Saint’s eyes are locked on mine. He doesn’t look at the ground. He doesn’t watch his knee. He moves to the left, then the right. His movements are fluid and powerful despite the brace. He doesn’t stop when he reaches the end of the line. He keeps moving. Toward me.
“How’s it feel?” I ask, a slight squeak in my voice.
I stare at his knee, desperate for something to focus on other than the heat in his gaze.
“It feels … like you’re keeping something from me, Doc,” he says.
“What are you talking about?” I brush him off with a smile, biting my bottom lip to stop myself from saying something stupid.
He levels his eyes with mine. “You’ve been acting funny all day. I’ve known you for eleven years, and trust me, I know you have something on your mind. You get this wrinkle on your forehead when you’re thinking about something.”
I place a hand on my forehead to smooth out whatever wrinkle he thinks he sees.
He chuckles and then lifts his thumb to my lower lip and pulls it away from my teeth.
“You also bite your lower lip when you’re really worked up about something.”
His thumb traces my mouth for a second too long, and I let out a little whimper.
Fuck.
He rests his hands on his thighs and gives a wry smile. “Talk to me, Doc. What’s on your mind?”
I shift from one foot to the other, resting my tablet on my hip. “I”—I blow out a breath—“can’t.”
“Can't or won’t?”
I roll my eyes and sigh. “Saint …” Do I tell this man, who I have known all of my adult life, that I secretly want him to give me an orgasm like I need air to breathe? I shouldn’t. It would be crude and crazy. Then again, this is Saint, and we tell each other everything. “I’ve been thinking about our pact we made in college.”
He lifts a brow and smirks. “Our pact? You want to get married?”
“No!” I answer a little too quickly and too easily.
He leans back, hands up, amused. “Easy there, Pres. It’s fine. If you don’t want to marry me, then why is it on your mind in a way that you’re acting like being near me or touching me is going to set you off? That you say I’m distracting you—oh. Ohhh.” His mouth quirks up on one side, as if the realization of it all just hit him.
He steps toward me, and I step back as his large frame closes the space between us.
“Saint, forget it. It’s not what you think. It’s just a little dry spell,” I say, backing up.
He keeps coming toward me until my back is up against the padded wall.
“Saint, stay on the turf. You should be—” I say, trying to sound stronger than I feel.
In my mind, I replay every time over the years we’ve almost crossed the line, but retreated. And I’m not sure I want to anymore.
He reaches out, his hands slamming on the wall on either side of my head with a thud. He doesn’t touch me, but he doesn’t have to. The sheer size of him overwhelms me. Yes, I’m a doctor who treats the most intimidating athletes in the league, but right now, I feel like I want him to consume me regardless of the consequences.
“We vowed to always be honest, so I’m going to ask you once, and I want you to be honest with me.”
“Okay,” I say and swallow hard.
“You want to give in to this insane sexual tension we have?” he practically growls, his face inches from mine.
I can feel his hot breath on my skin, smell the mint he was crunching on when I walked in.
“Do you want to fuck me, Presley?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my heart hammering against my ribs. My mind racing.
