugging up the hem of his T-shirt and unbuttoning his jeans. Triumph surges through me, swift and powerful. I glimpse rock-hard abs and a sprinkling of hair arrowing down, and my pulse beats hard in my neck—I can feel it—and I sway a little bit at the need that’s clawing up inside me. Need for this man. Right now.
And then I still. Whoa.
He’s a commando guy.
His cock is thick, long, and hard, pushing up his T-shirt. I need to touch. I stretch out my fingers—they’re trembling—and drag a fingertip across the swollen head. The soft cotton of his shirt, warm from being next to his skin, brushes the backs of my fingers. He shudders, and his erection jerks slightly away. I stroke down the backside and wrap my fingers around his thickness. His heat pulses beneath my palm, warming my skin. Firm, smooth, hot.
Totally hot.
He groans and snatches his wallet. Before I can even blink, he has a condom whipped out and rolled on, and now he’s shoving aside my panties. He takes a moment to stroke a blunt fingertip through my slick folds, but it’s friggin’ obvious I’m so ready for him.
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 4
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. And that lawyer has a hidden wild side—I discovered intricate tattoos along his left arm, which I found surprisingly hot.
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 meticulously 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 announc
ing 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.
Earning It Page 3