Chapter 15
Noah
When your team owner is an eccentric billionaire with some very creative ideas about how a rugby club should operate, you don’t fly private.
You don’t even fly commercial.
No.
You take a bus.
Now, to be fair, Mitchell Knight does not do anything halfway. The bus we’re riding in looks less like a team coach and more like a luxury tour rig. Plush seats.
Privacy compartments. Built-in screens. Three separate bathrooms.
It’s absurd.
Comfortable, but absurd.
Some of the married lads bring their own RVs, so the whole trip ends up looking like a strange little convoy rolling across the southern United States toward Texas.
But honestly?
I’m not thinking about any of that.
Not the miles.
Not the tournament.
Not even Great Dane’s speech about discipline and hydration before we left.
Nope.
All I can think about is Chiara.
Because she’s here.
On this bus.
And the way the seating works means she got one of the private compartments in the back.
Two seats, a curtain, enough space for someone to stretch out and sleep.
Since she’s the only physio traveling with us—and the only woman on the bus—it made sense to give her the privacy.
Which is all well and good.
Except now I know exactly where she is.
And the knowledge is driving me completely bloody mad.
Most of the lads are asleep.
Tank’s curtain is pulled.
I can hear the faint rumble of his snoring. Someone up front is watching a match replay quietly.
Outside the windows, it’s pitch black.
We left late, so we’ll roll into Texas right around sunrise.
Hours on the road.
Hours of knowing Chiara is ten feet away.
Alone.
I try to sit still for about thirty seconds.
Then I give up.
“Bathroom,” I mutter to Ogre—who’s sitting next to me eyes closed with his headphones on—and I stand.
No one else looks like they’re up.
Perfect.
I make my way down the aisle, careful not to bump into anyone, until I reach the back of the bus.
Her curtain.
My heart starts pounding like I’m about to run onto the paddock.
Which is ridiculous.
I’m a grown man sneaking into a woman’s seat compartment like a teenager.
But the thought of seeing her?
Worth it.
Instead of stepping into the bathroom, I slide the curtain aside just enough and slip inside.
She’s sitting up.
Phone in her hand.
The light from the screen illuminates her face—and the second she sees me her eyes go wide and her lips part.
Instinctively, I reach out and cover her mouth before she can yelp.
“Shh,” I whisper.
Her heart is racing—I can feel it through the other hand I’ve got against her shoulder.
“It’s me.”
Not that she needs clarification.
She nods quickly.
I lower my hand.
The compartment is small enough that my knee bumps her seat as I crouch inside, getting close to her as I can.
“Are you insane?” she whispers.
“Possibly.”
Her eyes narrow.
“You can’t just sneak in here like this.”
“Sure I can.”
She opens her mouth to argue again, but I lean forward and kiss her before the protest makes it out.
Soft.
Quick.
Just enough to steal her breath.
For a second, she freezes.
Then her fingers grab the front of my shirt and she kisses me back.
And just like that, the hours of distance and restraint from the past few days vanish.
When we finally pull apart, she exhales slowly.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Been told that.”
Her eyes soften despite herself.
“What if someone saw you?”
I shrug.
“They didn’t.”
“And if they did?”
“Then they’d mind their own business.”
She shakes her head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth now.
“You’re impossible, Noah.”
“Maybe.”
I lean a little closer.
“But you didn’t kick me out.”
Her cheeks flush faintly.
The bus hums beneath us as the miles roll by outside.
And for a moment we just sit there in the tiny compartment, knees touching, the rest of the team asleep around us.
I brush a curl away from her face.
“Missed you today,” I murmur.
Her eyes flick up to mine.
“It's been like six hours.”
“Longest six hours of my life. Now, can you be quiet for me?” I whisper.
Chiara licks her lips—fuck, I’m so hard for her already, but that just tips the scales.
She nods.
“Good girl,” I whisper.
I flick my gaze down her lush body and hum deep in my throat. She’s wearing a pair of loose gym shorts and a tank top.
Nothing overly sexy, but on her? It might as well be lingerie.
“Bloody hell woman, are you trying to kill me?” I mutter when I reach between her legs and find her bare beneath her shorts.
“No, but I wanted to be ready in case you did manage this,” she says and grins wickedly—and fuck, it’s like an arrow to the heart.
I push two fingers inside her tight little sheath. My thumb presses on her clit, and a warmth of fresh wetness coats me in response.
She’s turned on.
Chiara is into this.
Into me.
And knowing it is like ambrosia.
“You’re so hot for it, aren’t you, Love? Turned you into a right nympho, didn’t I?” I growl against her lips, driving my tongue into her mouth in time while I finger her.
Every inch of me is on fire for her.
My cock is thumping against my track pants.
My pulse is racing.
And my mind is filled with her.
Christ, I want her so fucking bad.
More and more. Always more.
Wetness from her slit drips down on my hand and I groan as I work her good and deep.
I even wiggle my pinky towards her sweet, puckered hole, making her gasp against my lips.
“Shh,” I tell her, my gaze focused on hers while she grasps what I’m doing.
I pause with just the tip of my finger there, thumb still circling her clit, and wait for her reaction.
She doesn’t ask me to stop.
Instead, her pupils dilate. She looks drunk.
Drunk on me.
And I like that.
I press the button that lowers the seats, turns them into a makeshift bed, and I help her slide up with one hand still buried between her thighs.
Then I lean down and I replace my thumb with my mouth.
She hisses, and I grin, covering her mouth with my free hand before I go back to eating her.
Chiara is so goddamn sexy.
And the thing is, she still thinks this is temporary.
She thinks carrying on like this—these stolen moments, these secret kisses—is going to burn the desire out of me.
That eventually I’ll get her out of my system.
Like she’s some passing obsession.
She doesn’t understand.
Every time I touch her?
It does the opposite.
Every brush of her skin against mine just drives the feeling deeper.
It’s like I’m carving her into myself.
Branding her onto my skin.
Memorizing the way she laughs, the way she looks at me when she’s trying not to smile.
Sealing the sound of her voice somewhere permanent inside my head.
And every moment we spend together just ties her tighter to my heart.
I’ve never felt anything like this before.
Not even close.
I’ve had women.
Plenty of them.
Fun nights, good memories, nothing that stuck around once the morning came.
But this?
This is something else entirely.
Because with Chiara, I don’t want just the night.
I want the mornings.
The arguments.
The quiet moments when she’s reading or working and I get to sit beside her like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I want the life that comes with her.
And it’s a bloody terrifying realization.
Because if there’s one thing I know for certain now, sitting here in this cramped bus compartment with her knee pressed against mine…
It’s that I’m head over bloody heels for Chiara Giardino.
And she still has no idea.