Lady and the Champ(2)

“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.”

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.