Chapter 15 #2
“Oh, I see. He’s not alone. He’s with these fellas.” She points at the two men standing outside one of the doors.
“Is he in there?” I don’t wait for her answer, but hustle over and reach past the men for the door handle.
“Wait, you can’t go in there.” One of them puts a hand on my wrist.
Eying him coldly, I say, “Yes I can. I’m his wife. Take your hand off me.” My voice implies a threat and it works. He lifts his hand immediately and I give him no chance to question me further, opening the door and going inside the room.
Tate is there, lying on a bed in what looks like an examining room. On the other side is a glass wall looking in on a giant tubular MRI machine.
“Chloe?” Disbelief colors his voice and his face. “What the fuck are you doing here?” He sits up and stops abruptly, wincing and putting a hand to his back, muttering a string of obscenities.
Rushing to his side, I say, “Don’t move. Lie back down. Are you crazy?”
“Me crazy? WTF, Chloe? How did you even find me?” He pauses and adds, “And what do you want?”
“Long story. But I promise I have no microphone, no tablet, no notebook—”
“I get the drill. You’re off the record?”
“I swear it, Tate.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you were all right, to be here with you. You should never be alone in the hospital.”
“I’m not alone. I have two guys from the team with me. How’d you get past them?”
This is the part I’m worried about, but I may as well tell him because those guys are going to figure it out sooner than later—it’ll only take a phone call to the right person for them to find out my scam.
Sitting on the chair next to the bed, I say, “I told them I was your wife.”
After a blink of shock, he shakes his head and laughs loud and hard.
“Are you shitting me?” He calms himself and I’m relieved, but I don’t find it as funny as all that.
He says, “I’m flattered at the trouble you’ve gone to just to be with me in my moment of vulnerability, Chloe. Or I would be if I didn’t think you were planning to kick me with your spike heels while I’m down.”
“I swear, I told you I’m not here on official business. Did you have the MRI?”
“Yes. I’m waiting for the prelim results. The doc should be back soon.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Like a motherfucker.” Then he smiles, double dimples, and I’m devastated. Moving closer, I touch his arm, then his face.
“You have me worried, Fontanna. I can’t stand the thought of you in pain.”
“Don’t worry, I can still—”
The door opens then, but I grin because I know what he was about to say before he clammed up. One of the guys from the team, the one I recognize from the medical staff, comes inside and looks pissed.
“I’m sorry about the intrusion, Tate.” He turns to me, “You need to leave. You’re not his wife.”
“It’s okay, Bill. She can stay.”
Bill looks back and forth between us, nods and leaves, closing the door behind him. The doctor comes into the room shortly afterward and Tate introduces me. To my immense pleasure and surprise, Tate doesn’t ask me to leave. Honestly, he should. I wouldn’t trust me if I were him.
“Looks like a slight compression of L4 and L5 and a mild strain. We’ll give you a shot and some pain meds and I’ll send the prescription to the team physician. Rest it as much as possible for the next two weeks—”
“Hell with that,” Tate says. I bite my tongue because I so badly want to tell him to listen to the doc.
“I need to play next Sunday. Can you get me there?”
“There’s a risk and it’s not going to feel too good, but sure, we can get you game ready.
If you rest between now and then and we double dose the shots on game day.
” The doctor flashes his eyes in my direction, looking slightly uncomfortable while I sit there holding my breath.
I also find myself holding Tate’s hand. And squeezing.
Hard. Tate gives me a squeeze back so I loosen my grip.
“Thanks, doc. Am I set to go?” The doctor nods and hands him a piece of paper.
“Pain meds. You can fill the prescription downstairs in the pharmacy before you leave.”
Once the doc is gone, I help Tate dress, which turns out to be no easy feat with his back in acute pain. I can see the bruising on it already darkening.
“It’s a good thing I’m here to dress you, Fontanna, or you would have had to ask Bill for help and how awkward would that be?”
He laughs then groans. “Shut up, Smitty. Just get my shoes on me and take me home.”
Bill and his sidekick escort Tate down to the lobby and I run ahead to pull the car up out front so he doesn’t have to walk. The two men help him into my car.
“You sure you’re all set, Mr. Fontanna?” the man who I’m convinced is security asks.
“I’m fine, Gerry. In fact, I’m in very good hands,” he says with a smirk and I want to smack him but I don’t dare, not even a playful smack. Seeing his limited ability to move tonight, I’m wondering how the hell he’s going to play his next game even though it’s not for ten days.
We drive to his chichi waterfront high-rise condo in East Boston and I park in the garage close to the elevator in a visitor space. No way am I dropping him off and leaving. Whether he invites me up or not, I’m going with him.
When I get into the elevator with him, he doesn’t seem to mind, so I breathe easier and stand close.
What the hell am I doing? I’ve done my duty and checked on him, forfeited a big scoop for the station and a feather in my cap.
Now there’s no need for me to compound my stupidity by playing nursemaid.
It’s not as if he’s in any shape for fun and games—in spite of his earlier insinuation otherwise.
“Do you really think you’re going to play on Sunday?” I say as the elevator doors open at the top floor, the direct entry to his penthouse.
“I’m surprised at you, Smitty. You’ve been around long enough to know players play hurt. Didn’t your father have war stories about that kind of thing? Hell, didn’t you see it for yourself?”
“Sure,” I shrug. He’s right. But how do I tell him it’s different when it’s someone you care about without giving away the last piece of myself, the one I need to hang onto for dear life before I’m completely unrecognizable?
“But?”
“But this is different.” I can’t help myself, hell if I’m giving myself away. When his eyes go soft and warm as we walk from his entry into his kitchen, the swirl of pleasure that transforms my insides to jelly and my heart to a palpitating machine makes it worth the risk to expose myself.
He backs me up against the kitchen island, his scent teasing my senses. With his heat and the sight of twinkling lights along the Boston skyline framed by tall windows visible over his shoulder, it’s no wonder my knees tremble with romantic weakness.
“How different?” he says, nuzzling my neck, his stubbled chin scraping my fragile skin, making me shiver. Holding him, running my hands along the bulging muscles of his arms and his back, need starts to blaze, impelling my hips against his.
There’s no answer to his question, at least not in words, so I kiss him.
Forgetting about his back, his shoulder or whatever the fuck his injury is, I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling his face to mine hard.
He opens his mouth, groans into mine, and I wonder in a flash of conscience if it’s pain or pleasure.
But when he lowers his hands to cup my ass and press me against the unmistakably excited length of his raging cock, it doesn’t matter. I want him.
His lips move to my ear and he whispers. “Are you staying?”
Instead of answering, I push him back and head for his bedroom.
He follows. But he’s slow and awkward and it’s not because of the hard cock in his pants, so I take his arm and help him to his bed.
He sits on the edge with a wince and I kneel in front of him.
No way can he fuck me tonight. Not until his pain meds have had a chance to work and he’s had a good night’s sleep.
I take off his shoes and then I unzip his pants. Staring at him, I give him one of those smiles telling of naughty promises. Wrapping my hand around his cock, I free the throbbing length from his shorts and the twitch makes my heart flip.
“I’m going down on you, big boy, so brace yourself.”
“I don’t think I can return the favor.” He sucks in a breath as I finger his tip and squeeze. “I don’t want a sympathy BJ.”
I laugh. “I promise you, I don’t have a sympathetic bone in my body.” I move in close, whispering. “In fact my bones are all melted by now, I’m so hot for you.” I push a curl off my forehead and he strokes the skin at my temple, pulls me in for a hard kiss.
When I pull away and slide my hand up and down, I feel his excitement spike in the jump of his cock, feel the spike in his heat.
He doesn’t stop me when I lower my mouth to his cock as he holds onto my head and lies back on the bed, groaning.
I know the groan is at least partly from his pain and I want to erase it from his mind, banish it completely from his consciousness.
Licking his tip, I say, “God almighty, you are gorgeous and so slick and inviting.” Holding him with both hands, I lower my mouth long and slow as I suck and relish the full steely measure of him.
“I bet I could say the same thing about you.” His voice is gruff and I can hear the tension.
Looking at him as I come up, gripping him with my hands, I love watching his face, seeing him come undone, the pent-up passion seeping through until he lets go.
I want to make him lose his cool until he can hold nothing back and he calls out my name.
Licking the moisture from his tip, my tongue darts in taunting swipes of pleasure.
The raw taste and feel of him, the sound of his groan electrifies me and I’ve hardly started.
He slips his hands behind my head as I clamp my mouth over him, the silky feel of him in my mouth, hard and pulsing, makes my pussy cry with pleasure, swelling up and throbbing.
Sucking deep and hard until I gag, I move my mouth back up his shaft slowly, tasting and savoring, and then I come down again hard, up and down again and again, slow then hard.
Then frantic, out of my mind with the power of him in my mouth growing and sizzling hot until he groans loud and tense, grinding out my name, and his cum streams into my mouth, hot and salty, shooting down my throat until I pull my mouth off him, letting him spurt onto my face.
I watch his face contorted in excruciating pleasure as he stares back at me, holding my head, my shoulder with shaky hands.
“Oh God, Chloe . . .”