One Night...With Her Boss. Annie O'Neil
beast that was the North Stars rugby team. She wondered what it would be like when the Chief Medical Officer got back from his holiday. She was used to running her own clinic, so being someone’s subordinate would take a bit of a mental shift. But learning from a master of sports medicine? That would be worth it. Definitely.
After that … who knew what lay ahead? Going back to En Pointe Physio didn’t appeal. She wasn’t sure if it ever would. The day she’d walked into her favorite coffee shop back in London and hadn’t even needed to open her mouth to order her specialty mocha was the day she’d started hunting for a locum position. She didn’t do predictable. She didn’t do steady. The longer you stuck around somewhere, the more likely you were to get hurt. When you tried new things—like an unexpected one-night stand on the eve of your new job—suffice it to say, it shook things up a bit.
A shiver rippled up her spine, and even though it was pretty obvious the snowy weather had sent the chill she couldn’t resist closing her eyes again. Letting go of that night was near impossible. Especially when her body was still responding to the memory of his caresses, smoothing and shifting along her bare skin. His name …? A mystery—and it would stay that way.
Whatever had possessed them to head up to her hotel room that night—both of them with their flights grounded for a measly three inches of snow—had been well worth it. Who was she kidding? She knew exactly what had possessed them. Pure as the driven snow, hot as molten lava: desire. Her first ever one-night stand and it had been about as smokin’ hot as they got.
The roars and songs of the crowd blurred into white noise as she dipped and dived into the ten hours and forty-seven minutes they had spent together. And on Valentine’s Day, to boot! She was normally a cynic when it came to twittering birds and love hearts. Life had shown her there was no such thing as “The One.” Even so, the universe must’ve had other ideas—at least for that one night.
“Cupid shot your plane down?” He had placed his drink on the bar next to her empty glass. Cheesy line—but from the quirk in his lips he’d known it.
Her attraction to him had been immediate.
“That obvious?” she’d shot back with a laugh and a smile.
The bartender had placed a fresh cocktail in front of her. One she hadn’t ordered. A Cosmopolitan, complete with a twist of orange peel. Her favorite.
She wasn’t normally a sucker for a well-dressed man—but this one …? No matter what had been about to play out there, she’d already known she would remember him as “The Suit.”
He’d worn his as if he had been sewn into it. And she hadn’t doubted for a second how delicious he would look out of it.
“Been here long?”
She’d felt him make the visual journey up from her biker-style boots, crossed at the ankle, to the bit of leg on show below the swing of fabric that had made up her wraparound dress.
“Long enough.”
Already, she’d only had eyes for him, and the buzz of magnetic energy had tugged them into a cocoon of “Me and You.” Another sip of Cosmo, remarkably little chitchat, a slight lift of his eyebrow—shall we?—and they had headed off to the elevators.
It had been raw animal attraction. They hadn’t needed to discuss it. They’d just known. No names. No deep and meaningful forays into the other’s psyche. Just unreserved, unadulterated, lust. She’d never felt anything consume her so completely before.
The doors of the elevator had barely shut before his hands had begun exploring her, heated kisses had drawn them closer together. She’d felt reckless, wanton, and exactly where she should have been. She’d been completely under his spell, and this total stranger had made himself at home with the dips and curves of her body. Fingers had slipped along waistlines, hands had been drawn possessively along hips, lips had tasted and teased and all she’d been able to do was respond.
She didn’t even remember how they’d got to her room. But Ali could distinctly recall the moment her dress had slipped to the floor, her skin shuddering with desire as she’d pressed against him, still wearing every bit of that three-piece suit. She should have felt vulnerable, exposed. But she hadn’t. Far from it. She’d felt feminine, sexy, and for the very first time she’d understood the power of desire.
The need to feel him inside her had grown as his hands had begun to explore her more intimately. Her breasts, then her nipples had grown taut as she’d pressed against the wool of his suit jacket. He’d slid a hand between her legs, his fingers slipping slowly back and forth, back and forth. Her breath had caught in her throat and he’d tipped his head down to lazily tease his tongue round first one nipple, then the other.
She’d rolled her feet up onto tiptoe. Fluidly, as if she were still dancing and the accident had never happened, she’d tucked first one leg and then, with a small hop, the other around his hips. He had easily carried her across the room to the high bed. As he’d begun to lower her swiftly, almost brusquely, he had turned her around, his hands moving along the sides of her breasts. Then one hand had traced along her front and the other down her back, until he’d cupped her between her legs. Her skin had felt as though it were on fire. She had never wanted anyone more than she’d wanted The Suit.
She’d felt his thick five o’clock shadow along her cheek and, as if he reading her mind, he’d whispered into her ear, “I only have two—so you’re going to have to be patient.”
Two condoms. One night with a man she’d never see again.
These walls better have soundproofing, she remembered thinking. She’d met her match, and from the way his hands had taken such pleasure in exploring her body he’d felt it, too …
“Woooo-hoooo! Did you see that, Doc?”
Ali snapped out of her sexy dreamscape, eyes scanning the field to quickly connect the dots. Must pay more attention!
The clutch of assistant coaches she’d stationed herself next to were whooping it up as the scoreboard flickered to life with a new set of numbers. The North Stars were surging ahead of their opponents.
She grinned and pulled her knitted team skullcap down over her ears. Man, it was cold out here! A far cry from her swish and well-heated therapy center in the heart of London.
The thought pleased and stung at the same time.
Enough.
The Chief Medical Officer was due back sometime today—possibly even mid-match—and it would hardly do for her to be caught daydreaming. Especially dreams of the super-naughty kind.
She forced herself to be alert to the players on the pitch. They were, after all, her responsibility.
As play recommenced, then abruptly stopped, Ali’s senses sharpened. The crunch of shoulder on shoulder, skull on skull was never a nice sound, but these rugby boys didn’t do things by halves.
The howls of pain coming from the field set her into motion. Drama queens, maybe—but these men were not babies. A player was hurting.
Oblivious to the roar of the thousands of fans watching the heated North versus South trial match, Ali picked up her pace as the stretcher-bearers joined her on the snow-spackled field. A scrum combined with a slippery playing surface could easily lead to a spinal injury. She hoped for the player’s sake it wasn’t the case.
The huddle of sweaty, mud-covered men split open as she arrived.
“Hope you’ve got a strong stomach, Harty,” One of the players mumbled as she made it to the center of the group.
There, lying on the ground, staring straight ahead as he fought to control his breathing, was Chris Trace—the team’s hooker. To say he was a sight to behold was putting it mildly. She almost had to laugh. She’d wanted a change and this was most definitely not the sort of injury you saw in the Royal Ballet.
Their player had taken the full brunt of a Southern Cross player’s