Chapter One #2
“A distraction, huh?” He leans forward, his muscular forearms resting on the laminate table. “I’m your best pupil. I’m part of the reason your recovery stats for the team last year were high. I’m truly a model patient.” He leans back and smiles, putting a hand on his chest.
“You distract me because you want to do things your way,” I lie.
“What are you even talking about? I listen to every word you say,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly, teasing tone that makes my stomach flutter. “I’ve been listening to you for the better part of eleven years. Even when you aren’t talking.”
I look away, focusing on a grease stain on the wall. The tension grows so thick that I can practically see it between us. And I know he won’t break eye contact. He just sits forward again, back into my space.
“I have to get back to my office,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady as I slide out of the booth. “I have a nine a.m. meeting.”
“Presley.”
He hardly ever uses my full name. It’s usually Doc or Pres.
“Come on. Let’s go,” I say. “We’ll work out again at two p.m. Wear the heavy brace. We’ll be doing lateral work on the indoor field.”
He doesn’t respond, just slides out of the booth, leaves a hundred-dollar bill on the table, and follows me out the door.
The ride back to the facility is quiet. I know it’s because I’m quiet.
Seriously, I don’t know what has gotten into me lately.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t been with a man in months.
More likely, it’s the fact that since Saint’s surgery, I’ve spent an exorbitant amount of time watching him sweat and flex in various positions in the gym.
And I can’t lie—my mind has wandered into fantasy territory more than once. Just like it has today.
Every time I adjust his positioning or my hand brushes his damp skin to check his muscle, it feels like an electric shock.
I’m supposed to be a professional, the woman who’s spent years earning my place in this male-dominated world.
But around him, I feel anything but professional.
Because the thoughts running through my head are nowhere near the friend zone.
I’m sure that’s all it is. I’m just horny.
It’s not like I’m in love with Saint. Sure, he’s the most amazing man. Funny, smart, successful, and gorgeous. But he’s … Saint. He’s my friend, and even if I were in love with him, we’d never work.
Yes, I’m a confident woman, along with sexy, accomplished, and smart as fuck, and I know I turn heads. But he’s a baller, and I’m his team doctor. We could never survive anything more than what we are now.
So, no. This isn’t love I’m thinking about.
But the orgasm clause in our pact?
I. Can’t. Stop. Thinking. About. It.
From Saint. Specifically.
I lower the window and let the cool air blow on my face to help tame my erratic heart and clenching thighs.
Jesus, Presley. Get control of your hormones.
The stream of wind is blowing his intoxicating scent of musk and all-American male my way, and if I don’t pull myself together, I might just mount my best friend right here in the back seat of a Lincoln.
As soon as the car pulls into the back lot near the locker room, I am out the door and walking into the building, then down the corridor that leads to my office. The entire walk, I can feel Saint’s eyes on me.
I close my office door and lock it, just in case he decides to follow me, so I can compose myself for our training session.
Pretty sure he got the hint because I hear the door to the locker room slam shut a few minutes later.
At one fifty-five on the dot, I walk into the indoor field, where we’ll complete our session. It’s June, and the air in here is hot, so I turn on the AC and the giant fans.
Saint is already on the field. He’s quiet, his face set in a hard line, similar to the one he wears during game days. I see a white disk peek out between his lips. He sucks it back into his mouth, then crunches.
Life Savers mints. He loves anything mint.
“Okay,” I say, voice tight. My eyes glued to my tablet. “Let’s do lateral movements. Try a slow sidestep across the turf. I want to see how the ligament holds under pressure. If you have any discomfort, stop immediately.”
Saint’s eyes are locked on mine. He doesn’t look at the ground. He doesn’t watch his knee. He moves to the left, then the right. His movements are fluid and powerful despite the brace. He doesn’t stop when he reaches the end of the line. He keeps moving. Toward me.
“How’s it feel?” I ask, a slight squeak in my voice.
I stare at his knee, desperate for something to focus on other than the heat in his gaze.
“It feels … like you’re keeping something from me, Doc,” he says.
“What are you talking about?” I brush him off with a smile, biting my bottom lip to stop myself from saying something stupid.
He levels his eyes with mine. “You’ve been acting funny all day. I’ve known you for eleven years, and trust me, I know you have something on your mind. You get this wrinkle on your forehead when you’re thinking about something.”
I place a hand on my forehead to smooth out whatever wrinkle he thinks he sees.
He chuckles and then lifts his thumb to my lower lip and pulls it away from my teeth.
“You also bite your lower lip when you’re really worked up about something.”
His thumb traces my mouth for a second too long, and I let out a little whimper.
Fuck.
He rests his hands on his thighs and gives a wry smile. “Talk to me, Doc. What’s on your mind?”
I shift from one foot to the other, resting my tablet on my hip. “I”—I blow out a breath—“can’t.”
“Can't or won’t?”
I roll my eyes and sigh. “Saint …” Do I tell this man, who I have known all of my adult life, that I secretly want him to give me an orgasm like I need air to breathe?
I shouldn’t. It would be crude and crazy.
Then again, this is Saint, and we tell each other everything.
“I’ve been thinking about our pact we made in college. ”
He lifts a brow and smirks. “Our pact? You want to get married?”
“No!” I answer a little too quickly and too easily.
He leans back, hands up, amused. “Easy there, Pres. It’s fine.
If you don’t want to marry me, then why is it on your mind in a way that you’re acting like being near me or touching me is going to set you off?
That you say I’m distracting you—oh. Ohhh.
” His mouth quirks up on one side, as if the realization of it all just hit him.
He steps toward me, and I step back as his large frame closes the space between us.
“Saint, forget it. It’s not what you think. It’s just a little dry spell,” I say, backing up.
He keeps coming toward me until my back is up against the padded wall.
“Saint, stay on the turf. You should be—” I say, trying to sound stronger than I feel.
In my mind, I replay every time over the years we’ve almost crossed the line, but retreated. And I’m not sure I want to anymore.
He reaches out, his hands slamming on the wall on either side of my head with a thud.
He doesn’t touch me, but he doesn’t have to.
The sheer size of him overwhelms me. Yes, I’m a doctor who treats the most intimidating athletes in the league, but right now, I feel like I want him to consume me regardless of the consequences.
“We vowed to always be honest, so I’m going to ask you once, and I want you to be honest with me.”
“Okay,” I say and swallow hard.
“You want to give in to this insane sexual tension we have?” he practically growls, his face inches from mine.
I can feel his hot breath on my skin, smell the mint he was crunching on when I walked in.
“Do you want to fuck me, Presley?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my heart hammering against my ribs. My mind racing.
“Thank fuck because I’ve waited years for you to give in.”
“You have?” I shake my head. “This is insane. It’s just been a while since I’ve gotten laid. That’s all it is.” I hold up a hand. “We can’t—”
“Why not? We’re adults.”
My head spins with the heady mix of lust I have for this man. I can feel the length of him through his thin gym shorts pressing against my core, his hands skimming my hips.
Should I do this? No. Can I? Hell yes. I’m a grown woman. A doctor. And a very horny female with a hot-as-hell football player trying to separate my thighs.
“Saint, if we do this,” I whisper breathily, “no one can know. My father would lose his mind. He’s already dealing with Alie and Liam’s big reveal. I don’t think we need any more drama in the organization right now. And we can’t risk him trading you, for fuck’s sake.”
A deep, dangerous laugh spills out. “Let him,” he says, and for the first time, I see the arrogance of the man he is on the field directed at me.
“I’ve got enough money to retire today. And I’m pretty sure any team in the league would take me, trade or no trade.
But he would never even consider it. Because he knows I’m the only one who can keep his defense together.
And he also knows that you’re the only one who can keep me together.
He’s not stupid or blind. He knows we’ve been”—he motions between us—“this since college. We’ve never hidden our friendship.
And we’re always professional at work. None of that has to change. ”
I don’t bother arguing because he’s right.
No mention of the fast-approaching deadline of our pact. No mention of Oreos, Garth Brooks, or any of the other terms. But he doesn’t have to because the way he looks at me—like he wants to devour me, like the last eleven years have been nothing but a long, agonizing buildup to this moment.
When he finally leans in and kisses me, it’s nothing like the kiss we shared in college. It’s deep, slow, and possessive. It tastes like years of longing and frustration, and the reality that everything between us could change right now.
I groan into his mouth, my tablet falling from my hand, and gripping his biceps, feeling the hard muscle twitch from my touch.
He pulls me in against him, chest to chest, and I wind my arms around his neck.
His massive hands slide down to my waist, lifting me until I’m pressed against the wall, my feet dangling.
Saint buries his face in my neck, his stubble rough against my skin.
“Big distraction,” he grinds his hips into me and mumbles against my ear, his voice vibrating through my body, making me shiver.
“Shut up.” I laugh, pulling his head back up by his hair to kiss him again.
I can do this. We can scratch this itch, and then tomorrow, we go back to being friends.
“Keep the brace on,” I whisper against his lips, my doctor hat invading the moment.
“Yes, Doc.” He grins against my lips, his eyes dark with need. “Whatever you say.”