Hot as Sin (Contemporary Romance Box Set)

by Katherine Lace

  Great commentary work, Bill.

  These announcers make seven figures annually, but I can't really tell if they're talking about football or a particularly sweaty orgy.

  “What’s so important about this game, anyway?”

  This is good. It’ll get my head out of my dick. So to speak.

  “It’s getting close to the playoffs. I’m keeping track of who’s playing who so I know who we’ll be playing when the time comes.”

  “If you make the playoffs?”

  She sounds like she’s fishing. On the other hand, maybe she’s baiting me. And it works.

  “If we make the playoffs? Honey, we’re guaranteed.”

  Her fingers clench a little, and I wince.

  “I’m your physical therapist, not your honey,” she says thinly.

  There’s a roar from the TV and I look sidelong to see that the game’s over. Can’t use that as a distraction anymore.

  “You can turn the TV off now.”

  “Oh, thank God.” She leans forward and flicks it off, then reaches for the little iPod stand next to it.

  Floaty New Age music fills the room. Man, I hate that shit. But I’ll put up with it because she feels so damn good.

  “Now relax. Seriously.”

  She puts more oil on her hands, and I barely hold back a groan. She’s going to touch my ass with her lubed up fingers. My cock pulses angrily against the bench.

  “What?”

  Apparently I didn’t hold it back enough. Shit, ask her about her job or something. “Uh—what’s that massage oil made of?”

  “It’s nothing fancy. Just almond oil.”

  Great, now I’ll get hard at the smell of almonds.

  Wet fingers touch the backs of my shoulders.

  Holy shit. Keep talking. Distract yourself. “Is it organic?”

  She makes a sound through her nose. “Yes.”

  “I sense a tone.”

  “I just figured you for a meat and potatoes man, not a hipster.”

  A smile twitches across my face. “Already trying to figure me out, huh?”

  “I don’t need to figure you out.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I don’t care.”

  Her fingers dig hard into my shoulders again, and then she chops down the middle of my back with the edge of her hand. I wince.

  “Ow.”

  She frowns at me. “What have you been doing to yourself? Your back is like concrete.”

  That’s not the only thing that’s like concrete.

  I wiggle a little, trying to get my dick into a more comfortable position. You’d think maybe it would have deflated a little by now, but no. Of course not. She’s right, though—I need to stop with the lewd thoughts and comments, because at some point I’m going to have to stand up and walk out of here.

  “Can you roll over on your side?”

  I have an intense flare of panic. No, I cannot roll over on my side.

  Then she adds, “Back to me, please,” and I relax a little. Carefully, keeping the blanket in place over my boxer briefs, I move as she requested.

  The sound of my voice keeps me a little distracted. “I don’t think it’s a diet thing. I follow all the guidelines the trainers give me. I’ve got—”

  “—an app. I know.”

  I can almost hear what she’s thinking. Dumb jock can’t even keep track of his diet without an app. Why do I care? Sure, she’s gorgeous—black hair, green eyes, legs that go on forever in her workout leggings—oh, and those tits, which I can still feel in the palms of my hands—but it’s not like I can’t twitch a finger and have any woman I want. I’m a professional football player, for God’s sake. I never get flustered around women. Never. Something about her has just popped the fuses on all my being-cool circuits.

  Then her thumb rams into a spot between my spine and shoulder blade, and it feels like she slid a knife into me.

  “Ahhhh, shit,” I say, unable to hold it back.

  She just holds still, keeping the pressure steady. “Let’s see if this will break it up.”

  “What is it?”

  “Big knot. Really big.” Her fingertips suddenly feel very warm, as if she flipped a switch. Okay, that’s weird. But the knot begins to ease.

  “You’ve got some mad skills with those hands. You can rub me down any time you like.” Of course, I don’t think about what that sounds like until after I’ve said it.

  She makes a sound of sheer exasperation. I can’t really blame her. Even I’m frustrated with myself at this point. I can’t get my foot out of my own mouth, and I can’t get my dick to behave. I shift around again, trying to find a comfortable position. There’s no such thing.

  She jerks back and makes that angry noise again. “For God’s sake, Austin. What is it now? Can you not hold still for five seconds?”

  “I’m sorry. Really.”

  “That’d sound a lot more sincere if I thought you actually meant it.” She takes her hands away, shaking them. “That’s it. I’m done. There’s only so much I can do with you flopping around like a trout on a boat dock.”

  I lever up on my elbows to look at her. She’s furious—eyes sparking, a patch of dark pink high on each cheek. Goddamn, but she’s hot. And too damn smart. Normally I steer away from women like that—they want more than I’m willing to give them. But this one…

  “Could you stop staring at me?” she snaps, and I realize I’m totally gaping at her like the flopping trout she just accused me of being. “And get up and get dressed and get the hell out of here. What are you waiting for?”

  I get the feeling she wants me to leave. She’s so subtle about it, it’s hard to be sure. I don’t want to get up. Getting up right now would be a disaster. As mad as she is right now, she’s going to be even madder if I stand up, because that damn erection has a mind of its own, and it’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

  I can’t really explain that to her, though. Sorry, Doc, but I need to lay here for another half hour or so until my boner goes away. Though it might not go over any worse than if I just stand up and display said boner. Or maybe she won’t notice. I mean, I can’t be the first guy who’s popped wood on her massage table, can I?

  I shift to the side and sit up, moving the blanket over my lap. I can maybe wrap the blanket around my waist. I try to arrange it so it looks natural, but of course it doesn’t.

  Okay, I’ve done the best I could. I stand up.

  And the blanket tents like it’s trying to cover the center ring at the circus.

  Don’t notice. Don’t notice…

  She notices. Glances down, then back up with a look that could melt flesh. I blink at her. She isn’t just angry. She’s livid. I’ve never seen anyone look the way that word sounds until just this moment.

  At the same time, my own face is going hot, and I’m starting to feel like I’m about two inches tall.

  “Are you serious? Do you have any self-control?”

  I’m not about to back down now. It’s not like I can actually do anything about my cock. I cross my arms over my chest, no longer remotely apologetic.

  “That’s never really been my forte.”

  “You’re out of line!”

  Give me a fucking break. “I’m a man. I get excited when a hot chick rubs my naked body. Don’t act like I’m the first guy to get a hard on from a massage.”

  Her cheeks blaze. “That’s not the point!”

  “You’re right. You’re the one who looked at my cock.” I raise a finger, wagging it in front of her. “Naughty.’”

  “I did not look at your dick.”

  “You totally looked.”

  She glowers. “I did not!”

  “Then how did you know I was hard?”

  “It’s practically a flag right now!”

  “So you did look.”

  “I did not intentionally look.”

  That makes me swell with pride. “Oh, now it’s unintentional.” Damn it, but I love seeing her get so work
ed up over this. “So if I said I unintentionally glanced at your tits, would you believe me?”

  “You’re a pig.”

  “Why are you so uptight? Do you think I care that you checked me out? That’s not something to be embarrassed about.” That’s fucking hot.

  “I’m not embarrassed. I’m annoyed, and now you’re starting to piss me off.”

  Wow. She’s got a bug up her ass.

  “How do you think I feel? I’m doing everything I can to ignore you by watching the game, and then you slut-shame me—”

  She cuts me off. “Did you really just use the word slut-shame in a sentence? Wow. Act like an adult and own up to the fact that you’ve been inappropriate this whole time.”

  “That’s a good idea. I think if we can both act like mature adults, we can still have a ‘happy ending’ here.” And this time, deliberately, in time with the words ‘happy ending,’ I give my hips a little thrust.

  “Oh my God. Never ask me to work with you again. You understand me?”

  “Whatever.’”

  She spins on her heel, stalks toward the door, and tears it open. “Stupid. Stupid football players,” she growls to herself. “What the ever-loving hell—”

  The door slams shut behind her. At first, it feels like a victory. I got one up on the too-clenched-up-for-her-own-good physical therapist. But by the time I get my clothes out of their neat pile on the chair in the corner and start getting dressed, it’s all starting to piss me off. No woman should get under my skin like this. I’m too smart for that shit.

  And what the fuck was that “stupid football players” comment? I went to college. Shit, I’ve got a degree. Maybe not some fancy master’s or whatever you have to have to be a physical therapist, but it’s a legitimate college degree. I worked hard for that diploma, unlike some of the other guys on my college team. I had a family counting on me to keep my grades up so I wouldn’t lose my scholarship.

  She’s probably from some kind of snobby rich-ass family, probably never had to worry about money for a day of her life. Sure as hell never had to worry about a kid, or a sick parent. Sure, she’s hot as fuck, and damn, would I love to hit that, but there’s no way she’s going to see me as anything but a dumb jock. Some people are just that way. Best to let it go, move on, and use one of the other on-staff physical therapists like I’ve been doing.

  On the other hand… Fucking with people like her is straight-up fun. I could bring her down a peg or two. Make her admit she wants my dick. The anger making my ears hot starts to fade a little, and I grin.

  Yeah. That could be really, really entertaining.

  I fish my phone out of my pocket, ignoring the “No Cell Phones, Please” sign on the wall, and call my manager.

  3

  Chloe

  Slut-shaming: an unfortunate phenomenon in which people degrade or mock a woman because she enjoys sex, has sex often, or from rumors based on her sexual activity.

  I push back from my desk and rub my eyes from the glare of the tiny screen of my phone. I can’t believe he actually made me look up the definition.

  Yeah, there’s no way I was slut-shaming Austin-freaking-Sherwood. The guy made a happy-endings joke. How does anybody manage to be such an asshole? I know the answer to that, though. He’s been pampered and petted and told he was God’s gift to the world since he stepped onto his first varsity lineup. I know the type far too well. And I hate them.

  My throat tightens as I sit behind my desk, completely aware of the fact that I’m probably going to get fired. You don’t get called on your day off by your boss to get an atta-girl. Sure, Austin was an asshole, but I fucked up. I lost my cool. He was baiting me. I knew that, and I still fell for it.

  It’s not like I’m new to sports-related physical therapy. I’ve worked with football players before, and I’ve mostly ignored them. And even the fact he popped wood on the table—it’s not like that doesn’t happen on a fairly regular basis. Hell, I know a lot of professional massage therapists who’ve seen that probably ninety times more often than I do. It’s just…one of those things.

  If I’d stayed professional, it might not have been a big deal. So why did I lash out at him so hard?

  Because he’s really fucking hot, that’s why.

  I’ve never reacted to a man that way before. Uncertain and flustered, like I suddenly grew extra hands and maybe an extra head. Like every time he looks at me, my skin catches on fire. I’ve never had such a hard…make that difficult time working with a patient. I’ve never had such a difficult time keeping myself focused, paying attention to the landscape beneath the skin instead of the shape of the body itself, the textures, the smells, the heat pouring into my fingers… Thinking about what it would feel like to be under that big, strong body, taking his weight on my chest. And I’m pretty sure the reason I got so irritated about his arousal is because it mirrored mine. Because I wanted to get more closely acquainted with it. Much more closely.

  I need to get laid. Badly.

  “He’s waiting for you.” Teri, the receptionist, waves me toward Dr. Richards’ office.

  I glance at the set of white doors, swallowing hard before standing.

  You’ve got this.

  Teri’s smile looks genuine. I’m so paranoid I’m looking for even the slightest indication something is wrong, that everyone in the office knows what’s about to happen but me.

  Just then, Roger Parsons, another of the PTs who’s worked here about three years longer than I have, comes out of the therapy area carrying a clipboard. He takes one look at me and his expression tightens like he just ate a lemon full of battery acid. He grabs a folder off Teri’s desk, tosses me a glare, then stalks back into the room whence he came.

  Okay. What the hell was that about?

  I glance at Teri, wondering if she has any insight, but she doesn’t say anything. Her smile has faded just a bit, though. Shit. What is going on?

  Only one way to find out.

  My boss, Dr. Richards, is an older man—maybe sixty, but he doesn’t look it. He’s always been good to me, not condescending like a lot of men can be, especially in sports-related fields. He was the only one who returned my calls. Somehow he saw through all the bullshit my ex spun in the press. Or he took a chance. Basically, he hired me when no one else would.

  And I’ve just pissed off a major client.

  My stomach turns with self-disgust as I open the doors to his office. Dr. Richards sits behind his cluttered oak desk, where seven football bobbleheads greet me. He gives me a wide smile and stands.

  Whoa. Not the reaction I was expecting.

  “Chloe, good to see you. Have a seat.”

  I settle into the chair in front of his desk painfully as though it’s a pincushion. He sits back down and folds his hands on the desk, still smiling.

  “I’m sorry I called you in on your day off.”

  But our client mentioned that you slut-shamed him yesterday, and I’m afraid we can’t tolerate an employee who—Oh God. Shut up.

  I swallow hard. “It’s all right.”

  “I just didn’t want to put this off.”

  “Okay.”

  I stretch my lips across my face, feeling like a mannequin. Something must flicker there, though, because he says, with a chuckle, “Chloe. Relax. You look terrified.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  He just chuckles again. “You’ve been doing a great job for us, Chloe. Your work ethic is excellent. I won’t deny that I had some reservations in the beginning about you—”

  Thanks to my asshole ex.

  “—But you’ve never backed down from a challenge, even when we’ve thrown things at you at the last minute. Like yesterday, when you stepped in to work with Sherwood.”

  Whatever minor relaxation I managed disappears, and I go tense again. “I’m sorry if that didn’t go as well as you expected—”

  But he waves me off before I can get all the words out. “No, no, no. You did a fantastic job. Or you must have, because Mr. Sh
erwood has asked you to be assigned as his personal physical therapist from here on out.”

  Wait, what?

  My mouth drops open and hangs there for an interminable few seconds. When I realize I’m gaping at him like a trout, I snap it shut again. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. He called last night and left me a message. It’s why I had you come in this morning—so we could get everything set up and get you started working with him right away.”

  “Seriously?” Wait. I just said that. Maybe if I open my mouth again, something else will come out.

  That doesn’t work. Instead I end up sitting there with my mouth open again. Dr. Richards is eyeing me with more than a little amusement, a nice dose of puzzlement tossed in on the side. “Yes. Seriously.”

  “But…why?”

  “He said he was very happy with his session yesterday.” He pauses. “I take it this is a surprise? He didn’t say anything to you?”

  Oh, he said a lot of things to me yesterday. I barely—just barely—manage not to say it out loud. “Not about this, no.” My shock is phasing rapidly into anger. Why in the world would Austin ask for me to work with him after I explicitly told him not to? What the hell is he playing at here?

  “Huh.” Dr. Richards looks disappointed, as if he expected to hear an interesting story about my fun times with Austin Sherwood.

  I feel my molars scrape together.

  “I was hoping you could tell me what you did to impress him.”

  “I honestly have no idea.” I’m going to find out, though. And Austin had better have a damn good explanation. He’s put me into a position that’s beyond awkward, and I don’t appreciate it.

  “Well.” Dr. Richards shrugs it off, though I can tell he’s not entirely satisfied. “In any case, I’m sure you understand how important it is that we keep him happy. He’s a very well-known player, and his endorsement could bring us a good number of new customers in the long term.”

  I nod. Now I’m starting to get irritated at Dr. Richards, which isn’t the best idea. But I know how important Austin could be as a client. It’s a given. And that gives me another reason to be irritated. I don’t need to be lectured. In fact, it’s the first time he’s ever acted like I needed to get extra instructions about an assignment. In the past, he’s just trusted me. Yet another thing I can throw at Austin Sherwood’s feet.