8. Tara
TARA
His lips were still on mine. My hands still clutched his shirt.
The world had narrowed to this; his taste, his scent, the slight stubble against my skin, the heat of his body against mine.
The bass vibrated loudly through the club, but all I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears and the soft sound he made when I parted my lips against his.
Twelve years of waiting.
Twelve years of planning.
Twelve years of obsession.
And in one reckless moment, Xander had just taken all the power I’d so carefully cultivated and thrown it right out the window.
Reality crashed back in. I realized every eye was on us—the shocked faces of my medical staff, the slack-jawed expressions of the players, the gleeful looks of those already pulling out phones to document the moment.
And there was Diego on the sideline, his face twisted into an ugly smirk.
My survival instinct kicked in with brutal clarity. This wasn’t just about regaining control of our twisted game. This was about my career. My life.
I shoved Xander back hard enough that he stumbled. Oxygen rushed back into my lungs.
And then, without thinking, I raised my hand and let it fly—flat-palmed, sharp, catching him square across that perfectly chiseled jaw.
The sound cracked through the club’s momentary lull in music. My hand burned from the impact. His head snapped to the side, a red mark already blooming on his cheek.
“Who do you think you are?” I snarled, my voice dripping with ice. “You are a player. I am your doctor. Don’t you ever forget that again.”
The shock on his face was so raw, so genuine, that for a heartbeat I almost broke character. Almost reached for him. Almost told him I was sorry, that I didn’t mean it, that the kiss had been everything I’d dreamed of.
But Diego’s satisfied laugh cut through the tension, and Xander’s expression hardened into something cold. Without a word, he turned away and walked out of the club.
I’d won. So why did victory taste like ash in my mouth?
“Guess he can’t handle rejection,” Diego said, sidling up beside me, voice thick with false sympathy. “Some guys just don’t know how to take no for an answer.”
I rounded on him, channeling all my conflicted emotions into a glare so cold it made him take a step back.
“I handled it, Diego. Stay out of it.”
“I was just?—”
“I don’t need your protection. I don’t need anyone’s protection.” I smoothed down my dress, hyper-aware of every eye still on me. “What I need is for everyone to remember that I am a medical professional, and this kind of behavior will not be tolerated.”
I could feel the narrative solidifying around me. Poor Dr. Swanson, accosted by the team’s newest troublemaker. The talented but unstable Xander McCrae, living up to his party-boy reputation. Just another incident in a long history of bad behavior.
I spotted Coach Wilkes across the room, his expression grim. Time for damage control.
I made my way over to him, my chin held high. The crowd parted before me, whispers following in my wake. This was a performance, and I needed to nail every beat.
“Coach,” I said, my voice steady. “I want to apologize for that unfortunate spectacle.”
Wilkes studied me, his weathered face unreadable. “You have nothing to apologize for, Doc. McCrae was out of line.”
“It wasn’t entirely his fault.” I kept my voice low and steady.
Wilkes nodded, but there was something in his eyes. “You two have a history?”
“A long time ago. Nothing relevant to the present situation.”
“If you say so.” He didn’t look convinced. “You heading out?”
“Yes. I think I’ve had enough excitement for one night.” I managed a tight smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I turned to leave, feeling the weight of his gaze on my back. The whispers followed me through the club, but I kept my head high, my pace measured. I was Dr. Swanson, completely in control of the situation.
It wasn’t until I was alone in the elevator, the doors sliding shut on the chaos behind me, that the first crack appeared in my facade. My hand—the one that had struck Xander’s face—trembled as I pressed the button for the lobby.
I stared at my palm, still faintly pink from the impact. I could still feel the heat of his skin, the slight roughness of his stubble. I could still taste him on my lips.
The slap had been a lie.
The kiss had been the truth.
By the time I reached the lobby, I had composed myself once more. I nodded to the doorman, walked calmly to the valet, and gave a generous tip as my car was brought around. I drove home on autopilot, the Miami night a blur of neon and palm trees beyond my windshield.
My apartment building was quiet at this hour. The doorman nodded as I entered, and I forced a smile in return. The elevator ride was mercifully empty, giving me the privacy to close my eyes and lean against the wall, trying to gather the strength for the last steps of this charade.
The moment my apartment door closed behind me, the adrenaline that had carried me through the night vanished, leaving me shaking. I kicked off my heels, letting them lie where they fell, and made my way to the bathroom, shedding clothes as I went.
The bathroom was my sanctuary—all white marble and chrome, with a deep Jacuzzi tub big enough to stretch out in.
I turned the taps on full, watching as steam rose from the water.
I added a generous pour of bath oil, something lavender and supposedly calming, though I doubted anything could calm the storm raging inside me now.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror as I waited for the tub to fill. My lips were slightly swollen, my pupils dilated, a flush still visible on my chest and neck. I looked... wrecked . Like someone who had been thoroughly kissed and then left wanting.
Which, of course, was exactly what had happened.
I stepped into the bath, hissing as the hot water enveloped me. I sank down until only my head remained above the surface, letting the heat and the scented steam work their way into my tense muscles.
It didn’t help. If anything, the sensual warmth of the water only heightened my awareness of my body—of the way my skin still tingled where he’d touched me, of the heavy ache between my thighs, of the hollow emptiness in the pit of my stomach.
I closed my eyes, trying to focus on my breathing, to center myself the way I’d learned in med school to handle stress. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. A simple technique to calm the sympathetic nervous system.
But with my eyes closed, all I could see was Xander’s face as I slapped him. The shock, the hurt, the way his eyes had gone from burning with desire to cold in the space of a heartbeat.
I’d hurt him. I’d meant to, of course—that was the point. To reassert control. To reestablish boundaries. To remind him and everyone watching that I was Dr. Swanson, not some conquest to be had against a bar.
But I hadn’t expected it to hurt me too.
I traced my fingers over my lips, remembering. He’d tasted like whisky. His hands had been gentle on my face, despite the urgency of the kiss. And for that brief, perfect moment before reality crashed in, I’d felt something I hadn’t felt in my entire adult life: whole.
My hand drifted down, skimming over my collarbone, between my breasts, across my stomach. I imagined it was his hand, his touch. What would have happened if we hadn’t been in that club? If Diego hadn’t been watching? If I hadn’t been so caught up in my need to maintain control?
Would we have ended up here, in my bathroom? Would he be in this tub with me, his body pressing mine against the smooth marble, his hands exploring every inch of me?
I let my hand drift lower, under the water, between my thighs. I was already swollen, aching with need. I bit my lip to stifle a moan as I touched myself, imagining it was him.
In my fantasy, he wasn’t gentle. He was demanding, almost angry—as angry as I’d pretended to be in the club—we’d be in the shower and he would push me against the wall, his body hard and unyielding against mine. His hands would pin my wrists above my head as he kissed me, deep and possessive.
“Is this what you want?” he’d growl. “To be fucked by a player? By someone beneath the great Dr. Swanson?”
“Yes,” I gasped, both in my fantasy and in the reality of my bath. “God, yes.”
In my mind, he spun me around, pressing me face-first against the cool tile. One hand kept my wrists pinned, the other snaked around to find me wet and ready. He teased me, his fingers circling but never quite giving me what I needed.
“All those years,” he said, his voice rough with desire. “Just thinking about you. Dreaming about you. And now you’re going to come for me, Tara. You’re going to come around my fingers, and then you’re going to come around my cock, and you’re going to remember who you belong to.”
“Please,” I begged, my hips moving against my hand, chasing the pleasure that built with each stroke. “Please, Xander.”
In my fantasy, he finally relented, pushing two fingers deep inside me as his thumb circled my clit. In reality, I did the same, matching the rhythm I imagined he would set—hard and fast and merciless, exactly what I needed.
The orgasm hit me like a wave, sudden and overwhelming.
I cried out, my back arching, water sloshing over the edge of the tub as my body convulsed with pleasure.
I rode it out, gasping his name into the empty bathroom, until the aftershocks subsided and I was left floating in the cooling water, breathless and spent.
As the haze of pleasure faded, reality crept back in.
I was alone in my bathtub, having just gotten myself off to a fantasy of the man I’d publicly humiliated hours before.
The man whose career I could destroy with a word to my father.
The man I’d spent twelve years obsessing over, planning to seduce and then discard.
But that wasn’t the plan anymore, was it? The “hunt” I’d so carefully orchestrated wasn’t a game I controlled. It was a need that had consumed me, body and soul. A need that might just destroy everything I’d worked for.
I climbed out of the tub, water dripping onto the marble floor as I reached for a towel.
I wrapped it around myself and padded into my bedroom, the plush carpet soft beneath my bare feet. My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark. I picked it up, my thumb hovering over his name in my messages.
I could text him. Apologize for the slap. Explain that I’d panicked, that I’d been afraid of what people would think, of losing my job, my reputation. Tell him that the kiss had been everything I’d dreamed of for twelve years.
Or I could double down. Be Dr. Swanson. Send a cold message reminding him of the boundaries and warning him of the consequences if he ever tried something like that again.
I set the phone down without doing either. There was no middle ground here, no safe path forward. Either I surrendered to this need and accepted the consequences, or I buried it deep and pretended it had never existed.
I crawled into bed, not bothering with pajamas, the towel falling away as I slipped between the cool sheets. Sleep wouldn’t come easily, if at all. Not with my mind racing and my body still humming with residual pleasure and unfulfilled need.