Page 54 of A Game of Deception
“Now we’ll work on core rotation,” I said, moving to stand behind him. My teeth caught my bottom lip before I could stop myself—God, from this angle it would be so easy to slide my arms around his shoulders. But I chastised myself and continued, “This will engage your obliques. Now twist from the waist while keeping your hips stable.”
I placed my hands on his hips to show the position, and I could feel the subtle shift of muscle beneath my palms. Ugh, he was making this impossible, and he didn’t even know it.
“Like this?” he asked, executing a perfect rotation.
“Good,” I said, my voice betraying nothing of the desire building low in my belly. “Now, in the other direction. Keep your hips facing forward.”
He twisted again, and I felt the powerful engagement of his core muscles. Things were going along well. Just a doctor working with a patient. That I could smell his soap, could remember exactly how those muscles had felt under my fingertips in a very different context, was irrelevant.
“We’ll do ten more repetitions,” I instructed. “I’ll count them out.” I moved around to face him, positioning myself in front so I could monitor his form more closely.
We were on number seven when it happened. The pool was equipped with therapeutic jets that could be programmed to activate at specific intervals. I’d forgotten to disable this feature before our session, and suddenly, a powerful jet near where we were standing switched on with a mechanical hum.
The forceful stream of water hit the back of Xander’s legs, pushing him off balance. The pool floor was slick, offering little traction. He stumbled forward, his feet sliding. Instinctively, he reached out to catch himself, his hands finding my waist just as I stepped forward to stabilize him.
The momentum carried us both backward until my back hit the pool wall. His body followed, pressing against mine, his hands still gripping my waist, my palms flat against his chest in a failed attempt to maintain distance.
The heat of him, the slick strength of muscle under my hands, the thud of his heartbeat against my palm—it was all too much. The warm water swirled around us, but it might as well have been fire licking at my skin.
We froze there, breaths mingling, his face inches from mine, droplets clinging to his lashes. His pupils were blown wide, green swallowed in black, and every ounce of restraint I’d been clinging to threatened to shatter.
“Sorry,” he murmured, but he didn’t move away. “Lost my footing.”
I should have stepped aside. I should have made a comment about the importance of proper footing in aquatic therapy. I should have done anything except stand there, my hands still pressed against the wet, warm skin of his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my palm.
“It’s okay,” I said, my voice barely audible over the hum of the water jets. “The pool floor can be slippery.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth, and I felt something inside me unravel. The walls I’d constructed, they all dissolved in the steam-filled air between us.
“Tara,” he said, my name a question on his lips.
I knew what he was asking. Acknowledgment that whatever was happening between us was real and mutual and inevitable.
I gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
His mouth was on mine before I could draw another breath, hot and insistent. This kiss was different—not desperate or angry or tinged with revenge. It was slow, deep, exploratory. He tasted of mint, and I answered with a desperate heat, my lips parting, my tongue tangling with his as if I’d forgotten the meaning of restraint.
My hands slid up his chest to his shoulders, then into his wet hair, pulling him closer. His hands moved from my waist to myback, pressing me against him until there was no space between us, just the warm water and the heat of our bodies.
The rational part of my brain—the part that had graduated top of my class, that knew exactly how many ethical boundaries we were obliterating—was screaming at me to stop. We were at the facility. During working hours. Anyone could walk in.
But the part of me that had obsessed over this man, the part that had finally tasted what it was like to be with him, was louder.
His hands slid lower, cupping my ass through my shorts, lifting me slightly so that I was pinned between his body and the pool wall. I wrapped my legs around his waist, a small sound of need escaping me as the new position brought him flush against my center.
“God, I’ve thought about this every minute since the other night,” he murmured against my neck, his accent thicker with desire. “Can’t focus on anything else.”
“Me too,” I admitted, the confession torn from me as his teeth grazed my collarbone. “It’s driving me crazy.”
He captured my mouth again, the kiss deepening as his hips pressed against mine in a rhythm that made my breath catch. The water lapped around us, creating small waves that seemed to echo the building tension in my body.
Even though we were in a therapy pool, in our swimsuits, in the middle of the day, it still felt more intimate than when we hooked up at his penthouse. That wasn’t all about years of anger and obsession finally letting loose. This was totally different—a conscious decision, made with clear heads and open eyes.
His hand slid between us, fingers dipping beneath the edge of my shorts, seeking. I gasped against his mouth as he found his target, my hips bucking involuntarily against his touch.
“Xander,” I breathed, both a warning and a plea. “We can’t... not here.”
He withdrew his hand immediately, pressing his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard. “You’re right,” he said, his voice rough.
