Playing The Field (The Toronto Tigers #1)

Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Anastasia

I wake up warm.

The kind of warmth that seeps into your bones, so encompassing that for a few fleeting seconds, I let myself sink into it. A slow inhale. The scent of him—something rich and woodsy, clean skin, and a hint of whatever expensive detergent his sheets are washed in—wraps around me. My cheek is pressed against solid heat, my legs tangled in a mess of crisp white linen and corded muscle. It’s the second the weight of an arm tightens around my waist that reality crashes down, slamming into me with the force of a freight train.

Oh. No.

My breath hitches.

I don’t move.

If I don’t move, maybe none of this is real. Maybe if I lie here long enough, this will unravel into nothing but a dream—some twisted, frustrating fantasy conjured up by my traitorous subconscious. Because there’s no way I actually did this. No way I actually let myself?—

Oh my God.

Heat crawls up my neck. I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the wave of nausea rolling through me. I was already walking a tightrope, and now? I just threw myself off of it. With no safety net. No way to recover from the sheer recklessness of what I did last night.

Did I just jeopardize my career?

The thought is ice water down my spine, chasing away the fog of sleep and warmth, replacing it with sharp, biting panic. Because what I did? What we did? It wasn’t just a lapse in judgment. It was a full-on, no-brakes, straight-off-the-cliff kind of mistake.

He’s my boss.

I work for him.

This is everything I swore I wouldn’t do.

My fingers curl into the sheets, my mind scrambling for a plan, an escape, anything that will make this feel less like the disaster I know it is. But I don’t move. Because the problem isn’t just that I slept with him.

It’s that I don’t regret it.

Not even a little bit.

The thought is suffocating.

I should go. I should untangle myself from him, slide out of this bed, and walk away before he wakes up and the full weight of what we did settles between us like an iron wall. But I don’t.

Because I don’t want to.

I’m exhausted. Bone-deep, emotionally drained, completely unraveling at the seams. And this? This is the first time in months I haven’t felt like I was standing on the edge of something, waiting for the next bad thing to knock me off balance.

Graham shifts against me, his hand sliding over the bare skin of my waist, and a traitorous shiver runs through me. I bite my lip, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. His breathing is still slow, steady.

He’s not awake.

Yet.

I force myself to take a deep breath, to push past the war raging in my mind and make a decision. I could leave. I could slip out of bed, find my clothes, and be gone before he even has the chance to open his eyes. I could pretend this never happened.

But something in my chest clenches at the thought.

I don’t want to run.

I don’t want this to be something I have to bury under layers of professionalism and avoidance.

I want it to mean something.

And that’s the most terrifying part of all.

So I stay.

Because if I’m going to do this—if I’m going to let myself cross the line I swore I never would—I at least need to know where we stand.

His breathing shifts.

The moment stretches, thick with anticipation, until I feel it—his arm tightening around me, the slow inhale, the way his fingers flex against my skin like he’s already realized I’m still here.

Then, his voice, still rough with sleep.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

I swallow hard, but I don’t pull away.

“We should talk,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.

His hand drifts up my spine, slow and deliberate. “We should shower first.”

My stomach flips.

My throat goes dry.

His words settle in the thick, sleep-warmed air between us, and my brain completely short-circuits. Just … stops functioning entirely.

A second passes. Then another.

And all I can do is blink at the wall, my body still frozen against the firm, unyielding heat of his. His voice is rough, gravelly from sleep, but there’s something else beneath it. Something deliberate. A slow, simmering suggestion that slides over my skin like a touch, even though he hasn’t moved.

I open my mouth, then close it again.

My brain is sending out every emergency evacuation warning possible, screaming at me to get up, to leave, to create some kind of professional barrier before this spirals even further out of control.

And yet?—

His palm drags up my spine, the weight of his hand grounding, steady, like he already knows I’m about to run. Like he’s waiting to see if I will.

I exhale slowly, trying to regain some semblance of sanity. “Graham?—”

“Anastasia.” My name is low, almost teasing, the rasp of it settling somewhere deep in my chest. He’s awake now, fully, and I can feel it in every inch of him. His body pressed against mine, solid and immovable. The heat of him wrapping around me like a second skin.

I force myself to focus. To untangle the mess of emotions twisting tight inside me and find my footing.

“We need a plan,” I say finally, my voice firmer now. “If we’re doing this—” I pause, inhale. “If this happened, then we need to figure out what it means going forward. Because I can’t afford to?—”

His fingers skate up my ribs, stopping just beneath my arm, and my breath stutters. “To what?”

I close my eyes. “To let this ruin everything.”

A beat of silence.

Then, he moves.

Slow, steady, the way he always does. Rolling onto his back, dragging me with him like I belong there, tucked against his chest. Like he already knows I won’t fight him. And I should. God, I should. I should push away, sit up, put as much distance between us as possible.

But I don’t.

Because the worst part of this—the part I can’t even begin to admit to myself—is that I like being here. I like the weight of his arm draped over my waist. The steady, grounding press of his body against mine. The heat of him, the safety.

I’ve never felt safe like this before.

And that scares the absolute hell out of me.

Graham sighs, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek. “You think I don’t know that?”

His voice is softer now. Less teasing, more something else. Something serious.

I lift my head, and he’s already watching me. Those blue eyes sharp, unreadable, studying me like he’s trying to figure out exactly what I’m thinking.

I swallow hard. “Then tell me. What are we doing?”

His fingers trace slow circles against my back. “I don’t know yet.”

It’s honest. Maybe too honest.

I bite my lip, my stomach flipping with uncertainty. “That’s not very reassuring.”

His lips twitch. “I never promised reassurance.”

I huff out a laugh, despite myself, and that tiny flicker of amusement—it shouldn’t make the tension crack. But it does. Just a little.

Then, Graham shifts, sitting up, taking me with him.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice low, almost coaxing. “Shower first. Talk after.”

I hesitate. I should say no. I should tell him I need space, time to think.

But instead, I let him pull me to my feet, let his fingers slide between mine as he tugs me toward the bathroom.

Which is ridiculous.

Not just in a wow, this is fancy way, but in an I think I just stepped into the spa section of a five-star resort kind of way. The kind of luxury that makes my brain short-circuit because who actually lives like this?

Everything is sleek, modern, and exudes quiet, understated wealth. The kind that doesn’t need to scream money because it just is money. Smooth black marble stretches across the double vanity, speckled with subtle veins of white and gold. Above it, an oversized mirror is backlit, casting a soft, warm glow that makes the space feel impossibly elegant.

To the right, a glass-walled shower dominates the room, so massive it could probably fit an entire rugby team. The dark tiles are a deep slate, with a rainfall showerhead mounted into the ceiling and multiple side jets embedded into the walls. Because of course Graham Callahan wouldn’t settle for just one option—why not have an entire hydrotherapy experience every time he showers?

And then there’s the tub.

It’s the kind of thing you only see in high-end architectural magazines—a freestanding, matte black soaking tub positioned beneath a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the city skyline. Because of course. Of course, he has a view. Because the world apparently needs to look just as expensive from inside his bathroom as it does from his penthouse.

Everything smells insanely good, too. Subtle, masculine. A mix of cedarwood and something fresh, clean, like bergamot. His scent lingers in the air, curling into my senses, making it impossible to forget where I am and who I’m here with.

I drag my fingers over the marble countertop, barely registering the warm towel warmer built into the vanity or the high-tech touchscreen panel next to the mirror that probably controls everything.

This bathroom is indulgence. Decadence.

And I have absolutely no business being here.

Yet, when Graham steps behind me, his hands sliding over my hips, his lips ghosting against the shell of my ear, my last coherent thought is?—

Maybe, just for a little while, I don’t care.

He turns the shower on and tests the water before pulling me inside with him. We had sex last night and it was mind-blowing — the man’s stamina is unreal — but with all his naked flesh on display, I feel my mouth go dry. I glance down and see that he’s hard, his erection reaching his navel. It feels so clichéd to mention the size of his cock, but it’s a tight fit when he’s inside me. And the stretch is downright delicious. He clears his throat as he steps under the hot spray, and I feel my cheeks warm from embarrassment. He caught me staring and while I should probably be a bit more bashful about it, I tilt my chin and meet his heated gaze. He smirks and that little lift of his lips makes my insides tighten with anticipation. I watch as he soaps himself up, the rich aroma of his body wash filling the space as the steam billows up and up and up. God, this man is sexy. My gaze catches on his new tattoo — an intricate map of Cape Town, the place we met. He moves one hand over the ink, as if he knows that’s what I’m looking at, and then slides it down his abdomen to his erection. He fists himself and slides his soapy hand up and down at a slow, deliberate pace.

“Come closer,” he says, his voice hoarse.

Like a Marionette puppet, I obey. Until we’re standing toe-to-toe.

“Now what?” I tease, my voice breathy.

Graham lets out a breath and closes the gap, trailing those hands down my backside. He lifts me like a weigh a buck nothing, and suck in a breath when he positions me over his cock. He turns and presses my back against the tiled wall, and in one swift motion, pushes inside me.

“Oh, God,” I whimper, digging my nails into his shoulders. He fills me so completely, it’s almost impossible to form a coherent thought.

Graham growls, the sound making his chest vibrate. “Not God, baby. Just me.”

He widens his stance and thrusts out, only to drive back in harder until the sound of skin-on-skin joins the melody of sounds filling the bathroom.

“G-graham,” I stutter, hooking an arm around his neck.

He bears his teeth and doubles down, all but fucking me into the wall.

I whimper and bite my lip, my stomach tightening as the tip of his cock rubs my G-spot in a steady, unforgiving rhythm. He bottoms out every time, creating friction over my clit, and it drives me wild. So wild that I want more, need more.

I reach between us and start rubbing my clit in a fast, circular motion, feeling the pressure building low in my belly. Another sensation catches my already scattered attention — the feel of Graham’s cock as he slides in and out. I part the lips of my sex, and shiver when I look down. Watching him disappear inside my body over and over again. His cock is thick with veins on either side that protrude from beneath his skin. It’s so damn sexy, watching him like this. It’s primal and raw and — he pushes inside me, and every thought flies out of my head because I‘m so close to losing it.

“Be a good girl, Anastasia, and come for me.” He bites my lip and snarls, “Now!”

My body responds the only way it can — in an explosion of sensation. My orgasm ripples through me with such force, such violence, and I scream. Graham lifts a hand to my throat and applies just enough pressure before pressing his mouth to mine. He kisses me through my orgasm, and when I feel him come, a second orgasm tears through my body.

“Fuck,” Graham exhales, pressing his forehead to mine. “Breakfast of champions.”

A laugh breaks free from between my kiss-swollen lips, followed by a growl from my stomach.

“You hungry?” Graham teases, mischief making the blue of his eyes seem almost iridescent.

Before I can say something like “duh”, he adds, “We’ll clean up and get you fed.” He kisses my nose, and lowers me to the floor, holding my hips when my legs shake. He chuckles and spins me around. I should probably be embarrassed.

The way my legs still feel like jelly, the way Graham catches my hips as I sway slightly, his chuckle vibrating against my shoulder as he steadies me. But I’m not. Because the warmth in his eyes, the way his touch lingers even after he lets me go—it does something to me. Something dangerous. Something that makes me want to pretend, just for a little while, that this isn’t a mistake.

He turns, stepping out of the shower first, reaching for one of the oversized charcoal-gray towels neatly stacked on the built-in shelf. He tosses one my way, then rubs a second one through his hair before wrapping it low around his hips. And damn it, it’s not fair.

The man was engineered in a lab somewhere, I swear.

I try not to stare, but it’s impossible. The way the towel sits on his hips, dangerously low, the sharp V-cut of his abs disappearing beneath the fabric. The way water clings to his skin, running slow rivulets down his chest. My throat dries. I am so screwed.

He catches me looking, of course. His smirk is lazy, knowing, and I immediately whip around, wrapping the towel around myself as if that will somehow salvage my dignity. It doesn’t.

His voice is warm, teasing. “Careful, Dr. Bellows. You keep looking at me like that, and we won’t be leaving this bathroom anytime soon.”

I glare at him over my shoulder, but it holds exactly zero weight, because I know my face is still flushed, my lips are still swollen from the last time he kissed me, and worst of all? He’s right.

Somehow, I manage to pull myself together long enough to get dressed in the clothes I left in his bedroom last night. A pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, and socks because my feet are freezing against his expensive-ass hardwood floors.

By the time I step into the kitchen, Graham is already there, moving with the kind of effortless ease that tells me he’s done this a thousand times.

The space is open, sleek, modern—much like the rest of his penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city skyline, morning light spilling over marble countertops and gleaming stainless-steel appliances. But the real sight to behold is him.

Barefoot, in gray sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt that somehow makes him look even more devastatingly good, he stands at the counter, pouring two cups of coffee. His shoulders shift as he moves, muscles flexing beneath the fabric, and I swear, it should be illegal for a man to look that good doing something as simple as making coffee.

He slides one of the mugs across the counter toward me. “You take it black, right?”

I nod, still watching him. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He leans a hip against the counter, sipping from his own mug, eyes locked onto mine like he’s studying me. My fingers tighten around the warm ceramic, and I shift on my feet, suddenly feeling more exposed than I did when I was actually naked in his shower.

The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s heavy. Charged.

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to focus. “So,” I start, lifting my mug to my lips. “About that plan we need?”

Graham watches me for a moment longer, then smirks, tilting his head. “And here I thought I’d at least get you fed before you started making rules.”

My stomach chooses that exact moment to betray me, growling loudly enough that Graham outright laughs.

I scowl, lifting my mug higher to hide my face. “Shut up.”

His grin is all mischief. “Come on,” he says, pushing off the counter. “Let’s get you something to eat before you pass out.”

And just like that, the tension shifts, settles into something lighter. Something dangerous in an entirely different way.

Because I already know—whatever we decide?

I won’t be able to keep my heart out of it.