One Knight’s Stand (Buffalo Steel Rugby Romance #1)

Chapter 1

Miriam

Three years ago

“I’m sitting on someone’s penis tonight.”

I wasn’t serious when I said it to Marcela, but I didn’t expect her to laugh in my face like Charlie Murphy, rest his soul. She was two cackles away from needing mouth-to-mouth.

My sister didn’t think I’d go out alone on one of the biggest party nights of the year.

I don’t go out at all, because I hate large crowds, but there was a point to prove.

It surprised us both when I grabbed my keys and left.

The trip was short-lived—I went to a park down the block until Marcela drove to her friend’s house—but I had to commit on principle.

An hour later, I was in one of her dresses, driving down I-95 with only mild anxiety to keep me company.

The 495 vortex sucked me in, and, well, here I am.

Sitting behind a wood column in a dimly lit bar in Adams Morgan.

Marcela

There’s still time to come over. I know your stubborn self is at the park.

Wrong. I’m in DC. I’ll pass on the hour-long drive to Baltimore to sip stale, overpriced wine and chew on Vatican crackers.

I answer my phone on the fourth ring.

“Be careful. Limit your driving, keep your location on, and text me when you get home,” Marcela says with the spirit of our mother. The West Indian accent is missing, but the acting like I’m still a seven-year-old in pigtails is loud and clear.

“I’m quite capable of making it back to our father’s house just fine, and I only plan to have one drink.”

She sighs. “I’m serious, Miri. New Year’s Eve is Halloween for perverts. Does the bar have security?”

“Please stop acting like I’m not old enough to cross the street. I’m fine. Go be with your friends. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? You just proved your point. Go home and watch Buffy.”

Her comment shouldn’t frustrate me, but it does.

I always do what’s expected. I’m the rule follower, the one who keeps her nose in a book and never had a rebellious streak—unless you count taking a bus to the Maryland Science Center in middle school.

I spent more time with my robotics kits and circuit boards growing up than I did going to the mall.

Nobody expects anything different, especially at the ripe old age of thirty-one.

Somewhere along the way, I became a fragile object everyone needed to protect. I’m not a baby anymore. I’m grown and capable of making my own decisions.

“I’m doing something different this year,” I say.

“Sitting on someone’s penis, if I remember correctly.” Marcela’s carefree laugh grates on my last nerve.

“I will if I feel like it! Lots of people have one-night stands without ending up on the evening news.” I do enough research for my doctorate, and I was thorough with my internet search before I borrowed her dress. “If I want to slide into the new year with my legs in the air, I’ll do it.”

“You can’t say ‘pussy’ without blushing, Miriam.”

“Well, me and my—I have condoms in my purse! A pleasure three-pack.”

I end the call and rip off my glasses. I don’t want to hear or see her.

We spend the holidays in the home we grew up in after moving to the States.

Every year is the same routine. On New Year’s Eve, our father slips away somewhere, and Marcela meets up with her high school friends.

I’m home alone watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer episodes and falling asleep before the ball drops.

My sister is the social butterfly, while I naturally shy away from big groups. I wear wide-framed glasses and have a collection of encyclopedias. While my awkwardness makes it easy to stay in the house, it’s never weighed on my confidence.

Seeking validation is pointless when you’re comfortable in your skin. My family doesn’t see it that way. They assume my aversion to extrovert tendencies means I require saving. I’m quiet, but I’ve never relied on anyone to define who I am.

I might be cluelessly single, but I’m not naive about non-platonic interactions or sex. If I can follow scientific principles to design and test systems, I can enjoy force and movement for one evening.

Assuming I go through with it.

Marcela

You know I worry about you.

And I love you. Please trust that I know how to live my life.

“Want something stronger?” The bartender nods at my half-empty water glass.

“Yes. Thank you, Ben,” I say to his name tag, which is across from a patch of chest hair peeking out from under an unbuttoned black dress shirt. Trimmed or not, it has to be a health code violation. “Bourbon. Neat, please.”

His brows soften when I push my glasses to the bridge of my nose and wait. The chemistry of bourbon is a savory science, one often overlooked in favor of instant gratification. I’ve never made whiskey, but I appreciate its flavor complexities.

“House brand or something else?”

“Surprise me.” My tone excites a smile.

Ben strolls to the other end of the onyx bar to retrieve a bottle from an illuminated wooden shelf. It’s not at the top, which means I can afford it on my monthly research assistantship salary. “Try this.” Calloused fingers extend a glass tumbler.

The burn from the first sip creeps down my throat. It’s stronger than I expected. Jinkies. “It’s good.” I cough.

His chuckle rattles the chest hair that I pray isn’t floating in my drink. “What brings you here?”

Entertaining the possibility of allowing a man to play in my guts.

“Wanted some fresh air,” I lie.

“Fresh air,” he repeats, wiping down the counter with a smirk. “There’s a park not too far from here you might want to check out. Since you’re old enough to cross the street.”

I wince. “How much did you hear?”

He cants his head from side to side, the overhead recessed lights catching in his auburn strands.

“Only that you’re trying something new, which may involve your legs in the air at some point.

” He smiles at my groan. “Your secret is safe with me. You hear a lot in this job. No judgment. I take it it’s your first time? A one-night stand?”

I push up my glasses. “What makes you say that?”

“Truth?”

“I like facts.”

“You’re about four hours too early to meet anyone. We won’t get packed until nine,” he says.

That explains why it’s so empty.

Do people not come out for dinner and conversation before a night of sexual indulgence? My food takes at least thirty minutes to settle before I do any activities that exert energy.

I glance at an older couple at a nearby table.

“Early nightcap,” he says. “Don’t think they’ll entertain a threesome.”

A guy at the opposite end of the bar is wearing an ironed sweater.

“Lives next door. He got caught with two sex dolls in his car. Said it was so he could ride the HOV lanes.”

Ew.

I straighten. “Maybe I wanted to eat a burger in peace before any proclivities.”

“We don’t sell burgers. The best I can do are marinated olives or a cheese plate.”

What kind of place is this? Starvation will hit me before the courage to ask a stranger to touch me on the inside does.

“Fine.” I raise my hands. “It is my first one-night stand. But I’ve had sex before.

Twice, which might be pitiful to you and anyone else who thinks a thirty-one-year-old should be doing splits on a countertop or have more experience than Josh Alby and his bull-size nuts smacking me into a twin mattress.

I have three degrees—a bachelor’s of engineering, an MBA, and a master’s of mechanical engineering—and I’m working on a PhD. ”

Ben whistles.

“Socially, I’m boring, and I might be a future bingo champion with a sequined fanny pack, but I’m sick of people telling me what to do.”

Choose a different course of study, honey. You don’t want to be the only female mechanical engineer.

You should live with your father while you’re in college. Columbia is safer for a single woman than Baltimore.

How many degrees do you need? Don’t turn into your tía who blew off men until she couldn’t find one.

I point to the front door. “I’ll dance in traffic before I get stuck in it again tonight. I can have a one-night stand with the next man who walks through that door.”

Maybe not the next man. Somebody who isn’t married, doesn’t have a forest of body hair, and believes in cleaning thoroughly with a washcloth. Marcela’s trysts were part of her “self-discovery” in her twenties. Heaven forbid I have my own in my thirties without an internal family investigation.

The notes I took in my phone about how to have a successful one-night stand said to pack condoms and lubricant. Those are in my purse, along with wipes, a toothbrush, floss, and mouthwash. None of the articles I read mentioned the last four, but oral hygiene should be a priority with safe sex.

At this point, if I could get away with propositioning a man at the grocery store, I’d do it.

At least then I’d have a piece of bread and peace of mind that a nosy sibling and bartender would stay out of my business.

I should quit while I’m ahead, but I don’t want to give up the parking spot I found down the block.

With my luck, I’ll stumble into another bar that serves only grape halves and garnishes.

“Word of advice?” Ben snaps me out of my exit strategy.

“Meeting someone usually works best when you stay awhile.” He nods to the coat I’ve yet to remove.

Between trying not to look desperate and the silent pep talks about having sex for the first time since I began my PhD two years ago, my mind is all over the place.

“I planned to take it off,” I say, matter-of-fact.

He rolls his lips. “Tonight?”

My fingers fumble around the belt I knotted twice like I was protecting my virtue. The silk interior lining glides over my shoulders. The heat is on, but you wouldn’t know it with the way goosebumps prickle my skin. I avoid attention, but tonight, it’s stamped on the cleavage Ben is eyeing.

“Damn.” His green eyes slide from my double-D breasts, which tonight are kissing a red square-neck dress, to my lips.

Wrestling the zipper up my spine was only part of the battle. I’m half a foot shorter than my sister. With our height difference, one would think there would be more fabric to cover my knees. The culprit is my hips, which are wider than Marcela’s and eating up the hem without a care for modesty.

At least the wig I pulled into a low ponytail is still in place. I wear it for labs, and tonight I put in loose curls that took prayer and three YouTube tutorials to tackle.

“If no one comes in soon, I get off at eight,” Ben says.

My brain scrambles to find a logical excuse as I dismiss him with the wave of a hand. “Ha ha.” I brush off his advance.

I respond to Marcela’s message and run through my notes to avoid eye contact. Maybe I’m not ready. My belly is gurgling, which could be a sign of hunger or stupidity.

“Here we go.” Ben tips his chin toward the first person to walk in since my one-night stand monologue.

A heavy weight settles in my stomach. I’m not built to socialize, much less ask someone if I can play with their sexual organs for the night. What do I say? Hi, nice to meet you. Want to stroke my walls?

Don’t look.

Don’t look.

Smooth footsteps roll over concrete, prompting my attention to investigate. My pulse quickens, but it’s my thighs that shift when I see leg muscles cast in a gray suit.

I should’ve stayed home, where it’s safe. Maybe then I wouldn’t be staring at DC’s biggest flirt, whose former baby face is now in its rugged era and wearing a blinding smile directed at me.

Stale wine and Vatican crackers I can do. Antonio Knight is a different story.