Undefeated

by Reardon, Stuart

  There was the smallest upward curve of Anna’s lips before she spoke.

  “A warrior.”

  Nick gave a small nod. She understood.

  She didn’t speak again, but ran her hands over his chest, her short nails scratching lightly on his skin. Then she leaned forward and dragged her tongue-stud across the broad swathe of ink covering his heart.

  Nick longed to reach for her, to touch her, to take her, but he knew Anna well enough to let her set the pace. She’d already shot him down once this evening—he didn’t think he could take it if she stopped now.

  He clenched his teeth and clamped his arms at his sides, her hands anchored on her hips as she continued to lick her way down his body.

  Glancing up quickly, she slipped free of his hands, then gave a brief, devilish smile as she sank to her knees and snapped open the top button on his jeans. She worked the zipper down with painful slowness, pushing the worn denim out of the way.

  Nick exhaled slowly, his lungs shuddering as they emptied, his eyes closing with pleasure. He’d thought about this for so long, even when he’d still been engaged to Molly—thought about it but would never have acted on it.

  Anna kissed him softly through the material of his briefs, and as she dragged the tongue stud across his belly, he could feel the smooth metal. His arms ached, tensing with the need to hold her.

  She rested her cheek against his flat stomach, her hands moving around to grip the back of his thighs, and her warm breath fanned over his skin.

  His hands crept up to cradle the back of her head, tangling in her glossy hair, the shiny strands slipping between his fingers.

  “I want you,” she said, her eyes closed, her cheek still resting on his stomach.

  “I’m here, Anna.”

  Her mouth widened with a smile and her eyes opened, flaring with intent.

  “I know. My bedroom is . . .”

  “No, here. On the rug.”

  Her eyebrows rose and she tipped her face upwards, her expression intrigued.

  “In front of the fire,” he said, taking her hand, coaxing her forwards.

  “Ah,” she smiled.

  She sat on the rug, long legs stretched out in front of her, cheeks ruddy in the firelight, hair gleaming as she waited for him.

  They’d stepped over a line—way over it, and they both knew what this meant, what they were going to do. Lust and arousal thickened in the air, tension that was sexual boiling between them.

  Nick’s surgical boot made him clumsy as he lowered himself to the floor, and a wisp of concern swept across Anna’s face.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I will be when I get this damned boot off,” he grimaced. So much for smooth moves, Renshaw.

  She seemed to be holding back a smile.

  “Can I help?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She watched impatiently as he unstrapped the Velcro with a ripping sound, easing his foot out and sighing with relief.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Only when I laugh.”

  Anna snorted with amusement and Nick grinned at her.

  “Yeah? I have a cure for that,” and Anna yanked off her sweater and sat in front of him wearing her skinny jeans, thick boots, and a dark green bra.

  Her breasts were small and high, but when she reached behind and tossed the bra aside, her nipples were the colour of cinnamon, puckering in the cooler air.

  But she was right—Nick wasn’t laughing anymore.

  He reached for her hands, pulling her towards him so she was straddling his thighs. Then he leaned up to capture a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, his beard tickling her, the over-sensitised skin sending sparks of pleasure racing across her body.

  She touched his cheek, her fingers drifting across a small, white scar.

  “How did you get this?”

  “Rugby.”

  “Of course. And this?”

  She traced another scar running through his eyebrow.

  “Rugby. I have a lot of scars.”

  “Really? Where else, or maybe I’ll just explore.”

  Nick smiled and lay back, his arms above his head, inviting her to look and touch wherever she liked.

  Injuries during matches ended more careers than simply retiring when you got to thirty-five. There was a lot for her to explore.

  The flames flickered and flared in the fireplace, the scent of wood smoke hung in the air.

  Anna yanked off her boots and shimmied out of her skinny jeans while Nick watched her with the expression of a starving man.

  Free of her clothes, she stood naked before him, strong and confident in her own skin. She let him look, let him drink her in, her body gleaming in the firelight, the glow from the hearth casting intriguing shadows. And then she knelt across him, her knees sinking into the sheepskin rug, the flickering light dancing across her pale skin as her breasts pressed against his chest. They kissed with violent urgency, intensity, desire and need held in check for too long.

  Anna felt bold and empowered, wondering why doing the wrong thing felt so good, but not caring anymore. She licked, bit and kissed the ridges and valleys of his carved abs, honed by years of dedicated training that told their own story. She dragged her piercing over every salty inch of them while Nick vibrated with intense pleasure and barely controlled need.

  His hands stroked and moulded her body, and when those long, strong, scarred fingers pressed inside her, pleasuring her roughly, she lit up like a Fourth of July rocket, her spine snapping and arching as she cried out.

  She collapsed onto his bare chest and his strong arms wrapped around her, warming her and holding her.

  Nick ignored the pulsing need in his own body, tried to ignore it as Anna lay against him, her heart racing wildly, her breaths coming in harsh gasps.

  When her eyes opened, dark and feral, she leaned forward and licked up his throat, pulling his earlobe with her teeth.

  “Again.”

  Nick broke, all restraint gone, and he rolled them over until he was on top of her, flames in his eyes as he ignored the sharp tug in his healing ankle and the edge of his jeans pressing painfully into her soft, vulnerable thighs.

  His mouth dragged across her lips, her chin, her neck, kissing and biting everywhere with hunger and need, unable to get enough of her scent, her taste, the arousal he could smell in the air.

  She scrabbled against his jeans, then hooked her fingers into the material of his briefs, yanking them over the curve of his ass, her nails sinking into the firm globes of flesh.

  His cock leapt free, bouncing against her leg as it jutted from his body, the tip glistening and dark with arousal.

  Nick’s brain was so flooded with sensation he couldn’t think, could hardly breathe, his heart thudding against his ribs, cock pulsing and throbbing.

  “I’m protected,” she whispered against his heated skin.

  He hesitated, his thoughts moving like tar, but then he shook his head and grabbed a condom from his jeans, his body shaking with tension as he sheathed himself.

  The rug was thick and soft beneath her and Nick was hot and hard above her.

  He thrust inside, a long groan, and exquisite relief shooting up his spine. Unable to slow the racing need inside, he set a frantic rhythm as their bodies slammed together, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing through the empty house as sweat beaded on his magnificent body.

  Deep, hard, deeper, harder, it wasn’t enough.

  Pleasure filled her belly, rolling in faster as Nick’s hips swivelled and jerked. More and more, and his rhythm faltered, shattering spectacularly as he flew apart.

  Anna felt him stiffen and tense, his cock jerking inside her as she crossed her ankles under his ass, pulling him closer when he came with a desperate moan. The wave broke over her body and Anna cried out, spots of light exploding behind her eyes as sensation poured over her, almost too much to bear.

  Slowly, the tide of sensation receded and as Nick’s body softened, his damp forehead leaned a
gainst hers, a private, intimate gesture that threatened to crack her heart. Then he rolled off her, tucking her against his burning body as the flames leapt and soared, waves of heat washing over them.

  Anna’s eyes closed, her body throbbing as the shudders quietened gradually.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said.

  And she smiled.

  When Nick woke up the next morning, he felt stiff and sore but wonderfully relaxed. The blanket covering him was soft. But when he opened his eyes, the fire had gone out, leaving a pile of grey ash in the grate.

  “Anna?”

  The house was silent, just the whisper of wind in the eaves to answer him.

  He sat up frowning and tugged on his jeans, shivering slightly in the cooling house. Dressing quickly, he pulled back the curtains letting a shaft of blue-white light filter into the room. Outside the world was coated with a brilliant blanket of crystalline snow, fresh and new.

  Nick strapped on his surgical boot and limped into the kitchen, frowning at a large, cream coloured Aga that took up a quarter of the space. On a scrubbed pine table was a cold cup of coffee and a note.

  Didn’t want to wake you—you looked so peaceful.

  Take care,

  Anna x

  He read the note twice then left it under the cold coffee as he slammed out of the cottage. She hadn’t left a number.

  She’d gone, and he was alone.

  July 2015

  SWEAT POURED DOWN Nick’s face and he grimaced.

  Leg day.

  Most guys hated leg day at the gym. It was the biggest muscle group and therefore meant the most work. Yep, guys bitched about it, but Nick wasn’t one of them. He relished the stress on his muscles, knowing that each day was making a difference. Reps of back squats, front squats, dumbbell-walking lunges, hip thrusters with a 140 Kg bar across the top of his thighs, arching his back to strengthen the glutes and lower back. It was draining, but his body was strong. And more importantly, he had confidence that his right ankle wasn’t going to let him down either. Every time he asked for more, his body responded. He almost dared to hope that match-fitness was within reach.

  His surgeon, Sir Gerald Whitworth, had been worth the exorbitant sum he’d charged. Nick knew his body and now he could trust it again.

  Months and months of work, days filled with sweat and strain, aching muscles and nights of Tiger Balm and Deep Heat.

  Since he’d had the all-clear on his tendon repair, he’d been working-out every day, hoping that he’d get signed by a club.

  So far, nothing.

  But there was more to it than just playing rugby. He was an athlete and he wasn’t a quitter. He needed to prove himself after everything that had happened.

  Shaking his head, he refused to let the negative thought take root. When he was signed, he’d be ready. Ironically, it was Anna who’d taught him to turn his thoughts around like that. He frowned. Thinking about her unsettled him. He’d long given up hoping that he’d hear from her. A short reply to an email he’d sent had made it clear that it was just a one-time thing for her.

  He’d had to let it go.

  But still, it hurt. He thought they’d made a connection. He didn’t like the feeling that he’d been used, even though he knew that was unfair. She’d told him she wouldn’t date him. It was stupid to hope for more.

  On the bench next to him, his mobile rang. He glanced down to see that it was his agent checking in for their weekly catch up.

  “Hi, Mark. How’s it going?”

  “Excellent, my friend. How are you? No, don’t answer that, because in thirty seconds you’re going to tell me that this is a fantastic day. Where are you?”

  Nick stared at his phone bemused, wondering when Mark had started taking the happy pills.

  “Uh, I’m at the gym.”

  “Of course you are. Do you ever go anywhere else? Never mind. I have news, good news, the best news. I’ve been in negotiations with Sim Andrews, the new Head Coach for Finchley Phoenixes in North London. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure . . . he wants to sign you. At the start of next season, you’ll be their new Fullback!”

  Nick froze, the news shocking, slicing his mind wide open. Finally, after all the work, after all the setbacks, the injuries, everything he’d endured, he had a chance of playing for a club again. Not just a chance—a firm offer. He closed his eyes, his hopes soaring, flying higher and further.

  His throat burned and he realised that he was choking back emotions that threatened to unman him.

  Finally. Finally, he could breathe again.

  He opened his eyes and noticed that his left hand was balled into a fist. He forced it open, still trying to take in the news.

  The Phoenixes were a good club with a long pedigree, although currently on the slide, finishing at the bottom of the table this season, one point from relegation—but the bottom of the Premiership table.

  They were perfect for Nick’s comeback, a chance to reboot his career. Perfect in every way.

  Except one.

  They were in London.

  Near Anna.

  Nick hated the thought that she’d be so close and still out of reach.

  “Nick? Nick! I’m not feeling the love!” Mark called out, his voice tinny through the speakerphone. “Hello?”

  “Ah, sorry, Mark. I’m just . . . surprised, you know? They’ve made a real offer?”

  “A solid-gold, American Express Platinum Card offer.”

  “A London club.”

  Mark huffed in frustration.

  “I know your preference is to stay up north, but no one is interested. I know it’s not right or fair, but you’ve burned your bridges up there for now. That will change, but you need some wins under your belt, and you won’t get that when you’re benched, sitting on your arse. Bloody hell, Nick! You could sound a bit more grateful. I’ve worked my backside off to get this chance for you, you ungrateful sod! I need my percentage or the children won’t eat this month.”

  Nick chuckled quietly. Mark had five grownup girls, and each of them had received a brand new Mercedes on their 18th birthday. He couldn’t imagine Mark denying his princesses anything.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to turn it down?!”

  He could almost hear Mark’s eyes popping.

  “Shit, I’m sorry. It’s a great opportunity. Of course I’ll take it. Thanks, Mark. You’ve been . . .” a good friend, someone I could trust, someone who believed in me “ . . . great.”

  It took several more minutes of Nick brown-nosing before Mark was mollified.

  “Contracts are being signed at the club next week. Get yourself on a train to the Big Smoke. You’ll do your fitness test and they’ll want a new scan of your ankle. Then we’ll go over the small print. Standard contract.” He paused. “There is one clause I should mention,” and he cleared his throat. “If your Achilles tendon goes again, the contract is void.”

  Nick’s stomach clenched. The aching fear of getting injured again haunted him.

  “Other than that, there’s nothing to worry about,” said Mark.

  His agent rang off on Nick’s promise that he’d be in London in seven days.

  Nope, nothing to worry about. It was what he wanted, so he was going to make the most of it. Anna had taught him that.

  A week later, Nick’s train pulled into St. Pancras station. He was wearing ‘smart casual’ because his mum insisted that he only had one chance to impress his new club. She’d even ironed his shirt for him. Nick thought that playing well would impress them more, but he wasn’t going to argue with her and spoil her excitement for him. Both of his parents had been quietly happy, even his dad wiping a manly tear when he thought no one was looking.

  They’d stuck by him and he’d never forget that, but being 27, nearly 28, and living at home with his parents again was beginning to wear on him. He was ready to live his life again.

  As the train slowed to a stop, he glanced down at the Underground map on his phone, ev
en though he already knew the route by heart: seven stops on the Northern line. Just follow the white rabbit.

  He let all the other passengers off first, then hoisted his kitbag down from the luggage rack and made his way from the platform, flashing his ticket at the gate barrier.

  The Northern line was one of the deepest sections of the Underground in London, and it took Nick three sets of escalators to reach the northbound section. The air was warmer down here, and a bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and his shirt became damp, moulding to his body. The platform filled quickly, but more and more people squeezed on, waiting for the scent of burnt paper and the rush of warm air that meant a Tube train was coming.

  Nick was trying to be polite and respectful of people’s space, but everyone around treated him with the indifference of a rock. No one smiled, no one made eye contact, each lost in their own little world, the daily toil of commuting in a city.

  Finally, a train arrived, with only a little shoving and pushing as everyone tried to get on at the same time. Nick was squeezed up against one of the upright supports, the metal pressing into his spine.

  At each stop the congestion eased a little. Nick jumped in surprise when someone pinched his bum, but couldn’t tell if it had been a man or a woman. He glanced around quickly, but no one was owning up. Sighing, he pressed himself further into the train, keeping his back to the wall and his kitbag in front of him until he arrived at Finchley Central.

  As he walked along the high street, he could see the towering floodlights of the club’s stadium in the distance and excitement began to drum through his veins. Known locally as the Birds Nest, the Hangar Lane arena had a capacity crowd of 29,000, which was one of the largest rugby grounds in London, except for the mighty Twickenham that held 82,000 and was where all the finals and internationals took place.

  Nick had been there a couple of times, but only as a spectator. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like stepping out in front of that many people. So far, the largest ever crowd he’d ever played for was 3,500 and that had felt like walking into a wall of sound.