Page 33 of A Game of Deception
“Yes,” I gasped, both in my fantasy and in the reality of my bath. “God, yes.”
In my mind, he spun me around, pressing me face-first against the cool tile. One hand kept my wrists pinned, the other snaked around to find me wet and ready. He teased me, his fingers circling but never quite giving me what I needed.
“All those years,” he said, his voice rough with desire. “Just thinking about you. Dreaming about you. And now you’re going to come for me, Tara. You’re going to come around my fingers, and then you’re going to come around my cock, and you’re going to remember who you belong to.”
“Please,” I begged, my hips moving against my hand, chasing the pleasure that built with each stroke. “Please, Xander.”
In my fantasy, he finally relented, pushing two fingers deep inside me as his thumb circled my clit. In reality, I did the same, matching the rhythm I imagined he would set—hard and fast and merciless, exactly what I needed.
The orgasm hit me like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. I cried out, my back arching, water sloshing over the edge of the tub as my body convulsed with pleasure. I rode it out, gasping his name into the empty bathroom, until the aftershocks subsided and I was left floating in the cooling water, breathless and spent.
As the haze of pleasure faded, reality crept back in. I was alone in my bathtub, having just gotten myself off to a fantasy of the man I’d publicly humiliated hours before. The man whose career I could destroy with a word to my father. The man I’d spent twelve years obsessing over, planning to seduce and then discard.
But that wasn’t the plan anymore, was it? The “hunt” I’d so carefully orchestrated wasn’t a game I controlled. It was a need that had consumed me, body and soul. A need that might just destroy everything I’d worked for.
I climbed out of the tub, water dripping onto the marble floor as I reached for a towel.
I wrapped it around myself and padded into my bedroom, the plush carpet soft beneath my bare feet. My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark. I picked it up, my thumb hovering over his name in my messages.
I could text him. Apologize for the slap. Explain that I’d panicked, that I’d been afraid of what people would think, of losing my job, my reputation. Tell him that the kiss had been everything I’d dreamed of for twelve years.
Or I could double down. Be Dr. Swanson. Send a cold message reminding him of the boundaries and warning him of the consequences if he ever tried something like that again.
I set the phone down without doing either. There was no middle ground here, no safe path forward. Either I surrendered to this need and accepted the consequences, or I buried it deep and pretended it had never existed.
I crawled into bed, not bothering with pajamas, the towel falling away as I slipped between the cool sheets. Sleep wouldn’t come easily, if at all. Not with my mind racing and my body still humming with residual pleasure and unfulfilled need.
9
XANDER
The stingof her slap burned on my cheek as I pushed through the crowd. Bodies parted before me like water, their whispers trailing in my wake. I kept my head down, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached, my only focus on getting the fuck out of this club before I did something even more stupid than kissing Dr. Tara Swanson in front of half the Miami Pirates organization.
I shouldered past the bouncer and burst into the humid Miami night. I gulped down air that tasted of ocean salt, trying to steady myself.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I wasn’t. That was the problem. One moment I’d been watching her across the bar, all cool confidence in that dress red as sin that wiped every warning from my head.
Next, I was pulling her against me, claiming her mouth with mine, consequences be damned.
And for that one perfect moment, she’d kissed me back. Her lips had parted, her body had melted into mine, her hands had clutched at my shirt like she was drowning and I was air.
Then she shoved me off her and slapped me. Hell of a hit—she didn’t hold back.
“You are a player. I am your doctor. Don’t youeverforget that again.”
Her words echoed in my head, each syllable another twist of the knife. I’d misread everything. The tension between us, the loaded glances, the almost-kiss at dinner—all of it meaningless.
I paced in front of the club entrance. My car was with the valet, but I couldn’t face dealing with that right now. I needed to walk, to move, to do something with this restless energy coursing through my veins.
Idiot. Fucking idiot. You’ve just torched your career. Again.
I’d violated every professional boundary. Forced myself on the team doctor. In public. With witnesses. With fuckingcamera phones.
By morning, the video would be all over social media. By afternoon, Hank would have me in his office. By evening, I’d be back on the transfer list, my reputation somehow even more tarnished than before.
Chelsea would laugh their asses off.Told you so. Once a liability, always a liability.
