Lady and the Champ(19)

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 Champ 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 done, 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.”