Lady and the Champ(11)

Oh, thank God. “I guess you could say that.”

“What, like old ladies who fell down or high school athletes who don’t know how to run right?”

“Sure.”

“And…why did you become a physical therapist?”

So I could look at you naked. “It was what I wanted to do.”

His body’s starting to respond to the rolling; I can feel the muscles going lax. He makes a soft snorting sound.

“Well, this is a scintillating conversation. We could go on like this all night.”

I don’t answer. I’m too impressed that he knows the word “scintillating.” I’m also entranced with the way his glutes move under the roller. Like waves on the ocean.

“I mean…if you want to go on all night, I’m game.”

Now I’m pretty sure he’s pushing the envelope to see if I’m paying attention.

“It’s getting close to dinnertime. After we’re done with the massage, you can make me dinner, then later I can make you breakfast.”

I swat him with the roller to let him know that yes, I am actually paying attention. “I told you—no inappropriate remarks.”

“How is that inappropriate? If we talk all night, we’re going to need food.”

I squash the little thrill that rises in my chest.

“Right. I’m sure that’s exactly what you meant.” I push to my knees. “Get up. We need to set up for your massage.”

He stands, and abruptly I’m kneeling at perfect blowjob level, staring right into the heart-covered fly of his boxers.

Didn’t think that one through very well, did you, Chloe?

I can see the bulge of his cock pressing against the fabric. Thank God he doesn’t have a boner this time. I scramble all the way to my feet and look him directly in the eye. His little smirk doesn’t escape me.

“You’re such a bastard,” I tell him, my voice snippy.

“I still don’t understand why you’re pissed. I’ve been nothing but polite.” He sounds vaguely offended, but it’s not very convincing. Especially since he’s still smirking.

“Fine. Where do we do your massage?” I can’t help it—my gaze flicks toward the stairs. I grit my teeth, utterly infuriated with myself.

He blinks slowly, like he’s being sultry, and I know he’s registered all the possible opportunities to hit me with more innuendo. “In the massage room. Where else?”

“The massage room. Of course.” He has a massage room? I grab my bag and make an attempt to clarify my glance toward the stairs. “Are you having trouble with those stairs?”

He shrugs. “Not really. I have an elevator.”

My eyes widen. “You have an elevator?”

He makes another shrugging motion, this time like he doesn’t want to discuss it anymore. “For guests. In case they can’t manage the stairs.” He turns and heads back down the hallway. I follow.

He’s not using the crutches. I consider telling him to come back and get them, but he’s walking more or less okay, and it’s probably good for him to keep things loose.

His ass cheeks clench in his heart-patterned boxers as he walks in front of me. I’m still trembling from the almost-glimpse of his cock and how the hard, tanned muscles felt as they glided under my palms. I pause for a moment, willing my heart to slow down. How am I going to handle him alone when I’m all worked up like this?

Austin opens a door across the hall from the workout room and leads the way in. I follow him, take a sweeping glance at the room, and my jaw drops a little.

It’s done up like a massage room at a high-class day spa. A shelf on one wall holds a variety of small vials of oils and an mp3 player on a speaker stand. Along the other walls are shelves with candles. They’re all lit, and at first I think that’s quite the fire hazard, then I realize they’re not real candles. They’re the kind with the electric bulbs inside that look just like candle flames. I can smell chamomile, lavender, and a hint of peppermint. The lights dim as Austin moves a switch down, his smile barely concealed in the low visibility. It’s a cleverly disguised room for seduction. He planned this. There is no doubt about it.

“It helps me relax,” he explains.

Relax. Right. The absolute opposite of what I’m doing now. My heart thuds painfully against my chest as the door snaps shut. It’s such a small room, and Austin takes a few steps forward.

My body throbs as the scents drift in front of my nose. I walk away from Austin and take a look at the oils. My eyes scroll back and forth over the labels, but I can’t seem to read them, and I know it’s because of Austin’s overwhelming presence. His body is like a heat lamp, standing right next to me.

“Do you like it?” He sounds like he’s a bit disappointed I didn’t comment on the room as soon as I walked in.

I turn and find myself looking straight at the middle of his naked chest. “I think you did this on purpose.”

His crooked grin widens. “Did what?”

“You set up this whole room to put me in the mood!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please. The candles, the dimmed lights!”

“I like to smell flowery shit while I’m being massaged. What, are you going to shame me on my scents, too?”

I’m going to kill him.

“Just—get on the table!”

“Do I need to lose the boxers?”

My face goes red-hot. Dammit, why does he keep doing that? Why do I keep responding? “Um…” I trail off.

I’m distracted by his thumbs, hooking underneath the waistband of his absurd boxers. They pull the fabric down, exposing a length of mouth-watering thigh and a patch of dark hair that makes my pussy clench.

He’s taking them off. And I just stare at him, because I apparently suffer immediate paralysis at the potential sight of a penis.

He slides the boxers down and kicks them off, then settles onto the table. I glance at his thick cock.

What are you doing?

I jerk my attention back to his face. He’s smirking so hard his face is probably going to stick that way.

“Turn around,” I snap, and he stretches out on his stomach.

At least while he’s on his stomach, I can’t see his cock. I grab a towel and position it over his bare ass. I would have preferred he left his shorts on, but I’m going to need to massage his glutes, so in the long run having him naked makes that a bit easier. I remind myself he’s an athlete—dozens of people see him buck naked every day, so he doesn’t care. Still, I know damn well he’s pulling this shit to try to get a rise out of me.

I hate to admit it, but it’s working. I’m risen. At this point, just looking at him, I’m having a hard time not thinking about what he’d feel like between my thighs. What it would be like to ride him. I feel myself blush again. Thankfully he can’t see it anymore with his face pressed into the table.

I pick out a couple of oils—chamomile and lavender—and mix a few drops on the palm of my hand. Once the oil is nicely warm, I start working.

All I can see is miles and miles of oiled bare skin, flecked with freckles, patterns of small brown moles, the arched curve of his ribcage as it rises on either side of his spine. The flat planes of his shoulder blades.

God, he’s beautiful. All I can think about is how alive he is, how the soft smell of his skin drifts to me, enhanced rather than smothered in the scent of lavender and chamomile.

My hands start to tingle as I slide them down his back. My thumbs dig into the muscles on either side of his spine, but my brain is interpreting it as sexual rather than therapeutic. I can feel my breath quickening, my heartbeat speeding up. My fingers touch the edge of the towel I tossed over his ass, and it’s all I can do to keep from moving it aside and grabbing his glutes. I need to massage them, but with my brain where it is, I don’t dare touch him under that towel.

Stop it, Chloe. Get it under control.

While my breath has quickened, Austin’s has slowed, and I wonder if he’s drifting off to sleep. Sleeping while I think about molesting him. Could this get any more fucked up?

Austin makes a small noise in the back of his throat, and I get an immediate answer to my question—yes, it could get more fucked up. Because that soft sound sounds like a sex noise, and I don’t need that added to the mix.

“You’re really good at this,” he says, his voice fuzzy and quiet.

“Thanks,” I manage, just barely. I work back up his spine, settling again on his shoulders, and he reaches up and pats my hand there where I’m digging my thumbs into his trapezius.

I freeze. That touch is like a live electric current running up the back of my hand through my arm, through my whole system, until it hits my pussy and leaves me sitting there so wet and needy I can barely breathe.

The doorbell rings. The sound jars through my mind, and I jerk my hands back as though burned. Have I lost my mind? He’s a client.

Austin swears, not quite under his breath. “Who the fuck…”

He swings out from under the blanket, almost flashing me the full monty, then grabs a terrycloth robe from a hook on the wall and throws it on. He yanks the waist tie so tight it almost looks like it hurts him. It’s not hard to see why; he’s trying—and mostly failing—to keep from tenting it.