Chapter Seven - Asher
Scarlett’s in the passenger seat, legs crossed, heels kicked off, French martini still buzzing in her veins, and I’m gripping the wheel like it might save me from every damn bad decision I’ve already made tonight.
If she was anyone else I’d probably be pissed that her feet are tucked against Shazza’s original leather interior—but she isn’t.
Man, she is something. Why the hell did I go?
I wasn’t supposed to. I knew Collins had texted, he over heard Shell relaying their plans to Ted this arvo. Knew Shell would be there. Knew Scarlett would be in that bar in something that would make me forget my name. And I still showed up. Glutton for punishment, it’s the only logical answer.
I try to focus on the road. On the double white lines up ahead between the lanes, and how the foggy air is hovering above the surface of the road.
On the fact that Ted—her father, my coach—would have my head on a platter if he knew what I was thinking right now.
What I’ve been thinking since forever—since we met.
The whole towns been talking about her return.
Mrs Peach at the coffee shop hasn’t shut up about Ted’s hot shot daughter since word got around she was heading back here.
My jaw tightens and my body goes rigid as I flash back to the Golden Sparrow. That damned bar. That fucking dress. The one she’s sitting in right next to me, that’s way too short for her to be curled up like that.
Collins had barely had time to hit send on his text—“Scarlett’s here”—and I was already throwing on a shirt. I told myself I was just going to swing by. Say hey to the boys. Check in on Shell. Yeah right.
I didn’t expect him to be all over her. Brendan, what a shit name.
That sleazy grub had no clue how close he came to losing teeth.
When I saw his hand wrap around hers…Something snapped, I couldn’t hear my thoughts.
Blood rushed, my pulse quickened and all I wanted to do was rip every single one of his fingers off.
All the rules—Ted’s, the team’s, my own—ceased to exist. I wasn’t a Ridgeback.
I wasn’t debuting. I was just a man watching some other asshole touch the girl I haven’t been able to forget for two fuckin’ years.
I can still feel the heat in my palms when I dropped those martinis on the table. I didn’t plan on stepping in, but I had to. Even if it meant dragging her back into VIP like some caveman. Even if it meant the guys on the team saw me completely, unapologetically unravel around her.
Hell, Jace made it worse. “So, it’s true!
” he laughed, like my thing with Scarlett was some myth he was excited to see play out in real-time.
I told those few lads because I trust them with my life and I nearly combusted at training when I saw who coaches daughter was, they thought I was having a stroke.
Anyway, so I had to tell them. Boys had to pick their jaws up off the floor when I finally got it out.
I can’t even look at her without remembering. Her lips. Her voice. That night when she pressed me against the wall in her apartment building like I was the air she breathed. When we stripped away names, futures, logic.
Now we’re here, and I’m doing everything I can not to look at her thighs or her lips or the way her fingers keep tapping her knee like she’s thinking about kissing me too.
She finally breaks the silence. “You planning on acknowledging me at all, or is ignoring me a strategic choice here?”
God, her voice. Even annoyed, it makes me want to slam on the brakes and drag her onto my lap.
“I’m trying to focus,” I mutter. “Getting you home safe. Not breaking the rules.”
Ted’s rules. No touching. No dating her. No distractions.
She taps her lips like she’s considering a counterpoint. “Technically, didn’t we already break that promise? Isn’t this double jeopardy?” Huh old movie for her to know, I watched it a few times as a kid.
I shoot her a sideways glance and damn near crash the car. Her smirk. Her sarcasm. Her eyes flicking down there like she’s not even trying to hide it.
“How many drinks have you had, darling?” I ask, half teasing, half warning.
She purrs back some smartass line about driving a hard bargain, and I swear to God she looks again. My jeans are suddenly very tight, and my composure. Shattered. I adjust myself, trying to get some breathing room. Trying not to think about how good her mouth would feel again.
Then she grabs my hand. And I think maybe she’s going to hold it, like a normal person. But no. She draws my damn finger into her mouth and swirls her tongue around the tip.
I nearly crash the car for real this time.
“Scarlett,” I breathe, voice hoarse, trying not to come undone at a red light, “Please don’t. You know this can’t happen.”
She deflates beside me. I hate the way her face falls. Like I’ve rejected her. Like she doesn’t know that saying no is killing me.
“I just…” I start, then stop. Grip the wheel harder. “I’ve worked too hard to get here. I’m risking everything right now just driving you home.”
I glance at her. She’s not looking at me anymore.
“But I couldn’t leave you behind,” I say softly. “Not with Brendan. Not with anyone else.”
We pull into her driveway, the front door light flickering on like it’s warning me to get out of here before I make the worst decision of my life.
She reaches for the handle, and I panic. The air in the car is suffocating me now, the windows are closing in—
“Wait.”
I wrap my fingers firmly around her wrist, and tug her gently toward me. Her face is right there. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to ruin us both. I want to do it, but I don’t.
“But just so we’re clear,” I whisper, letting my voice drop low, thick with every repressed fantasy I’ve carried for two years, “I’ll be thinking about your perfect fucking ass in the shower tonight—and probably every night—with these hands wrapped tight around my cock.”
I press my lips against her forehead—light, reverent, aching.
“Goodnight, darling.”
She stares at me like she might combust. Then she stumbles out, giving me a half-assed wave. I wait until I see a light turn on in the house before I finally pull away from the curb. Yeah, two can play the teasing game darling.
All I’ve done is worked myself up.
Twenty Minutes Later
The shower hisses as cold water pelts my skin, but it’s no match for what’s already burning through me.
I lean both hands against the tiles, head bowed—the cool touch of the tiles is providing some solace—steam is curling off my shoulders, and I let myself go back. To her. To that night.
She kissed like we’d done it a hundred times already. No hesitation. No fear.
I remember the way she pushed me against the elevator wall, hands slipping under my shirt, fingertips skimming over my ribs like she was memorising me.
I remember the soft gasp she let out when I pulled her lip between my teeth and pressed down.
The way her breath stuttered when I lifted her onto the kitchen bench like she weighed nothing.
No names. No small talk. Just chemistry.
I undressed her slowly. Delicately. Her bra slipped off like a silk ribbon unraveling from a neatly wrapped present. I kissed every inch of skin I revealed like it was sacred. Like she was. Her hips rolled against mine and I lost my goddamn mind.
She whispered things into my ear that made me want to ruin her for anyone else.
And I swear, for one suspended hour of our lives, we weren’t strangers at all.
I remember the way she said don’t stop, over and over.
How her body moved with mine like we were made for that moment, like the universe hand picked each star in the sky that night just for us.
I remember the scratch of her nails against my back, the way she arched beneath me, how she said, God, you feel like home—and I knew then I was fucked.
Totally. Completely. Royally.
And when it was over, when we lay tangled in sheets with our hearts racing like mine usually does in an intense pre season, she pressed her forehead to mine and whispered, “This was supposed to be simple.”
I didn’t sleep at all that night.
And I never stopped thinking about her. Lost time one too many times getting lost in that night, with a girl who’s name I didn’t even know.
The water’s still cold, but I’m overheating—there’s no relief, she’s got me insatiable. I drag a hand through my wet curly hair and mutter, “You idiot,” to myself.
I towel off, still half-hard, still ruined, still haunted. Long night ahead.
It’s been hours laying here pretending to try and sleep, I grab my phone without thinking, and what I do next will probably haunt me for the next 48 hours.