Page 32 of A Game of Deception
“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?”
