She licks her lips. “It’s not a good idea. If Dr. Richards found out…”
“Nobody will find out. I promise.”
I can sense her barriers starting to fall. She wants me. She might even want me as much as I want her. I tip my hips closer so she can feel my erection. Her eyes drift half closed, then snap open.
“How long has it been?” I murmur against her ear. “How long since you’ve had a big, thick cock inside you?”
“Years,” she breathes.
Damn. I would’ve thought a woman as hot as her could’ve bagged a man in a matter of days.
“Let me have you. I’ll take you in that backseat right now and strip off all your clothes. I’ll worship your body, and then I’ll fuck the memory of that jackass out of you. You’ll feel a tingle in your pussy every time you think of football players.”
She’s just looking at me now, pupils blown, her breaths coming fast. I lean in a little and bite her lower lip.
“Think about it. You’ve got all the power here. All you have to do is tell Coach I can’t play in the championship game, and I’m fucked to hell and back.”
“Austin, I have to go.” Her voice is quiet, shaky. But it’s shaky with need, not with fear.
I’ve got her just about where I want her. I take a step back, and she turns to open her car door.
“Think about it,” I tell her again.
She looks at me, and then slides into the car without saying anything.
7
Chloe
I was so close.
I’ll worship your body, and then I’ll fuck the memory of that jackass out of you.
A violent shiver runs through me as though he’s standing right behind me, his hand touching my waist as he whispers filthy promises into my ear. It’s all I’ve been able to think about since I left him yesterday in that parking lot. I was so flustered that I forgot to bring Austin’s paperwork home for his next session.
The office is quiet—it usually is on the weekends. The air-conditioning rattles over my head, pouring a steady stream of cool air. I let it blast over my limbs, hoping that it’ll freeze my attraction for Austin and stop the lewd thoughts running through my mind.
How long has it been since you’ve had a big, thick cock inside you?
Long enough that I’ve spent every spare second fantasizing about having my legs wrapped around him. I’ve been through several sets of batteries with my vibrator, and my thighs are still wet.
You’re seeing him in an hour.
Swearing, I focus on searching for Austin’s paperwork. Slamming the drawers hard feels good, until it reminds me of sex. Damn it. I could have sworn I put Austin’s records in my active patients file, in alphabetical order like always, but they’re not there. What the hell did I do with them? Usually I’m meticulous about that kind of thing, to the point my co-workers give me shit about it.
I head out to the front desk to take a look, just in case. Just as I get behind the desk, Roger meanders out from one of the back rooms.
Great. Just who I wanted to see.
His thin lips pull into a taut leer as he notices me. It’s incredible creepy. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I make a grunting noise to acknowledge his presence.
“I had an emergency appointment. You?”
“Picking up Sherwood’s paperwork.” I sort through the folders on the desk, but I don’t see Austin’s name on any of them. “Can’t seem to find it, though.”
I head back toward my cubicle. Maybe I just missed them. Roger follows me like an annoying terrier-sized dog, yapping at me all the way. I push my chair from the desk to block Roger from crowding me, but he moves it aside.
Ugh. I can smell the sweat on him.
Roger tries to casually lean his arm on the fragile walls of my cubicle, nearly falling over in the process. He recovers quickly as I stifle a laugh.
“How’s that going? Sherwood behaving, or is he still giving you trouble?”
Lots of trouble.
“He’s okay. I spoke too soon about him.” I glance through the folders where I’m pretty sure I left Austin’s information, but I’m still not seeing it. Where the hell did I put it? “He’s not so bad, really.”
“Not so bad? Didn’t you tell me he hit on you?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. Chloe, he might be a big client, but that’s not okay.”
This isn’t any of his damn business. “I can handle Sherwood just fine.”
“You shouldn’t have to go through this. I’ll tell Dr. Richards, and you won’t have to deal with him anymore.”
I move the chair in between us again. The wheels stub his toe, and he curses. “Don’t pretend to be my white knight.”
“I was just offering!”
“You were offering to take Sherwood off my hands, one of the biggest clients this practice has ever seen. How convenient.”
Roger swells like a bullfrog. “I’m trying to be nice, and you’re being a—”
“He’s my client, you jackass! I’m not handing him off to anyone! I know what I’m doing.”
His lip curls, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to say something rude, sexist, and annoying, but instead he just reaches past the folders I’m looking at and pulls out one from next to the computer keyboard.
“This what you’re looking for?”
I grab it from him, blinking. “How did you know that was there? And why wasn’t it where I left it?”
He’s been in my office.
The realization hits me like a slap across the face. The smirk he levels at me confirms it.
“Dr. Richards asked me to look over your work. Wants me to check up on you, be sure you’re not missing anything.”
“Why would I be missing anything?” I snap back. “And why would Dr. Richards have you looking at my work? He picked me for this job.”
“Give me a break. You were picked because the Champ wanted the hottest girl in the office rubbing him down.”
For a moment I think I might do something stupid, like punch him in the face.
“Get out of my space.”
“Fine.” But he’s still smirking when the door closes behind him.
I’m still shaking as I sit in the car in the driveway, trying to settle my nerves.
It’ll be fine.
No, it won’t.
Nausea hits the back of my throat as I look through my car’s dirty windshield at Austin’s mansion. The awful feeling that I’m doing something wrong—that I’m not good enough to be his physical therapist—surges in my mouth like vomit. It’s two years ago, when all the headlines blazed with things like: Mason’s PT To Blame For Injury and Irresponsible PT Fired. Those headlines almost ruined my life. They were the reason for the piles of hate mail on my doorstep, the vicious phone calls. I had to move because of him. I had to change my phone number because of him. Everything in my life was dictated by what he had done to me, the lies he’d spun to the press. And I had no money to sue him, so he got away with destroying my career.
How could anyone blame me for being the uptight girl after that?
Now I’m under attack again from another asshole who for some reason is out to get me. Either he thinks that having a vagina makes me unqualified for the job, or he thinks I’m a bitch for rejecting him. Stealing my files is just the tip of the iceberg. He’ll keep at me until I quit or get fired.
Not happening, bitch.
Poisonous hatred burns at the back of my throat. I want to do something reckless. Ideas swirl in the back of my head—no strings attached. No one needs to know. I could fuck Austin right now, and no one would be the wiser.
But I can’t. I just can’t. Austin’s my client. He can’t ever be anything more. Certainly not a boyfriend. Not a client-with-benefits. Definitely not a fuck buddy. My head pounds with everything Roger said, the condescending sneer when he lied about Dr. Richards. I can hear his asinine voice in my head: You’re working with the Cha
mp because he wants to fuck you.
Shrugging off the thought, I knock on the front door, which is slightly ajar. Carefully, I push it the rest of the way open.
Jesus. Did someone break into the place?
Then I notice the rose petals on the floor. They make a trail across the tile, leading into the living room.
“Oh, good Lord.”
Austin’s upped the ante this time. Part of me wants to get pissed, but the rest is oddly charmed. He certainly knows how to turn the everyday into a production. I follow the rose petals. I’m also still irritated as hell at Roger and his stupid comments. Austin might be inappropriate, but at least he’s not condescending.
The rose petals lead down the hallway to the massage room, then under the door. The door itself is ajar. “Austin?” I venture, closing a hand on the doorknob.
“Doc? I was hoping it was you and not some random nut who happened to notice my door was open.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have left it open.” I move into the room, and then stop.
He’s lying on the massage table on his stomach, head turned to look at me. Scattered across his wide back and the curve of his ass are more rose petals. There are bright, dark red petals against his skin, and my breath catches for a second. It’s a perfect tableau—photograph-worthy. He looks like a Hot Hunk Calendar centerfold.
“Oh my God.”
He grins. “You like?”
I drag my professional demeanor back around me like armor. Anti-Austin armor. “I’ve never had a patient do anything like this before.”
“Good. I like to be the first.” He gives me a wink.
“Well…”
I start to pick the rose petals off, leaving his back bare. I catch a faint whiff of their scent. It’s sweet, not quite cloying. I love the smell of roses. The smell of roses mingled with the smell of Austin… Dammit. There goes my concentration again.
“It’s going to be difficult to massage you if you’re covered in flowers.”
“But aren’t they pretty?”
“They are.” And so’s your ass.
I glance toward the table where the oils were last time. The iPod is in the dock, but there’s a CD player next to it now.
“You brought different music?”
“Yeah.” He settles his head into the headrest on the massage table. “The music really helps me relax.”
“That’s what it’s for.” I grab a vial of oils and push the Play button on the CD player.
The music starts. It’s not quite what I expected—a little jazzy, rather than quiet New Age or classical. I put some oil on my fingers and start rubbing his shoulders.
Then the voice kicks in. Smooth and silky, deep and overflowing with sex, it’s unmistakable. The first bars of Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe pound through the speaker.
This is surreal. I’m standing in Austin Sherwood’s house, in a massage room he decorated with rose petals, and he’s trying to seduce me with Barry White.
“Seriously?”
Austin grins. “Barry White is the best. Calms me down.”
“I don’t think calming down is generally the goal for this kind of music.”
“No shit. I don’t want you to calm down. I want you excited.”
Barry’s low, throaty bass shakes through the floor.
“Sorry to disappoint, but Barry White doesn’t do it for me.”
Not at all.
That is, until the liquid voice slides up and down my spine, tingling every nerve ending, while Austin’s skin slides under my fingers, tingling any nerve Barry might have missed. Damn it. He’s literally gotten under my skin, and I don’t think there’s going to be any dislodging him. Blood careens through my veins as Austin shifts to his side and gives me a knowing smirk. He lays his arm down the length of his body. One hand is on his hip, the other props his head up. He’s hands-down the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, and the bastard knows it.
I won’t look at his cock. I won’t look at his cock.
But my gaze is dragged toward it anyway. It sits between his legs, thick but not completely hard yet. That’s all the detail I notice before I force myself to look at his shit-eating grin.
Damn it.
“I thought ole Barry might help you unwind.”
I clear my throat. “Well, you thought wrong.”
“Yeah, I can tell from the peek you took. Impressive, isn’t it?”
My cheeks burn. “What’s impressive are the lengths you’ll go to just to fuck me.”
He smiles again, and my heart flips. “You’re worth it.”
I hate the fact that it makes me glow. “You bet your sweet ass I am, but I’m still not fucking you.”
“Fine, then.” He sounds annoyed, but I can tell he’s putting it on. “Try the other CD.”
“The other CD?”
“I brought a couple, in case you didn’t like Barry.”
It’s a homemade CD, and there’s nothing written on it. I can’t imagine what it is. A 90s mix tape of insipid love songs? Who the hell knows. I put it in the player and head back to Austin.
I don’t hear anything at first. Then there are some low sounds that I can’t quite make out. I wonder if it’s one of those yoga CDs with pranayama breathing practice, or maybe some kind of ambient music.
Then the sounds get louder, and I realize exactly what I’m listening to. My face goes hot; I’m sure it’s bright red. Austin can’t see it at the moment though. Small miracles.
“This is not music!”
“It’s the most natural music in the world.”
“Oh, God!” says the CD. “More, baby! Harder! You know what I like!”
Austin laughs hard, face pressed into the headrest on the massage table, his back shaking. I stalk over to the CD player and turn it off, cutting off a low, animal grunt from the man who’s doing things more and harder.
I take a moment to enjoy the blessed silence, then turn on the iPod dock. It’s already set to the playlist we used last time—much more appropriate ambient sounds. Whales and dolphins. The ocean. Not smooth, sexy jazz or people moaning and men grunting out a mindless fuck session.
“Jesus, Austin.”
He’s laughing so hard tears are streaming down his face.
I suppress a smile, shaking my head. “That was really over the top, even for you.”
The hell of it is, the sounds got me even hotter. I’m not sure if I’m angrier with him or my own swollen clit. Every filthy thing he’s ever said to me runs through my mind, the echo of the sex sounds still pounding between my legs.
“Okay, you can roll over.”
I grab a towel and get it ready to cover his dick. But even holding it carefully, I manage to get another glimpse of his semi-hard cock as he shifts into the new position. He’s big—I knew that, but seeing it again makes me more certain I didn’t inflate him in my imagination.
He’s right about one thing—I want him. My heartbeat pounds between my legs. I’m so wet it’s starting to be uncomfortable.
No strings attached.
Nobody needs to know.
Settling the towel into place doesn’t help much; I can see the bulging outlines under the terry cloth. I turn to face his head and lift his arm, working on his biceps. When I work my way down to his fingers, they thread between mine and I look down to see him smiling up at me, his face loose and relaxed, like he’s almost asleep. I fight an intense urge to bend and kiss him, to taste that mouth again.
When I switch to his legs, things get worse, because now I’m facing that terry-cloth-covered bulge again. And it’s bigger than it was. I catch glimpses of what’s under the towel from time to time as I move and bend his legs, working on his quads and hamstrings. When I rub down his thighs, my fingers get far too close to forbidden territory—so close I can feel the heat. My fingers want to move farther under the towel. Cup him. Test the hardness of his length. I’m almost shaking from the effort to keep from touching him.
Finally I’m nearly don
e, heading for his feet. His toes crack between my fingers and he moans a little. I massage the soles of his feet and then step back.
“There you go. We’re—”
He sits up abruptly, and I stop. His eyes are hooded. “You need a massage, too.”
“What?”
“How often do you just relax and let somebody else take care of you?”
Mason’s idea of taking care of me was going down on me. Once a year. “I…I don’t have anyone.”
“Bullshit. You have me right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you should get naked and let me work out those knots.”
It’s been a while since I’ve taken time out to get a massage myself. Every spare hour since Mason fucked me over was spent on my career. God, I spent countless hours volunteering just so I could get a letter of recommendation so that someone would hire me. It didn’t matter how tired I was. I’m used to being in crisis mode, to working my fingers to the bone.
“C’mon. I can tell you’re tense. Did something happen before you came over?”
“Kind of..”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not right now.”
Right now I just want his hands on my skin.
He slides off the table and moves toward me. The towel falls to the floor. He’s completely, gloriously, buck-ass naked. My gaze flicks down for a split second before I drag it back to his face. He doesn’t call me on it. Instead he closes the distance between us and reaches out, easing my jacket over my shoulders.
“Let me rub you down,” he says with a smirk.
Suddenly I can feel every knotted muscle, every island of tension in my entire body. My back feels like it’s made of concrete. As my jacket falls to the floor, he moves behind me, laying his hands on my shoulders. Just that touch has some of the tension easing away.
He reaches around and unbuttons my blouse, which flutters with my heartbeat.
Am I really doing this?
“This isn’t—”
“I never want to hear the words ‘appropriate’ or ‘inappropriate’ from your lips again. If everyone followed the rules, life would be fucking boring.”
Hot as Sin (Contemporary Romance Box Set) Page 10
