There was absolutely no mistaking the hulking figure seated at the bar. He might as well have the number twenty-seven emblazoned on the back of his T-shirt.

Dylan abruptly decided she could get dinner elsewhere. The last thing she needed tonight was an off-hours encounter around alcohol with a too-sexy client. Charlie Wild turned in his stool, just in time to spot her leaving. "Dr. Rose!" he hollered out to her.

Dylan winced. She was all too aware that everyone in the Tin Horseshoe was now looking at her. Could she get away with pretending like she hadn't heard him?

"Leaving so soon?" Charlie held his beer aloft, like he was some sort of lighthouse beacon she required to find her way to the bar. With a frustrated sigh, Dylan approached him.

"I'm just here to pick up some grub," she said as she slid onto the stool beside him. She signaled in vain to the bartender, but he disappeared back into the kitchen—leaving the white plastic bag she was certain was filled with her dinner on the back counter, agonizingly out of reach.

"'Grub,'" Charlie echoed with a chuckle and shook his head. "Look at you. Fitting in already. You just moved here, didn't you? Bet you already got the number to this place on speed dial."

"You're damn right I do." Dylan wondered if it would be totally out of line to just go behind the bar and grab her food. She was a local now, right? It would be a quaint, familiar gesture…not a complete step out of bounds…right? For once, she found herself wishing she could feel comfortable making her own rules.

Like Charlie did.

"It's too bad. About the takeout, I mean," Charlie clarified. "You should try sticking around and grabbing a drink some time."

"I'd say you've grabbed enough for the both of us already," Dylan replied. "Out of professional curiosity, how much does a guy your size have to drink to get this way?" She gestured to him. Not that Charlie looked…bad. The opposite, actually. His hair was down, his posture loose and relaxed. He was still too big for the stool he sat astride, but he looked a lot more comfortable in his own skin sitting there than he had back at the hospital.

"Six," the bartender offered. He had returned to plant what Dylan could only assume was a seventh beer down in front of Charlie.

Six? Dylan managed to close her lips around a shriek. She wanted to grab Charlie by his stupid, sexy V-neck collar and shake it until his shirt split in two. "I said not to drink alcohol on pain killers, but if you're going to then at least drink in moderation," she hissed. "And you!" She jabbed her finger at the bartender. "Aren't you overserving him?"

The bartender shrugged. "He told me you're his ride.”

"What!?" she exclaimed.

Charlie grinned. "Heard you placing your order over the phone."

"You knew I was coming?" Dylan demanded. "Is that why you let yourself get this way? You assumed I'd just give you a ride?"

"Hey, easy!" Charlie said as she yanked the beer away from him and took a long drink. "You're my designated driver!"

"Either you or I call his brother." The bartender shrugged.

Dylan was just thinking this wasn't a bad suggestion until Charlie leaned into her. "And he doesn't mean the one you met today," he muttered. "He means my other brother, Trent. The Lockhart Bend sheriff."

"Ah." Dylan took another drink of their shared beer, trying to ignore the rock-hard outline of Charlie's immense bicep brushing against her own. "And I assume Smitty wouldn't like that?"

"You know what they say about women who assume…" Charlie straightened once more in his stool and glanced behind her. "They usually have a nice ass."

Dylan burst out laughing at this. She doubled over the bar, as Charlie stared straight ahead and took a resolute pull from the beer. "That was bad," he said finally. "Give me a minute and I'll come up with something better."

"No! That…" For the life of her she couldn't decide what she meant to argue against. "That was so the opposite of smooth, it somehow looped back around again to actually being charming."

"Effective," Charlie agreed on his own behalf. He couldn't keep the straight face going, and a sloppy, crooked smile inched up the corner of his mouth. The deep imprint of a dimple came out of left field. "So, are you going to give me a ride, Dr. Rose?"

"Come on." She snatched her takeout from the bartender and dangled her keys in front of Charlie. "We'll see if you fit into the front seat of my car."

She watched as the quarterback eased himself down gingerly from the bar. She wished she could offer him more physical support—not just because the thought of his arm wrapped around her sent tiny, unprofessional thrills sliding through her. She couldn't risk that connection.

"I'm sorry." Dylan glanced around herself. "Where are your crutches? I don't mind getting them for you."

"Crutches. Right." The sheepish look on Charlie's face told her all she needed to know. As her temper rose, his expression transformed to one of mild defiance. "What? Are you really going to chew me out right here? I've been getting around just fine at the ranch house without 'em."

"I'm sure you have." Dylan didn't know what else to say. How could Charlie continue to flout the rules and be so irresponsible when it was his heath, his career on the line? Was he trying to impress those closest to him or prove something to himself? "But from now on, you go everywhere with those crutches. Imagine them as two supermodels; I want both of them in your arms just as often."

"Why would I want a supermodel in my arm when I have you?" Charlie countered as she ducked beneath his shoulder. "You're always around when I need you to give me the support I need. And damn, you look good doing it."

He's drunk, Dylan reminded herself, flame-faced, as they moved in tandem toward the exit. He seemed to be walking fine without her, but she wouldn't take the risk. No, she had determined that Charlie's drunkenness extended more to his comments than his injured gait. He didn't know what he was saying, or he was saying it just to mess with her.

Things were going to change, Dylan decided as Charlie pushed the door open for the both of them. They had to. Tomorrow she would make the pivot and reestablish the boundaries between them. Tomorrow she would make sure that Charlie buckled down and started to take things seriously.

But tonight…tonight, maybe for a moment, she would allow herself to enjoy the feeling of his body draped across hers.

* * *

"Where are your crutches, Charlie?" Dylan found herself demanding again a week later.. "And don't feed me another line about 'forgetting' them, because we both know that's bullshit!"

"Language, Doc. Please," Charlie said as he held open the boardroom door for her. Too many things about this morning had the distinct smack of déjà vu to them, Dylan thought as she passed beneath the bridge of his thick arm. And these weekly meetings about Charlie’s rehab progress stole time from her real job—seeing patients who did what she told them to.

"All right then. How's your head feeling? Is that the sort of language you're looking for?" she whispered innocently as they took seats beside one another at the long wooden table. Charlie, while exhibiting no deficit of his usual energy, was red-eyed and unshaven.

"I'm fine, thank you. Your concern is touching." His broad hand slipped under the table to give her knee a casual squeeze. The gesture was fleeting, but even a chaste touch from Charlie was enough to send a wave of heat flooding up her leg to pool in her stomach. She was determined not to let him catch her by surprise like that again—or at least, to hide the fact that he did.

"Charlie! My man!" Smitty clapped him on the back as he took his own seat. "Good to see Dr. Rose has you off your crutches already! When can we expect you back on the field?"

Smitty rarely spoke directly to Dylan about matters concerning Charlie's recovery. Dylan just rolled her eyes and flipped open her schedule. The next two weeks were critical; what's more, she was going to have to change a few things around. If Charlie insisted on leaving his crutches at home, she wasn't going to continue to fight him on it—okay, yes, maybe she would continue to bring it up—but she had dealt with plenty of stubborn sports celebrities in the past. If she wanted him to heal fully, despite his best efforts to the contrary, she was going to have to make adjustments to his routine. That meant limiting his time on the injured knee between sessions, so definitely no bars, barn work, or trips into the city without…

“And we're happy to report that Dr. Rose's schedule is now officially freed-up," the hospital head was saying. Dylan's head jerked up from her clipboard. "Starting next week, her case load will be shifted so that she will be better able to provide Charlie the one-on-one care your organization has requested."

"What do you mean, 'one-on-one' care?" Dylan deadpanned.

Charlie's management team exchanged looks. "Dr. Rose, we mean exactly what we say," one of them said finally.

There was something else going on here. Dylan glanced quickly between Smitty and the rest of the team. It was no use trying to gauge Charlie's face for an answer—he looked guilty as hell already.

Shit like this was exactly why Dylan dressed down most of the time. She knew that she was a good-looking woman—the exact make and model that appealed to most of these athletes, in fact. She had learned that the hard way the year she had entered sports medicine. Dark hair, green eyes, and long athletic legs, coupled with an aloof, disinterested air, was like catnip to a muscle head seeking the thrill of a chase.

And if the player himself didn't make a pass at her, someone on his management team inevitably did. Dylan had gone to war with innumerable of these little panels in the past to avoid being used as a pawn in whatever marketing scheme they had planned. It was always optics, optics, optics—to these people, appearances were everything. And appearances like hers were always in demand.

"Dr. Rose." The manager addressing her steepled his fingers. His sleeve slipped down, revealing an expensive watch identical to the one Smitty wore. "Mr. Wild has been thriving under your careful care. At this time, we would like to push this relationship a bit further."

Dylan didn't dare look at Charlie. She didn't dare anything. She was at the mercy of the lion, surrounded by jackals.

Just what the hell are you asking of me?

"As you know, Charlie is an invaluable part of the Teamsters' organization," Charlie's manager droned on. "He's a tremendous player. He pushes, and often exceeds, his own limits. However, with this spirited temperament comes a tendency to…press a little too hard."

"I'll be the first to admit it," Charlie volunteered. "Give me a chance, Dr. Rose, and I'll show you exactly how hard." He winked at her, as if she could possibly miss his double-meaning.

"Uh-huh. I'm sure." Dylan cast a desperate look toward the hospital head, but she appeared preoccupied with whatever she had scrawled on her legal pad. Dylan's eyes narrowed. There was conspiracy afoot.

"What my colleagues are trying to say is that Charlie has promised to respect your professional guidance," Smitty added. "I'm sure you understand we're on an expedited timeframe here. We'd like to provide the opportunity for you to render more of the same care going forward. Starting now, I—we—think it would be ideal for you to remain by his side. Charlie may have some publicity events coming up, and it would sure put everyone's mind at ease if you were able to attend with him."

Dylan didn't think she could shutter her gaze any more. She tried anyway. "I have no problem attending events," she responded coolly. If these suited goons tried to wrestle her into something skimpy, however, they were in for a fight. She privately vowed that if such an indignance came to pass, she would make them all wish they were dead.

"You know, I think I've got the perfect solution to all this." Charlie leaned forward, as if struck by a sudden, wild idea. Dylan wasn't buying it. She crossed her arms and leaned back. "Why don't you start tonight? We'll keep it informal and just spend some time getting to know one another better. Come on by Wildhorse Ranch sometime after eight, and we'll watch a movie."

"I don't like movies," Dylan stated. It was a terrible lie and an absurd excuse, but she was determined to stick to it.

Charlie raised an eyebrow at this but continued down the same track. "The glamping coordinator's got loads of movies. We'll find one you like. And while we're at it, you can check out my digs and help me kid-proof it."

Now it was Dylan's turn to cock an eyebrow. "Are you the kid in this metaphor?" she asked, all innocence.

Charlie wouldn't rise to the bait; instead, he grinned in agreement. "I'll give you the tour, and you just tell me where and what to avoid in my delicate state. I'll take you in the kitchen…the shower…the bedroom…"

A rush of heat at his words almost overwhelmed Dylan. No way in hell he didn't know exactly what he was doing by choosing those words. For the life of her, she couldn't decide whether anger or desire was the source of her blush.

"I'll take you anywhere you want," Charlie promised. His grin curved into something more wicked. Someone on the management team coughed politely, but no one else came to her rescue.

As if she needed rescuing from Charlie Wild.

"Fine." Dylan rose and gathered up her briefcase. "Some time after eight."

"Why not make it eight on the dot?" Charlie suggested.

"Fine."

"I'll let you bring the popcorn."

"I'm sure you will."

What the hell have I gotten myself into? Dylan wondered as she escaped out the door to her next appointment. And why do I get the feeling this won't be the last time I ask myself this question?

* * *

Dylan had often driven by Wildhorse Ranch in the daytime. It was a modest assembly of low, open buildings organized at the end of a red-dirt road; she always rolled her windows down to enjoy the smell of ripening apples, fresh-cut grass, and yes, even horse sweat and manure. It spoke to her of a life so far removed from her own that it almost seemed exotic by comparison. Of course, she had no fantasies about the work that must be involved in running such an operation—still, subtract Charlie Wild from the equation, and it seemed like a simpler life.

The closest Dylan had ever come to Wildhorse personally was last week’s drop-off—which had been more of a drive-by. She had barely parked in front of the porch steps before swinging the car for home. Not exactly the bedside manner she had been trained in, but she had spent the entire ride over imagining the moment she parked…imagining the way the lights would dim…imagining how easily Charlie might lean across the armrest and capture her lips with his.

If Dylan was being honest with herself, it wasn't Charlie she was worried about. He may outweigh her, but she could fend off any flirtation he decided to take too far.

She had been more worried about leaning across the armrest and putting an end to the tension between them herself…but she wasn't so stupid to think that just one kiss with Charlie would be the end of things. Spending time alone with the cocksure quarterback was becoming borderline unbearable. What the hell was she going to do now that it had been sanctioned by the hospital?

Dylan pulled up to the main house and put her car in park. She recognized Trevor Wild's lean silhouette on the porch. The cowboy sipped from a mug of coffee and gazed out across the lawn toward one of the distant cabins.

"Nice to see you again, Dr. Rose." He tipped his hat to her as she joined him on the porch. "Hope my half-brother isn't giving you too much trouble."

"Oh, he definitely is." Dylan shifted her bag up one shoulder. "How is the patient?

"Resting." Trevor seemed amused by her disbelieving look. "I'm guessing he won't show it to anyone but family, but all this traveling back and forth to the hospital takes a lot out of him."

"Thanks for your report," Dylan said. She leaned around Trevor to peek through the screen door. Charlie waved to her from the couch; he was far enough inside the living room that she assumed he couldn't overhear them. "I'm sure the drinking doesn't help matters."

"Thank you for bringing him home the other night," Trevor added.

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure you don't have time in your schedule to babysit." Fortunately, that's what I'm paid for, Dylan thought darkly.

"No ma'am," Trevor agreed. His serious mouth tugged slightly in the beginning stages of a grin. "We're lucky to have you."

Dylan noticed for the first time that there were two mugs of coffee steaming on the porch railing. Trevor plucked them up and started down the steps past her. "I'll be out on the property for the rest of the evening. You need anything, Charlie knows how to holler for me. No, I don't mean actually holler," Trevor said when he noticed Dylan's incredulous look. "Either of you feel free to call me on my cell."

"Right. Got it." She grinned. "Thanks, Trevor." Rest of the evening, huh? She watched the cowboy's lanky figure stroll off toward the distant cabin. What sort of midnight chores does Wildhorse Ranch require?

"Trevor's off to knock boots with Sabrina," Charlie supplied as soon as the screen door banged shut behind her. He reclined upright on the couch, his leg iced and elevated on the coffee table. "Guess it's just you and me, Doc."

"Who's Sabrina?" Dylan asked, ignoring his closing comment. She was all too aware of just how much their one-on-one session was already living up to its name.

"Wildhorse's glamping coordinator. Trevor's girlfriend. She's fun. Loves to bend the rules and drive my brother crazy. You wouldn't like her."

"I think it might surprise you who I like."

Yikes. She shouldn't have said that. Charlie's bright blue eyes fixed on her like a kid who had just been offered a fat piece of cake. He struggled to rise as she passed him on the couch.

"You brought the popcorn? Need me to show you around the kitchen?" he volunteered.

"I think I've got it." Dylan laid a hand on his shoulder, signaling him to stay in place. "You sit tight. Let me know if there's anything I can get for you while I'm up."

"How about a beer?" Charlie called after her hopefully.

Dylan chuckled and shook her head. "I'll let you have one beer. Because I see you've been using your crutches again, and you deserve a reward."

"Speaking of rewards, I hope you like westerns," Charlie mentioned as he wagged the DVD case at her.

Dylan returned moments later with a bowl of popcorn and two frosty bottles of beer. She passed one to Charlie and settled onto the couch beside him.

"You and your brother seem to have a good relationship," she said. "And I'd be lying if I said it didn't give me renewed confidence knowing he's around to help you."

"I don't need help," Charlie grumbled.

"Then why am I here?"

"Because I invited you."

Dylan rolled her eyes.

"I trust the crutches aren't just for show this evening?" she probed as she passed him the popcorn. "They'll really help you get around. More than that, they'll help you heal quicker. I'm willing to compromise if you promise you'll use them at home."

"I promise."

"And no stairs aside from the ones out front. Those are small enough you won't risk injuring yourself—it'll actually be a good workout for your ACL. But I want you using the wheelchair ramp and elevators at the hospital. How are you showering?"

"Want to find out?"

"Charlie," Dylan hissed. "I'm serious! You run the biggest risk of aggravating it again in the bathroom. If you'd just…"

His arm slipped down off the couch and around her shoulders, and Dylan clamped her mouth shut. "Relax," he murmured. "Enjoy the movie. At the very least enjoy your popcorn."

He kept his eyes trained forward on the flickering screen. After a moment, Dylan sighed and sank back despite herself. She had managed to put another long day behind her, and this…this felt nice. When was the last time she had shut her brain off and thought about something other than work?

Excluding thoughts of Charlie, of course. It felt too much like a soon-to-be-illicit dream, sitting there beside him, with his arm draped across her shoulders. They both had an awareness of it. They both knew what he was doing, of this Dylan was certain. But what did it say about her that she remained? How much could she risk letting on—and how much did he already know? Every offhand comment, every little maneuver Charlie made felt smooth as perfectly manufactured butter. Was any of it real, or was it the only way he knew how to conduct himself around women?

Dylan hated that she found him charming. She was just as bad as everyone else who enabled him. And yet, she couldn't deny that a part of her enjoyed his company. Charlie was funny and interesting and unpredictable. As much as he kept her constantly on her toes at work, Dylan couldn't deny that she enjoyed the challenge—as well as the challenge their warring personalities brought to every interaction.

God, she’d bet sex with Charlie would be mind-blowing.

Dylan shook her head so violently that her hair hit Charlie in the face. He chuckled and reached between them to brush it aside. "Hate the movie that much?"

"No, actually I…love westerns." She tried to ignore the stroke of his fingers and missed it the moment they were gone again.

"Trevor told me to invite you over for a free riding lesson some time," Charlie mentioned as he sat back. "If you're not too much of a city girl to consider it."

"Offer accepted," she said. "I could use a hobby out here in the Bend to help me unwind."

"I noticed." Charlie grinned, but it wasn't his usual lascivious smirk. Dylan chanced a smile back and felt warmer for it. "And I didn't mean what I said about Sabrina earlier. I think the two of you'd get along famously."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I should know."

"Because you know famous?" she guessed.

"Because you and I get along great, and don't pretend we don't."

Dylan blew a dark wisp of hair out of her eyes and grabbed for the popcorn. She could pretend a lot of things by the light of day; hell, she could pretend everything if she had to, and she was confident no one would be the wiser…except maybe Charlie himself.

But she was secure and sheltered here beneath his arm, and in the darkness, she felt like she didn't have to pretend so hard. She would let it be what it was, and in the morning, she would get back to fending off his advances. It was their choreography, their performance for his management and her supervisors. Here, removed from prying eyes and obligations, she might finally feel content to sit it all out in the wings with him.

"This is nice," Charlie said. He turned to look at her. "No offense, but I think you're actually less…uptight outside the hospital."

"I'm not uptight," Dylan said defensively. "I'm just…strict."

"Uh-huh."

"And even if I wasn't, Lockhart General is a strict setting. There's no room to mess around." She turned toward him, and was surprised to find him so near. Had he inched closer when she wasn't looking? The heat radiating off him was like a furnace. She might burn up if she got too close, but she couldn't retreat now without attracting notice. Dylan straightened instead, trying to sit a little taller than his armpit. "But you knew that already," she pointed out. "I assumed that's why you don't like it there."

"What makes you think I don't like the hospital?" Charlie asked her. The question felt strangely pointed. The easy smile never left his face, but something behind his eyes flickered. Something painful.

Maybe it was time to change things up. Maybe it was time for her to inject some levity into the proceedings. Dylan snorted and distracted them both by snatching the beer out of his hand. She had already finished hers. "Come on. All those rules? Applying to you?" She took a quick swig and passed the bottle back. "You must be going crazy. Everyone on your management team seems to think I'm the one keeping you in line, but I think we both know that's bullshit. I think you're keeping a low profile for now, but you're just biding your time, trying to think of the best way to give the system your middle finger."

"I am," he admitted, "but that's not why I hate Lockhart General."

"So you do hate it. Specifically."

"Watch the movie," he commanded. He thrust the bowl of popcorn back at her, and Dylan had to react quickly to prevent it from falling. As soon as she had secured it and looked up again, she realized it had been his own distraction tactic. While she was messing with the bowl, Charlie had slid himself closer to her. They now occupied the same cushion of the couch; his immense, rock-hard thigh brushed against hers. Dylan blinked incredulously at the size disparity. She had seen plenty of gladiator-sized athletes in her career, but never from this angle. Certainly never this close.

"Relax," Charlie muttered. His eyes were trained on the flickering television. "I'm not going to try anything. I just like flirting with you."

"That's very reassuring," Dylan said. "And, I'm sure you already know, inappropriate."

"Wouldn't do it otherwise."

The cushion she leaned against moved a little. His hand dangled casually over her shoulder, his fingers nearly grazing the top of her breast. He was definitely pushing the boundaries of their doctor-patient relationship, but it felt more like a challenge than anything. She had to show Charlie that she wouldn't let him get away with anything. Dylan turned to him again and pretended not to notice their intimate arrangement.

"Do you take anything seriously?" she mused aloud. She was genuinely curious.

"I take one thing seriously," Charlie admitted.

"Let me guess. Football?"

"Bingo."

"I don't believe you." Dylan laughed at the stunned look on his face. "I mean, of course I believe you take football seriously. I don't believe it's the only thing you take seriously."

"Then you'd be the first," Charlie said. "C'mon. You can't deny that when you look at me, you see a—"

"Jock?" she supplied.

"A total sex god, an unrepentant ladies' man with great comedic timing. Fun as hell to be around, but not exactly the guy you take home to Mom."

"Maybe that's just what you want the world to see," Dylan suggested. "Or at least, what your management team wants the world to see. You don't have to live up to the hype if you don't want to."

"Don't I?"

"Not with me you don't."

The living room lapsed into a silence punctuated only by the rambling talk of the cowboys on screen. The tension Dylan thought she had been successfully slicing through with every quick comment flooded back in. Had she broken through their superficial exchange, only to say the wrong thing?

Charlie grimaced, and she became instantly alert. "What? What is it? Your knee?" Her heart fluttered in panic. What had aggravated it? She hadn't felt him move it—then again, they sat so closely, it was more than possible that she had moved in a way that…

"No, Doc. Not my knee. I just realized I might be out of conversation topics. I'm used to talking football, when I'm not engaged in…other activities."

"Uh-huh." She thinned her mouth, suppressing a smile to let him know she didn't believe him. The corner of Charlie's own mouth hitched up.

"Don't believe me?"

"I don't doubt that the…sensational sexual profile is a lie. But I doubt you don't have more to talk about than sex and football," she said. "In fact, I know firsthand that there's so much more to you. Like it or not, I think I'm coming to understand you better, Charlie Wild."

"You're not the only one thinking that, and it's only been a week." He looked at her like she was a wonder, something unexpected that had crept up on him while he had been too busy crafting his next innuendo. Dylan loved the quality of Charlie's gaze and tried not to squirm beneath it—or even breathe—for fear of interrupting whatever private revelation was coming to him.

God, didn't every girl dream of catching a man off guard and making him see her as if she was the first one worthy of love he had ever laid eyes on? That's the way Charlie Wild looked at her.

They both broke eye contact in the same moment. Dylan shifted against him and cleared her throat; when that didn't prove effective in forcing her heart back down where it belonged, she filled her mouth with popcorn. She felt the hand Charlie had draped across her right shoulder playing idly with her hair. She didn't think he even noticed he was doing it, and she said nothing to draw attention to the fact.

"More?" Charlie rattled the popcorn bowl at her. They had already reduced its contents to kernels.

"You know me too well." Any other woman would probably express more sheepishness at the vice, but if there was one thing Charlie Wild had known about Dylan from day one, it was that she consumed popcorn like she was running out of time. "But I'll get it," she stated as she rose.

Charlie pulled a face. "No. You're my guest. You sit your ass back down."

"Something tells me you don't usually talk to your guests that way. And anyway, if I'm anything, I'm your doctor," she reminded him. Dylan held her hand out for the bowl, and Charlie held it away from her. He forced her into a surprise retreat as he stood. "Charlie, I mean it. I don't want you aggravating that leg any more than you've already—"

The knee gave beneath him, and he pitched forward as if on some cosmic cue. Dylan held her hands out to catch him instinctively, but there was no way she would be able to support him if he went down fully. A man of Charlie's size probably knew as much. Maybe it was his effort to stop himself from careening forward and crushing her completely that made him drop the bowl and twist to fall back on the couch instead. Dylan already had her hands on him; he didn't allow her any time to release. She fell forward and collapsed on top of him.

"See!" She exclaimed in anguish. Charlie's hands came up, probably on football instinct, to clasp her securely to his chest. His touch set her inner alarm bells off, but she didn't move off him immediately; she was afraid of jostling his knee. No getting up off the patient until she figured out exactly how they were entangled. "I told you! You need to stay off your…your…"

Charlie's hand slid down her waist to press against the small of her back. Dylan arched her spine in response to the touch. Almost immediately, she knew she shouldn't have done that. She could feel the outline of Charlie's erection swelling against her thigh.

The length of his cock was absolutely dizzying. She didn't dare glance down to gauge how wide it was. It certainly felt as if it matched the rest of his proportions. It strained against the front of his pants like a battering ram about to burst free at any moment.

There was no pretending she didn't know it was there. Judging by the hooded look in Charlie's eyes, he wasn't in the mood to pretend, either. Dylan propped her forearm against his chest, trying to reestablish some boundaries above the belt.

"You need to start listening to me," she murmured.

"You need to learn to stop talking," he said. His other hand slid up to tangle in her hair, and Dylan arched into him even more, like a cat being stroked. His fingers tightened, and white sparks of pleasure-pain erupted along the back of her neck and skull.

"God, you're so fucking beautiful," Charlie groaned beneath her. "You have no idea what looking at you does to me."

"Stop talking," Dylan advised.

Charlie stopped talking. He yanked her down in one forceful move, and Dylan went. Their lips crashed together in a single hot collision, their tongues slithering and tangling. There was no warm-up, no romantic working up to a deepened kiss—with the way their bodies were aligned, any illusion of chasteness was long gone. Her hungry mouth made up for lost time, seeking an outlet for the incredible sensation overwhelming her from below.

Dylan had never been shy when it came to hooking up. Reserved, maybe, and cautious, but once the gloves were off, she was all-in. She knew her body and thrilled at the opportunity to let Charlie know it also. Even as she pressed forward into his kiss, she reached behind her and guided his hand down the curve of her ass, craving the intimate heat of his touch. She had caught him staring at her ass so often, she had started to feel naked without his hands on her. It was only now, in the moment, that she could finally admit what being around Charlie Wild for extended periods of time did to her.

"Holy shit," Charlie growled appreciatively into her mouth. Dylan claimed that as a victory. He clenched his massive hand down. His fingers were so long they wrapped around the back of her thigh and pressed her between her legs. She bucked her hips involuntarily with a gasp. It was as if he had flirted with pressing the button that would set her off completely. Her underwear was already starting to cling to her, damp and getting damper. She doubted Charlie could feel what he was doing to her through the additional layer of her jeans, but he might have easily guessed. Her brain wasn't steering her body, not anymore. She couldn't tell where she ended and he began clearly enough to guess who was driving at this point.

Charlie's fervent lips found the pulse in her throat. He pushed back against every throb, thrusting with his tongue and teasing with his teeth. He was marking her—was there anyone at work or in the whole of Lockhart Bend who wouldn't suspect it was his handiwork? Dylan grasped for the thought and lost it the next instant when Charlie's hips came up off the couch beneath her. She was practically riding him like a horse.

"Ah!" Dylan gasped wildly. One of Charlie's hands—she couldn't keep track of which—slid up her shirt to cup one breast over her bra. She had never thought of her chest as particularly small, but the immensity of his palm dwarfed her. His hand skated to the side, gathering up both of her breasts in his greedy grasp, squeezing them together. Her nipples strained to be free of the constrictive fabric of her bra. Every inch of her body yearned to experience Charlie's bold touches. The enormous bulge in his pants served as a reminder of what awaited her every time she brushed up against it. She knew it was only a matter of moments before she would be in direct contact with Charlie's cock. They didn't have to hurry this; they had all the time in the—

A gunshot exploded in the background. Dylan jerked, and her knee came down on Charlie's left leg, nearly staking him to the couch. The quarterback reared away from her and clenched his teeth shut against a cry of pain; every tendon in his neck strained with the effort.

"Oh, my God! I'm so sorry, Charlie!"

Dylan was up off the couch as explosively as the next shot that cracked from the TV. The cowboys onscreen had gone to war with the outlaws. Dylan hovered her hands in the darkness as if she didn't trust them to return to him. Charlie propped himself up sideways on his forearm and winced.

"It's fine," he growled. "I'm fine. Get back over here."

"Absolutely not." She was in full-on doctor mode now. She should have been in full-on doctor mode all along—he was a patient, for God's sake, not a hook-up. All irresistibly tousled, horizontally laid, six and a half feet of Charlie Wild required her professional protection—not her sexual advances. "I never should have done that."

"We never should have done that," Charlie quickly corrected her, "but we did. We're both equally responsible for what just happened." He arched an eyebrow at her. "Or did you think you were taking advantage of me?"

"I am taking advantage." Dylan was determined to get through to him. To get through to both of them, since she clearly needed a reminder of where the boundaries were. "I'm your doctor. You're my patient. It's absolutely against the rules."

"You mean it would be taboo to continue," Charlie said. She hated that suggestive look in his eyes. It was too open, too encouraging—it promised that every temptation she wanted to taste with him would be that much more savory for how forbidden it was. She pushed back the dark, snarled curtain of her hair, trying to banish the knots his fingers had made.

"No, not…taboo. What am I saying?" she muttered aloud. "Yes, it would absolutely be taboo, but not in the fun sense—which is clearly how you're framing it for yourself."

"So, you admit it can be fun."

Dylan growled in frustration. "There's a balance of power at play here, Charlie. It would be unethical for me to press any advantage I have over you—acknowledged or otherwise." She crossed her arms to punctuate the point.

"Dylan. Come on." Charlie held his hands out as if he were a particularly tasty spread at a party. Maybe he was. Dylan shook her head to banish the thought. "Look at me. No one has ever taken advantage of me in my life. I could be down both legs and an arm, and I'd still be in charge of the situation. Or at least totally complicit in it. And I was totally complicit in what was happening earlier. Will you look at me?" he repeated, when she refused to meet his gaze

"I do look at you, Charlie. That's the problem." Dylan bent to retrieve the popcorn bowl before thinking better of it. Going after the bowl would only put her back in Charlie's range, and she didn't trust him not to make a grab for her. "I'm going to get you an ice pack," she said instead. She turned on her heel and walked resolutely toward the kitchen. "Do not move from that couch. I'll be right back."

"Care to do some more looking when you get back?" Charlie called after her.

Dylan paused in the kitchen doorway. She took a deep breath, summoning all her self-control, then turned around. "I want you to keep that leg iced and elevated." She was a machine reading off an internal script. "Barring trips to the bathroom, I want you to stay where you are for the rest of the night if you can. I'm going to grab you a blanket and pillow to help you get situated before I go."

"I don't need help getting situated," Charlie growled. Ironically, he chose that moment to reach down and adjust the front of his pants. Dylan knew she shouldn't smile or take any sort of pleasure in seeing the state she had left him in. Anyone else might feel sorry for what they had done. She certainly felt sorry for pushing the boundaries of ethical behavior with Charlie, but she couldn't honestly say she felt bad for leaving him sexually frustrated. She was just as frustrated, even if his physical symptoms were more…obvious.

"Hang tight," she advised him. She moved out of view of the main room; as she left, she heard his groan and the unmistakable sound of six and a half feet of quarterback toppling back into the couch.

Be as cold as the ice pack, Dylan, she thought as she pulled open Charlie's freezer. Cold as the ice pack. And when you get home…you'll have earned yourself a hot date with a cold, cold shower.

Too bad the hot date she really wanted was with her hunky, fully-erect patient in the other room. Time to put some professional distance between herself and Charlie Wild. If she couldn't banish this attraction to him, then she would have to suppress it.

Easier said than done.