Jorja

by Lexxie Couper

  Her friend shook her head, her answering laugh relaxed. Most people were unsettled by Jorja’s blunt approach to communication. Thankfully, Meagan wasn’t one of them. Perhaps because she was completely comfortable and confident with whom she was. “No no, really. It was only meant to be a short visit. I’m on my way to Edesia and just wanted to return Mud’s jersey. He left it at our place last weekend. I figured he’d probably want it for that photo shoot you both have with The Women’s Weekly tomorrow, yes?”

  Jorja scrunched up her face. The photo shoot. She’d forgotten about that. Not what she needed at all with a stiff neck.

  Meagan raised another eyebrow. “Not looking forward to it?”

  Rubbing at the muscles at the base of her skull, she retrieved a bottle of Voss from the bar fridge and untwisted the cap. “I never like it. But it is good for Mud’s public image.”

  “Does he need his public image to be any better? Let’s be serious, the guy is damn near a god in this country, what with the way the media and league fans idolise him.”

  Jorja lifted the open bottle to her lips, took a sip and recapped it. “The article is about our romance. With the number of women’s panties that arrive every day in the mail, I welcome some very public exposure declaring him off-limits.”

  Meagan frowned. “Are you…questioning his faithfulness, JJ?”

  Another wobbly sigh streamed passed Jorja’s lips and she slumped, resting her elbows on the polished steel of the bar’s countertop. Staring at the view of the harbour beyond the living room and balcony, she shook her head. “No.”

  Who would have thought only a few moments ago she was on the verge of an orgasm, thanks purely to the raw hunger and open want in Mud’s eyes? And now here she was, close to vocalising her fear some groupie was going to…

  She shook head again. “No. His faithfulness is unquestionable.” It was. As was his sexual ferocity. “I’m questioning my ability to survive this kind of life. The constant attention. The scrutiny of our relationship. The expectations…”

  A prickling heat on the side of her face told Jorja Meagan studied her. A knot formed in her belly and she took a sip of water, her mouth dry. She wasn’t one for sharing such vulnerabilities. She really must be shaken up.

  What was going on with her?

  The look in Mud’s eyes before Meagan arrived. That ambiguous, enigmatic expression you’ve never seen before. That’s what’s got you unsettled. Like he wanted to say something. Something...big. Maybe something…bad?

  “I’ve got to go.”

  Jorja flinched at her friend’s abrupt declaration, the jolt sending a shard of pain through her neck. She gave Meagan an askew glance, the tension in her stomach knotting tighter. “Really?”

  Meagan gave her a warm smile as she smoothed a gentle hand up Jorja’s arm. It was such a wonderfully maternal thing to do, for a moment Jorja forgot how to breathe. “I told you it was just a quick drop in. Mud’s jersey is in a bag at the front door. Besides,” she shot a look over her shoulder, the action drawing Jorja’s attention to Mud where he now stood, still half naked in the kitchen, staring into the open fridge, “I think someone wants your time more than me at the moment.”

  Jorja’s throat grew thick at the sight of her boyfriend, so obviously trying to appear like he wasn’t straining to hear their every word.

  Meagan chuckled a second before she placed a kiss on the air beside Jorja’s cheek. “I really do love your bikini, by the way, hon. One of these days I’ll get back into mine and we can strut about together on Bondi Beach, driving all the young hot tourists crazy with lust.”

  And with that, and a soft squeeze of Jorja’s hand, she crossed to the front door and closed it behind her.

  Leaving Jorja alone with Mud again.

  She pulled a steady breath, letting her gaze turn to him where he stood in the kitchen. For the first time since meeting him, six years ago in the Sydney University library, when they were both cash-strapped final year students, Jorja felt…nervous. There was no reason for it, none that made sense at least. But she was nervous. Nervous that no matter what she did or who she was, she’d never be able to—

  Mud slammed the fridge door shut, his stare finding hers across the living room.

  Jorja caught her breath. Her pulse pounded in her throat. Her belly fluttered. Her pussy constricted. Adrenaline and fear licked through her, an intoxicating mix that both shamed her and aroused her. “Daniel…” she whispered.

  Without moving from where he stood, he studied her.

  Say something, she begged him with her eyes.

  Silence stretched between them.

  Please?

  “When did you hurt your neck?”

  Numb disappointment filled her at his question. She touched her fingers to the stiff spot at the base of her skull, a frown pulling at her eyebrows. “How did you—”

  “You’re holding your head funny,” he said before she could finish. “Did I do it? When I threw you on the chair?”

  She shook her head, and then bit back a wince when an electric-hot pulse sliced up into the base of her skull again.

  Mud’s jaw bunched. His eyes narrowed. Without a word, he strode from the kitchen, shoving his hand into his back pocket as he headed for their bedroom.

  Jorja stood motionless, unsure what to do. What had just happened?

  Oh God, why did she feel like things were splintering apart all of a sudden?

  * * *

  After hitting Send on his iPhone—a gift from one of his many sponsors—Mud tossed the device onto the bed, raked his hands through his hair and prowled the floor. Fuck. He’d hurt her. Of all the things he wanted to do to Jorja, hurt her wasn’t one of them.

  Fuck.

  What did he do? She bloody well turned him around, she did. Knocked him off kilter and sent him for a fucking tailspin. He knew exactly how to dominate every aspect of his life except his life with her. When it came to Jorja Jones, he was…confused.

  She was everything he wanted, and yet every minute of every day he questioned if he was—

  His phone bleeped from the bed, a new text message filling the screen.

  He shot it a look, fisting his hair as he did so.

  A message from the journalist from Men’s Health he’d met a week ago. The second one of the day, this one detailing what she wanted to do to his balls if he gave her the chance.

  Fuck, he had to stop this. Now.

  His phone bleeped at him again.

  A new message. From the Australian Rugby League team’s masseuse, the very person Mud had texted after becoming aware of Jorja’s sore neck.

  Will be there in 30 mins.

  Mud’s gut churned at the message.

  The masseuse had a thing for Jorja. Had done since Mud introduced them two years ago. Whenever Jorja attended a Kangaroos’ social event, the masseuse—Brett Bartowski, a man even Mud recognised as stupidly good-looking and ridiculously smart—damn near fell over himself trying to make her laugh and smile. Jorja had never encouraged the guy, but she’d never mentioned her disdain for him either. Jorja was not one for subtlety when it came to expressing her opinions, which made Mud wonder what she thought of Brett’s obvious crush. What would she do if he made a move on her?

  The rest of Mud’s teammates had noticed their masseuse’s attraction to Jorja. More than one had suggested Mud take Brett aside and tell him to keep his fucking eyes off her, via a few well-landed fists if need be. It had reached the point where they intercepted Brett every time he made his way toward Jorja, whether it be at social engagements or on the side of the field after a game. In the same way they protected Mud when he had the ball on the field, they were protecting him—and what he possessed—off it.

  And now here he was, calling Brett, inviting him into his and Jorja’s home. Inviting him not only to interact with Jorja, but to touch her. To give her what he himself seemed incapable of giving her. To offer the man the most precious gift he—

  The disturbing thought cut thr
ough him, hot and cold at once. He shut it down, and the torment it brought, and strode from the room instead.

  For better or worse, the ball was in play now. He’d initiated the move and, like he did on the field, he had to own it, regardless of the end result. Sometimes in life, as it was on the field, you had to play the risk. It was that, or lose it all.

  His father hadn’t taught him that. His father, the bastard prick, had taught him to beat those weaker than him to a bloody pulp. And to never treat women with tender, gentle care.

  To keep them scared and in their place.

  An image of Jorja watching him run on the treadmill filled his head, her sexual desire for him laced with a trepidation that tore him apart.

  Would she look at Brett Bartowski the same way?

  His gut churned, a sickened tension he could no longer deny.

  Jesus fuck, what the fuck was he doing?

  * * *

  Jorja had only just picked up her iPad, returning her admittedly unfocused attention to the budget reports when Mud appeared at her side, his damp hair slicked back from his face, his incredible body half covered in a pair of Guess jeans and nothing else. The distinct scent of sandalwood soap and Hugo Boss aftershave tickled her breath. He’d showered.

  No wild, sweaty animal sex for them, it seemed.

  Disappointment laced through her but she hid it. Perhaps, what with the crink in her neck, it was for the better.

  Bullshit.

  “I think you need to put that aside, JJ,” he instructed, removing the tablet from her fingers to put it on the table.

  She frowned at him, wishing she had the courage to ask what was going on with them. “I need to—”

  He shook his head, that unnerving light she couldn’t decipher in his eyes again. “No. You need to do what you’re told. I know you’re an independent woman, I know you’re capable of dealing with your own shit—I know you raised yourself and your sister all alone—but right now, you need to do what I’m telling you to do.”

  The dominating control in his voice sent a hot lick of excitement into her very core. He was right, of course. She could look after herself. After her father abandoned his family for a younger woman a year after moving them from Denmark to Australia, her mother went into an emotional decline, a decline that spiralled into depression and ended with suicide when he married that younger woman a year later.

  Jorja had only been nineteen when she stood at her mother’s graveside, her sister fourteen. When it came to looking after herself, Jorja was an expert.

  Of course, looking after oneself and knowing what was going on in one’s relationship was a completely different matter.

  If charting the chaos of being in love with a pro-footballer was as easy as raising a young teenage girl in a country you still didn’t call your home, she wouldn’t be in this unsettled emotional state now, would she?

  Or be wondering if her relationship with Mud, the man she loved with all her heart, was coming to an end.

  God, please don’t let it be coming to an end. Please don’t let him be bored with—

  He threaded his fingers through hers and tugged her from the stool. “C’mon.”

  She searched for a hint of what was going on in his eyes. “Where are we going?”

  “The gym.”

  It wasn’t the answer she expected. In all honesty, she had no idea what she’d expected. “Yours? Or another one?”

  Mud chuckled. “Mine.”

  He led her to his personal workout room, past the treadmill he’d been running on less than an hour ago, to a long padded bench situated in the middle of the room.

  Jorja recognised it for what it was straight away: a massage table. At some point in the last thirty minutes, he’d set it up, complete with fluffy white towels on which to lie.

  Delighted warmth flooded through her.

  She couldn’t stop her smile stretching her lips as she turned to face him. “You’re going to give me a massage?”

  His jaw bunched. “Strip off your bikini, JJ, and climb onto the table, face down.”

  Something about his response set off a horde of butterflies in her belly. She studied him, catching her bottom lip with her teeth.

  With a growl, Mud hooked his fingers in the sides of her bikini bottoms and yanked them down her legs.

  A hitching gasp burst past Jorja’s lips. Her nipples pinched tight. Her pussy grew warm. “Mud,” she whispered.

  For an answer, he rose to his feet, skimming his palms up the inside of her thighs and brushed his thumbs over her folds. His stare found hers. His nostrils flared.

  She swallowed. “Mud,” she repeated, aching for him. Aching for sexual release. For him to take her body and use it for his pleasure. “Please…”

  The muscles in his jaw bunched. His Adam’s apple slid up and down. “I…” He drew a slow breath, his eyes ablaze with desire and that same indecipherable emotion. “You know I love you, JJ?”

  She nodded again. The proclamation—rarely uttered by him, even when he was at his most romantic, and never during moments of sexual pleasure—unnerved her. “I do. As I love you.”

  “You know I will…you know you are…oh fuck, JJ, you know I will give you everything you want, right? No matter what that is? Even if…even…” He stopped. Shook his head. Muttered something under his breath.

  His uncharacteristic fluster made Jorja’s belly tighten. She frowned. “I do.”

  He held her gaze, as if seeking out an answer in her eyes. An answer to what, she didn’t know.

  “What’s wrong, Daniel?” she asked. “What’s going on? Tell me. Please?”

  He drew a deep breath.

  “I am in control of your pleasure, JJ,” he proclaimed. “Say it.”

  It was a routine they’d followed before. A part of their foreplay. It made Jorja wet every time.

  “You are in control of my pleasure,” she said, standing motionless even as he thumbed the tiny hood of her clit. Shards of liquid pleasure shot through her. “I can never get enough.”

  Mud’s nostrils flared at her declaration. A low groan rumbled in his chest. “Enough what, JJ?”

  The question seemed tormented.

  “Pleasure,” she supplied, thrumming with elemental need. It’s what he wanted to hear. It was what she wanted more than anything: pleasure from him.

  Mud’s eyes closed. A conflict she couldn’t understand pulled at his forehead. His jaw knotted once more. “Oh Jorja,” he whispered her name, her full name, like a sigh spilling from his lips. “I wish you’d said—”

  The doorbell chimed.

  Jorja bit back a scream. Not again.

  She stared at Mud, waiting for his expletive.

  Instead, he drew a deep breath and held her gaze. “Get undressed, JJ, and climb onto the table. Face down.”

  He left before she could beg him not to. Before she could beg him to ignore the door, to ignore the world and tell him what was going on with him. With them.

  Chewing on her lip some more, she turned back to the massage table.

  Studied its plush towel-covered surface.

  Thought of Mud’s hands smoothing over her oil-slick skin, kneading the knot in the back of her neck before sliding down her spine, her hips, over the curve of her naked backside, down her legs, and back up again to the junction of her thighs.

  Her pussy throbbed at the thought of him slipping his fingers into her wet slit as she lay on her belly, face down, waiting for him. His for the taking.

  Closing her eyes, she reached up behind her head and pulled the string of her bikini top.

  The twin triangles of material fell from her breasts, kissing her bare feet.

  With a deep breath, she released the loose chignon of her hair, letting the long black strands cascade down her back before she climbed up onto the massage table.

  The luxurious Egyptian cotton towel caressed her breasts, belly and hairless mons as she stretched out flat on her stomach. She pressed her cheeks and forehead to the face o
pening, letting her hands rest loosely on the arm supports below it.

  For a few heartbeats, she kept her thighs together, one ankle crossing the other. The room’s cool air played with her heated skin, licking at the crevice of her butt. The contact sent a delicious tingle through her and, growing hotter with excited anticipation, she allowed the muscle in her legs to relax, parting her thighs a little until cool air played with her pussy as well.

  When Mud returned—

  A rustling sound at the entry to his gym alerted her to his arrival.

  She heard a swift intake of breath, followed by feet shuffling on the polished floorboards.

  Forcing herself to stay motionless, she pulled her own deep breath. “I’m yours,” she said, keeping her face buried in the hollow opening of her massage table’s headrest.

  A second past without sound. Jorja’s pulse pounded in her throat. Her tummy tightened.

  “Mud?” she said.

  “I’m here,” his deep voice, spoken from her far right, played with her senses, barely a second before warm, strong hands began smoothing up her back. From the base of her spine to her shoulders.

  Hands that couldn’t belong to Mud.

  “And so is Brett.”

  Jorja froze at her boyfriend’s statement.

  The hands on her shoulders began to knead at her muscles. A scent of unfamiliar cologne and maleness slipped into her breath.

  “Mud’s asked me to help,” the Australian Rugby League’s professional masseuse said directly above her head. His voice was strained, as if every word was uttered past a throat choked with need.

  A dark pulse of heat throbbed in Jorja’s core, wrapped in a shameful vice. Oh God, Brett Bartowski was there. Touching her. Seeing her naked.

  Brett Bartowski, who had told her in no uncertain terms at the last Kangaroos’ team social event—a dinner to farewell the outgoing manager—that he thought she was incredible and if Mud “dropped the ball” on treating her like the goddess she was, he would gladly pick it up.