Coming Apart at the Seams (3 page)

She whimpered. “Oh, I'm coming again,” she whispered, surprise coloring her voice. She let out a low moan as her pussy vibrated with deep clenches.

He gasped as a trail of fire spread from his spine into his balls before erupting from his cock. His knees buckled as he came, pleasure crashing over him in waves, and he barely managed to hold on to her. After several moments, he pulled out of her snug body, letting her feet drop to the floor.

He rested his face in her hair, trembling in the aftermath of the most intense sexual experience of his life. His eyes stung with emotion, and he was pathetically grateful for the darkness.

He wished he could stop time. He wanted to stay here in this moment, cocooned in this small space, her taste in his
mouth, her scent in his nose, and her cries of pleasure echoing in his ears.

She pushed against his chest, forcing him backward, and he tripped on his underwear and pants, which were pooled around his ankles. Catching himself against one of the shelves, he groped around until he found a towel and removed the condom.

He quickly pulled up his underwear and pants. He didn't want to have this conversation bare-assed. He was forced to leave his trousers unbuttoned and belt unbuckled, though, because his hands shook—the same hands that had been steady and sure enough to catch more touchdown passes than any other wide receiver in the NFL, regardless of the pressure he'd been under.

He felt Teagan move and heard her searching for something in the darkness. Seconds later, the overhead light flickered on. He blinked against the brightness, and when his eyes finally adjusted, he sought out her face. Her eyes were red and smudged with mascara, and lipstick was smeared around her mouth and chin.

She looked horrible—and beautiful. The only thing he wanted in this world or the next.

They stared into each other's eyes, and as she opened her mouth to speak, he wanted to fold his hand over it. He wanted to beg her not to ruin this moment. Instead, he clenched his jaw and waited. He could tell by the look in her eyes her words would eviscerate him.

“This was a mistake,” she said flatly.

And with that short, simple statement, she threw them into the past.

Boston—Four Years Ago

“He thinks he's God's gift to women,” Bebe Banerjee complained before raising her wineglass and taking a big gulp of the California merlot.

Teagan snorted. “I know,” she said, agreeing with her best friend's assessment of their boss, Jasper Benjamin Donaldson the Fifth.

She and Bebe were in Teagan's condo for their weekly “wine down.” The night of whining and wine drinking was a tradition they'd begun shortly after they met nearly three years ago.

Teagan and Bebe were one year away from finishing a four-year program at Harvard University that would allow them to obtain both a law degree and an MBA. They were spending the summer interning at one of the most prestigious law firms in Boston.

It was a decision Teagan was beginning to regret because working for Donaldson was awful. It was worse than getting a Brazilian bikini wax while having a root canal while wearing too-tight stilettos.

Pure undiluted torture.

“He's such a douche,” Teagan added, using her brothers' favorite insult. She usually winced when she heard it, but the description was so vividly appropriate she had to use it.

She deepened her voice to ape Donaldson. “Call me JD, girls. It's not just my initials, you know. It stands for
Juris Doctor.
”

Bebe broke into peals of laughter, a bright, melodic sound that made Teagan smile. She'd been beyond lucky to meet the other woman on the first day of orientation at Harvard.

Bebe had quickly become Teagan's best friend, not just a convenient friend in a strange new city. She trusted her like she had never trusted another person outside of her family.

At first glance, the two of them had little in common. Bebe was Indian, and she had lovely olive skin and golden eyes, quite a contrast from Teagan's almost ghostly white complexion and blue eyes.

Her friend's almost-black hair was shiny and lustrous, and she always wore it in a low bun. She literally never let her hair down.

Unlike Teagan, who edged toward plump, Bebe was slender. And even though Teagan was only average height, just a few inches over five feet, the other woman was much shorter, almost diminutive in stature.

Bebe was the first in her family to be born in the United States. Her parents had emigrated from their native India to further their medical careers. Her father was one of the foremost infectious disease experts in the world, while her mother was a well-known heart surgeon practicing at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore.

Once you got past their drastically different appearances and backgrounds, though, Teagan and Bebe had a lot in common. Like Teagan, Bebe came from a family of overachievers.

Bebe had two older brothers who were the source of considerable parental pride. Both of her brothers were physicians who not only boasted medical degrees but PhDs in their respective fields, and they had already made their mark on the medical community.

Bebe, meanwhile, was a huge disappointment to her parents because she favored law and business over medicine. As a result, Bebe was driven to prove her worth. She constantly strived to achieve more academic and professional success so she could get her family's attention, if not their approval.

It was something Bebe and Teagan had in common. While Teagan definitely was not a disappointment to her parents, it was hard to shine in Quinn's and Cal's shadows.

It was maddening how easily everything came to them. Her older brothers had achieved athletic and academic success with minimal effort. And it didn't hurt that they were both blessed with good looks. Teagan had heard her friends sigh over Quinn's smile and Cal's eyes for most of her life.

In fact, she had little doubt her modest popularity in high school with other girls had more to do with her hot brothers than her own sparkling personality. Whenever her brothers were around, Teagan felt invisible. They sucked all the air out of the room with their big personalities.

Bebe's laughter trailed off, and her expression turned serious. Teagan raised her eyebrows at the abrupt shift in her best friend's mood.

“I'm worried about you, Teagan.”

“Worried?” she echoed with surprise. “Why?”

“JD isn't harmless. His family is more than wealthy. They remind me of the Kennedys. They're powerful and influential.”

Teagan tilted her head, digesting Bebe's words. In San Francisco, the O'Brien family was well known, wielding considerable political and social influence because of their wealth and roots in the community. But this was Boston, and Bebe was right about JD and his family.

Bebe met Teagan's gaze over the rim of her wineglass, her eyes serious. “You're a challenge to him. In fact, I doubt anyone has ever said no to him.” She paused, making sure Teagan was paying attention. “I don't like the way he looks at you. It's rapacious.”

Teagan laughed. Bebe had an impressive vocabulary, and she routinely threw around words that would win triple points at Scrabble.

Bebe frowned. “Please don't laugh this off. You need to be careful.”

Realizing Bebe was truly upset, Teagan sobered. “Beebs, I think you're worrying for no reason. I'm pretty sure he's like this with all the interns. Don't you remember that third-year, Lydia, saying she had trouble with him?”

Bebe nodded. “I remember. But you still need to be careful.”

Despite Bebe's warning, Teagan wasn't worried about JD. He was a snake with no fangs—slippery but ultimately harmless.

“JD can't hurt my career,” she reminded Bebe.

Unlike a lot of interns, Teagan wasn't worried about what she was going to do after graduation. Once she had her degrees in hand, she had every intention of taking her place in the family company. Her dad had promised there would be a place for her when she came home.

Quinn and Cal already worked for Riley O'Brien & Co. Quinn would probably end up taking over the company once their father retired, but Teagan didn't expect that to happen anytime soon.

Her father loved Riley O'Brien & Co., and he enjoyed working. More than likely, he wouldn't retire for another twenty years, and even then, he'd probably still come into the office just to make sure his kids kept things on track.

“I'm not talking about your career, Teagan. I'm talking about you . . . your person.” Bebe took another sip of her wine before continuing. “I think you should wear different clothes to work.”

“What?”

She always dressed professionally, and she couldn't believe Bebe would find fault with her work clothes. Bebe continued as if Teagan hadn't spoken.

“Pantsuits with jackets that button all the way to the neck maybe.”

“Seriously, Bebe?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“What was wrong with what I wore today?”

The navy cropped Michael Kors jacket with big white buttons and a matching sheath dress was one of Teagan's favorite outfits. The length of the skirt was modest, falling just above her knees, and the rounded neckline of the dress showed no cleavage.

She'd finished the outfit with red sling-back pumps and a red beaded choker. She had thought it was a perfect mix of professional and stylish.

“It wasn't ugly enough. Or loose enough. And it showed your legs.”

Teagan was mortified Bebe thought her clothes were too tight and that she showed too much skin. No matter what she wore, it was hard to minimize her DDs unless she hid them under a baggy T-shirt, and she didn't think that would cut it at Price, Latham & Donaldson.

“So you think my clothes are too tight? Too revealing?”

She was vain enough not to want to go up a size. She already was in the double-digits. Unfortunately, she had Grandma Vi's body shape, voluptuous on a good day, chunky on a bad day.

Teagan supposed she should count herself lucky she didn't take after her great-great-grandfather, who'd been nearly seven feet tall with a fifty-inch waist. His mountainous physique had probably come in handy back in the rough-and-tumble days of the Gold Rush.

“No! You're missing the point!” Bebe exclaimed. “I think JD is a predator, Teagan, and he's fixated on you. That's why you need to do everything you can to make him shift his attention
away
from you.” She pointed at Teagan. “And it would also help if you would keep your mouth shut.”

Teagan sighed. She'd never been very good at that.

*   *   *

The view of the Charles River from Nick's new condo was nice enough, especially on this sunny summer day, but he wished he could still see the Rocky Mountains from his windows. Unfortunately, Denver was no longer his home, and the Denver Broncos were no longer his team.

He'd spent seven years playing for the Broncos after they made him a first-round draft pick right out of college. He had hoped he could spend his entire career there, even though he'd known it was unlikely.

When it came right down to it, players were commodities. They weren't people—they were just arms and legs, hands and feet, to be sold to the highest bidder—and the Boston Colonials had made Denver an offer for Nick it just couldn't refuse.

He shook off thoughts of the trade. It was done, and there was no reason to think about it anymore. He needed to accept that he was back on the East Coast, only a few hours from where he'd grown up.

Only a few hours from his father.

Thoughts of Simon Priest filled Nick with a bitter mix of anger and disappointment. His father wore many hats: academic, economist, author, and speaker.

Officially, Simon taught economics at Syracuse University, but when Nick had been in high school, his father had authored
a book on global economic drivers that had caught the attention of the mainstream media. Almost overnight, he'd become one of the most-sought-after interviews on cable TV networks like CNN and MSNBC.

Over the past decade, Simon's renown had grown, and he spent the majority of his time presenting at global economic conferences. He excelled at the very thing Nick didn't: talking.

From the moment Nick had been diagnosed with a speech disorder in kindergarten, his father had treated him as a body without a brain. In fact, most people treated Nick that way. Because he didn't say much, they assumed he was a dumb jock. Most of the time, he agreed with them.

His stomach growled, and he headed into the kitchen and grabbed an apple off the counter. He hadn't eaten lunch, and he was starving. He wished the food fairy had stopped by and filled the refrigerator with delicious, healthy meals. Unfortunately, he didn't have a food fairy, although he was scheduled to interview four personal chefs this afternoon.

The first candidate was supposed to arrive—he checked the time on his mobile phone—right now. His phone buzzed to let him know he'd received a text, and he popped open the screen to read the message from his agent, Elijah Farris.

“Don't forget interviews. One p.m. Paulette Andrews.”

Elijah was awesome. He went above and beyond to help his clients. Along with Quinn, he was one of the few people who knew about Nick's stutter, and he was very protective of Nick's privacy.

Without question, the lack of privacy was the thing Nick hated most about being a professional athlete. He didn't mind the pressure to win, the fickle fans who cussed you one moment and loved you the next, or the aches and pains from having a 300-pound man throw you to the ground.

But he definitely didn't like living in a fishbowl. It was hard enough for him to speak without worrying that millions of people were going to hear him sound like an idiot.

That was why he turned down interviews and said no to endorsement deals that would require him to speak, regardless of the millions of dollars he would make. And he had to be careful the people he hired wouldn't turn around and sell some
salacious story to the media. He could see the headline now:
P-P-P-POOR PRIEST CAN'T SPEAK.

He wasn't the only NFL player who had a speech impediment. Darren Sproles, a running back with the Philadelphia Eagles, served as a spokesperson for the Stuttering Foundation, a national nonprofit. But his stutter wasn't nearly as bad as Nick's.

Just then, the doorbell rang, and Nick made his way across the shiny hardwood floors to the door. As he opened it, he automatically shifted his gaze downward, expecting the personal chef to be shorter than he was.

Surprisingly, he was almost eye to eye with the older woman in front of him. Her stick-thin body was clad in baggy black-and-white-checked pants and a red smock with “Chef Letty” embroidered on it.

He looked down, half expecting to see heels, although that would have looked pretty weird with her chef outfit. But no, her big feet were covered in those ugly clog shoes that doctors and nurses favored, so that meant she was probably a couple of inches over six feet.

Smiling, she held out her hand. She had big teeth to go with her big feet. Her blue eyes were bright, and her silver hair was styled in a modified crew cut.