“I was not good to my body for many years,” I told him. I explained briefly about the brutal training I went through from my early teens through my retirement from the Olympics at twenty-one. After that, I hadn’t been any better to my body. I channeled my need for thrills by moving from Olympic competition to the rush of adrenaline-pumping activities like skydiving, base jumping, and extreme climbing.
For almost a full four years after I left the Olympics, I traveled the world and lived like a bohemian bum, moving from one thrill to the next. I slept in cheap hotels or on friend’s couches. I only had with me what I could carry in a duffel bag, always seeking bigger thrills, more dangerous adventure. I ate poorly and slept even shittier. In fact, it’s how I met Kynan… base jumping off Angel Falls in Venezuela. I was jumping with a parachute. He went before me and jumped with a wingsuit. I saw him zip away, knowing jumping with a parachute was going to be way too boring for me.
What started then was a friendship that spanned many years, and is still going strong to this day. We were friends first because I was involved with someone else. Later, when I was unattached, we screwed around. When we could, we’d meet up to experience death-defying jumps or swimming uncaged with Great Whites. We’d fuck like crazed animals, and then we’d go on our way. We’d keep in touch with periodic emails or calls. It was a good friendship with a great benefits package while it lasted, but it was never exclusive.
It stopped when Kynan brought me on board to The Jameson Group. Of course, he didn’t own it back then. Jerico Jameson did, and I had to pass his muster first. But when I accepted the job, we both knew we couldn’t be involved sexually since he was in a position of authority over me.
And that was fine by me. It was just casual anyway.
So I told most of this to Dr. Anchors. The adrenaline and stress of my lifestyle. The poor nutrition and running my body into the ground. Always traveling and never resting. How I hadn’t even known I was pregnant until I miscarried because my period was never regular.
That I miscarried within hours after a harrowing bungee jump off the Macau Tower in China.
Dr. Anchors listened to me patiently, which included a rundown of my more dangerous work with The Jameson Group.
When I ran out of steam, he said, “Rachel… just because you miscarried once, it doesn’t mean it will happen again. And there is no way of knowing why you miscarried. It could have been one thing, or it could have been several factors, but the truth is that miscarriages are all too common in the first trimester.”
That didn’t make me feel better. Nothing would make me feel better, because no one could ever know the devastation it had caused me. Well, no one but Kynan. He had been in Macau, too, and he went to the hospital with me when I started bleeding badly. The boyfriend who had accidentally gotten me pregnant weeks before with a broken condom was long gone. He had never been long-term material anyway, so there was no reason to even track him down and tell him.
Yes, Kynan watched it all and let me cry on his shoulder, a vulnerability no one had ever seen before, nor has anyone since. Then he offered me a new path to pull me away from my grief.
The Jameson Group.
And here I am, repeating things all over again.
I make it to the stage, intent to climb the catwalk above for another check. I won’t be moving my rifle up there, which is currently locked in our cargo van outside, until just before the doors open.
I put my foot on the bottom rung of the ladder that connects to the scaffolding above when I hear Bodie behind me. “Hey… Hart. Wait up.”
Christ, he looks yummy in black cargo pants, a tight black t-shirt with the Jameson logo on the front pocket in white, and a holster with a Glock on his hip.
“What’s up?” I ask in a cool tone. Him calling me Hart rather than Rachel tells me this is business.
He walks right up to me, but rather than stopping a respectable distance from me, he backs me up into the ladder, his hands coming to hold the rungs by my head and caging me in. Bodie dips his head and murmurs, “Tonight after we wrap up here… I’m coming to your room.”
A shiver of anticipation runs up my spine, but I act offended. “What makes you think—”
“You’ve ignored me for two days,” his deep voice rumbles right over me. “Ever since the doctor’s office. I don’t like being ignored.”
This is true. We had a nice but brief chat after I talked privately to Dr. Anchors, and I told Bodie when the next appointment would be. Then we left in separate cars. I haven’t seen him until today, even though he’d texted me the last two nights telling me he was at The Wicked Horse waiting for me.
There was some hesitation on my part because I didn’t want to risk being seen by anyone else in the group. Mainly, though, I just avoided him because I don’t want to be a “thing” together. I want to keep it as causal as can be, and that means we don’t see each other every night.
The longer I drag this conversation out, the better the chance someone will stumble upon us in this intimate pose. Truth is that I want Bodie again, and tonight would be perfect. We’re staying in L.A. after the concert, and don’t fly out until morning.
“Fine,” I say before slipping out from between him and the ladder. “Come to my room, and we’ll get it on.”
Bodie snickers and steps back into me. I hold my ground, refusing to even lean slightly away. His lips come very close to mine, but don’t touch. His breath whispers over me, and I have to press my legs together when he says, “You know, Hart… there was a part of me that was kind of hoping you’d fight me a little. I was looking forward to making you submit.”
“In your dreams,” I mutter.
Bodie laughs and steps away from me. He gives me a quick wink and turns on his heel, walking away from me with a confident strut.
Maybe I’ll put up a little bit of a fight tonight. I never mind being overpowered in the bed.
CHAPTER 7
Bodie
Not sure I’ve ever seen anything more perfect than Rachel Hart opening her hotel door to me stark-ass naked.
Beautifully, artfully naked without an ounce of shame. She’s fresh out of a shower, and her hair is a million times blacker all slicked back and wet. It exposes with more clarity the cut of her cheekbones and the fullness of her lips. Her eyes blaze with need and her hands reach for me, snagging the waistband of my jeans.
I pull my shirt off in a hurry. She helps me out of my shoes and pants.
There’s no gradual seduction of my cock. It’s concrete hard and ready for her, but I’ve got something else planned first.
Batting Rachel’s hands away when she reaches for it, I pick her up and carry her to the bed. I toss her down and then take her by the ankles, sliding her to the edge of the mattress. One hand goes to the back of a thigh. I push it up high and outward, spreading her. My other hand goes right in between, dragging an index finger through the lips of her sex.
Rachel lets out a huff of a pleasure, and her hips tilt. I press the very tip inside of her, find her soaking wet, and then withdraw. I just wanted to know if she was as fucking turned on right now as I am, and we haven’t even kissed. We’ve only anticipated being together.
Now it’s time to make her feel good.