Hot as Sin (Contemporary Romance Box Set)

by Katherine Lace

  Hot as Sin

  A Contemporary Romance Box Set

  Katherine Lace

  Cover design by

  Kevin McGrath

  Photography by

  Michael Stokes

  Copyright © 2019 by Katherine Lace

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Lady and the Champ

  1. Chloe

  2. Austin

  3. Chloe

  4. Austin

  5. Chloe

  6. Austin

  7. Chloe

  8. Austin

  9. Chloe

  10. Austin

  11. Chloe

  12. Austin

  13. Chloe

  14. Austin

  Hot Damn

  1. Maddy

  2. Jesse

  3. Maddy

  4. Maddy

  5. Jesse

  6. Maddy

  7. Maddy

  8. Jesse

  9. Maddy

  10. Jesse

  11. Maddy

  12. Jesse

  13. Maddy

  14. Maddy

  Filthy

  1. Cain

  2. Jessica

  3. Cain

  4. Jessica

  5. Cain

  6. Jessica

  7. Cain

  8. Jessica

  9. Cain

  10. Jessica

  11. Cain

  12. Jessica

  Wrong

  1. Nick

  2. Sarah

  3. Sarah

  4. Nick

  5. Sarah

  6. Nick

  7. Sarah

  8. Nick

  9. Sarah

  10. Nick

  11. Sarah

  12. Nick

  13. Sarah

  14. Sarah

  About the Author

  Lady and the Champ

  1

  Chloe

  Austin spreads out on a table in front of me, naked except for the blanket that covers him from the waist down. A tiny cotton towel drapes over what I imagine is a fantastic ass, judging from watching him run in the extremely tight fabric of his football shorts. He has beautifully formed shoulders, wide as a door. The muscles on his back rise from his spine to form a groove you could sink your fingers deep into while he was riding you.

  “He’s going deep,” the announcer from the small TV screams. “He could go all the way with this one!”

  Austin bangs his fist on the table. “Come on!”

  “Look at that penetration! He’s going to take it all the way!”

  “Don’t stop!”

  I bite my lip savagely to stop myself from laughing. God. Who knew football commentary could be so erotic? It’s definitely not helping me take my mind off the more positive features of the body in front of me. In fact, it’s making me think even more about the curve of his back, the rise of his ass, and how tight he could hang on to me with those big thighs.

  Penetration, indeed.

  That’s inappropriate as hell. Jesus.

  Inappropriate, but hard not to think about when I’m locked in a small room that has shelves of massage oils—lube—and one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  There are plenty of men who would kill for my job. The women? They’d kill me just to have their hands on Austin “the Champ” Sherwood. Star wide receiver. Larger than life celebrity. Chiseled good looks. Tabloid fodder. Not a day goes by that I don’t see the Champ’s lurid sexploits splashed all over tabloids in the grocery store. He’s a player on and off the field, and right now he’s my insufferable patient.

  A small TV blares in front of Austin’s face, propped up by a foldup table. He insisted on watching the game. My boss unplugged his TV from his office and lent it to me to satisfy our very important but extremely annoying client. I don’t know whether I’m more annoyed with him or with the fact that he’s hot. It’s like a punishment to all women from God.

  I clutch hard onto Austin’s shoulders, trying to wrench some of the knots out of him while he’s relatively still and at the same time distracting myself from the heat building between my legs.

  Focus on the patient.

  Yeah, that’s good. Focus on work, which is touching the stupid, hot jock. I deal with a lot of bros in my line of work. It sort of comes with the territory. Conversations in locker rooms tend to revolve around recent advancements in protein shakes, brags about their bench numbers, or how they ‘banged this hot chick last night.’ It’s mind-numbingly boring. They all sound and act the same. Any attraction I have for them vanishes the moment they open their dumb mouths, but working for them pays really well.

  “So close!” the announcer says, echoed by Austin, who slams one fist into the massage table. I jump as his blow rattles the whole table.

  “Sorry, Doc.”

  A stab of irritation hits my chest. “The name is Chloe, actually.”

  Austin shifts his body slightly as he turns around. His handsome face breaks into a wide smile that makes heat rise to my cheeks. Damn him, but he won the genetic lottery. He could spend his whole life posing naked for magazines and never want for anything. Austin has a chiseled, masculine face that most guys would kill for. There’s nothing delicate about his six foot three frame or the way he looks at me through those hooded, dark eyes. He wears his hair a little bit longer than the other guys, and somehow it never gets flattened by his helmet.

  Why the hell do I notice this shit?

  “What’s wrong with calling you Doc?”

  I dull my voice into that monotone that I reserve for patients, even though I’m flustered. “Chloe is what I go by.”

  “‘Doc’ has a nice ring to it.”

  He’s an important client. Don’t tell him to shut up. “I prefer Chloe.”

  “So we’re on a first name basis already?”

  I know he’s enjoying baiting me, and I’m an idiot for letting him get to me.

  Not going to work, buddy. “What makes you say that?”

  “The fact that I’m naked and you’re lubing me up.”

  Oh my God. He did not just say that. “Mr. Sherwood.”

  His grin widens. “I thought we were past the formalities?”

  Blood roars in my ears. “Mr. Sherwood, I am your physical therapist. If you can’t behave like a professional, I’ll leave and one of the men will finish you.”

  Finish you.

  My cheeks blaze as a wicked smile spreads across his face. “I’m not even touching that one.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I totally could, but I won’t. Because I’m a gentleman.”

  I highly doubt you’re a gentleman. “Could you please just turn back around?”

  “Relax, Doc. It was just a joke.”

  “I’m not a doctor.”

  This guy has about as many brain cells as a goldfish. I thought having the TV on would help him shut up, but of course the predictable idiot demanded for ESPN. Austin wheels his head around as the game comes back on from commercial, ignoring me completely to stare at the football field.

  “Oh my God!”

  I draw my hands back yet again as his torso lurches under them. This is ridiculous. I’m never going to get him properly worked over if he keeps doing this.

  “He had a hole there but they closed it up before he could fully penetrate.”

  I shake my head a little. It reminds me of something I saw online once: “Po
rn Dialogue or Football Commentary?” How oblivious are these announcers to not hear the words coming out of their mouths? Maybe one too many concussions has left them not realizing how frequently they talk about players giving each other hard blows.

  “Get the fucking ball!” he roars at the television.

  “You know they can’t hear you, right?”

  He ignores me completely, jerking violently at the announcer’s voice. “Look at him go! Tom really loves those tight-ends.”

  “Seriously, Austin,” I say, wiggling my hands to get some of the stiffness out of my fingers. “Can we just turn the TV off?”

  He’s on his stomach at the moment, and instead of having his head down on the massage table, he’s got his chin propped up on his elbows and he’s watching the football game playing on the TV on the wall. The posture puts a beautiful arch in his back, which curves into the round rise of his ass under the blanket. I could slap that ass, see if that catches his attention and gets him to hold still. The thought makes my face hot. The palm of my hand tingles as I try to squeeze a knot out of his shoulder.

  “I’ve got to watch this. It’s an important game.”

  I bite my lip to keep from screaming. “No, actually, you don’t got to watch this. It’s called TIVO.”

  He throws me a scandalized look. “I’m not watching a recorded game. It’s bad luck.”

  “Bad luck?” I say in a high voice, completely dropping my professional tone. “How is it bad luck if it already—you know what? Never mind.”

  Football players and their silly superstitions. I can tell that he’ll probably have a tantrum if I turn the TV off, and unfortunately he’s a pretty important client so I can’t piss him off.

  Several quiet moments pass while he just stares at the screen. “I’m not trying to make you angry. I just can’t stop watching the game.”

  I roll my eyes behind his head.

  “Then you need to hold the hell still. I can’t give you a proper massage when you’re moving around.”

  “Then maybe you should just give me an improper massage.”

  I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even realize what he said. Then his eyes narrow and a smirk starts to lift the corner of his mouth. Before I can find out what kind of joke he makes when he’s not doing it by accident, a roar erupts from the television.

  He jerks around to face the TV. Somebody made a touchdown, apparently. Austin shoots both hands up in the air and makes a whooping noise, so I have to assume the right team scored. “Yes!” he shouts, confirming my assumption.

  “If the game’s over, can we go ahead and turn the TV off now?” I ask him.

  “It’s not over. They just tied it up.” He lowers his torso to the table again. “Go ahead. I’ll hold still.”

  “Sure you will,” I mutter as I replenish the massage oil on my hands. His back and shoulders flex, and I’m caught for a moment, watching the big muscles move under his skin. He’s got a light tan specked here and there with freckles. For a second, my hands just hang in the air, fingertips inches above his lats, and I can feel the heat coming off him. It seems to enter through my hands and wash through my body, settling between my legs.

  I clench my teeth. I’m not sure now if I’m more irritated with him or with myself. You don’t like football players, I remind myself. Again. Not to mention that he’s off limits. He has to be, if I have any intention of keeping this job.

  “Maybe you should just sit up,” I say suddenly, realizing there’s another play about to start in the football game. He’s just going to lurch up off the table again, and that leads nowhere good.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, still focused like a laser on the television.

  He shifts around to sit up, sending the blanket moving in ways I didn’t anticipate. Suddenly there’s a flash of naked thighs and bare belly, a hint of a happy trail leading down to…

  Oh my God. If he moves another inch, what am I going to see? Every bit of my professional objectivity flies right off the tracks into a deep, dark ravine where I’m never going to get it back, and I shamble backward so my line of sight is blocked by the rest of his big body which, in all honesty, isn’t much less distracting than his naked thighs.

  Of course at that exact moment, there’s another roar from the televised crowd, and Austin’s whole body responds as he lets out a whoop. Somehow his leg tangles up with one of mine and I lose my balance.

  Everything is in slow motion for a few seconds as the room tilts around me. I’m falling—I’m going to faceplant on the floor.

  I don’t. Austin moves fast enough to catch me before I actually hit the table or the TV or the wall or the floor. And I’m grateful. I really am. Except…

  It’s not so much the fact he catches me as the way he does it. Because I don’t so much faceplant as titplant. With both boobs. Right into Austin Sherwood’s open hands.

  2

  Austin

  I stare at my hands, at the way they’re curved around Chloe’s breasts. They’re nice tits—not like I haven’t noticed—but they fill my hands a little better than I ever would have imagined. Her nipples have gone rock hard behind her bra, poking eagerly into my palms. And I just keep staring.

  I try to convince myself it’s because I’m mortified to look her in the eye after this, but honestly I just can’t stop looking at her tits. They’re gorgeous. And I’ve had women fall right into my hands before, but not like this. Not, you know—literally.

  “Those aren’t handles,” she spits at me, and finally I look into her face. Her cheeks have gone crimson, like she just experienced an unfortunate sunbathing accident. Her blue eyes are flashing hot with fury, but there’s something else there, too. Humiliation? I jerk my hands back like her tits are blazing hot.

  Actually, they are. In fact, all of her is pretty fucking hot. She’s got an hourglass figure that fills out her tight gym clothes, bee-stung lips, and long, straight black hair. There’s no question that she’s sexy. I’d take her home in a heartbeat. I’m not sure what I did to be so lucky as to have her doing my off-day PT, but it must have been good.

  “I didn’t mean to grab you like that. I saw that you were falling and uh…yeah. I really am. Sorry.”

  Not that sorry, to be honest.

  The palms of my hands are still hot from the contact. I can still feel the imprint of her nipples. And just to make matters worse, I’m getting hard again. If she sees that, she’ll probably bounce me out of here on my ass.

  She tosses her head, her bright eyes cutting into me. “If you would hold still, it wouldn’t have happened!”

  Does she want me to grovel? It was an accident. “I apologize.”

  “Then lie down.” She points to the table. The red has faded a bit from her face, but her eyes are flashing with sheer fury.

  “You told me to sit up.”

  One of her eyebrows wings up, and dammit if my dick doesn’t twitch even more. This is not going to end well. I stretch back out on my stomach—no way in hell I’m lying on my back right now—and try to get into a position where she can work on me while I keep one eye on the game.

  Her hands settle again on my shoulders, and for a second I completely forget about the game. This is bad. The game is the only thing distracting me from the way she’s touching me, but if I focus on the game, I’ll get distracted—because that’s the point—and I won’t be able to hold still. I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. The hard place being my dick.

  C’mon, Austin. You can handle this.

  I redirect my attention to the screen. They're clumsy and rushed about setting up the next play, and before the ball is even snapped I know what is about to go down. Of course so does the defense, and they lay out the QB in two seconds flat. And just as things on the TV are starting to get interesting, and thus a little distracting, Chloe slides an elbow into the hard knot just under my shoulder blade. Pain slices through me followed by a rolling, intense relief as the muscle eases under the hard pressure.

  God, it feels
good. Too good. Lying on top of my dick is starting to get really uncomfortable. It’s like lying on a corncob.

  She shifts again, digging deeper.

  “Oh my God.” The words slide out of me, and I bang my head on the massage table.

  “Quit moving.” She’s forcing the words out between gritted teeth.

  “Sorry. Sorry.” I force my attention back to the TV, but it’s hard to see the screen from this angle. She’s pushing deeper and just holding her elbow there, and I can feel the muscles starting to let loose. It hurts like hell. It feels so fucking good.

  Focus on something else. What, though? I close my eyes and try to summon the memory of the ripe smell of a football locker room. An image of the nasty jockstrap Orrin wears—he won’t get a new one because it would be bad luck. None of this seems to be working, because the melting of my knotted-up muscles under Chloe’s pointy elbow is so damn intense.

  The game, then. Think about the game.

  I can hear the commentary well enough, so I tune in.

  “Is he gonna get it off? No? No? Yes! He gets it off just in time…bangs it in…so close. Looks like a first down, but maybe not.”