Remy(11)

Pushing the thought aside, I pull off my headphones, turn off my iPod, and stare at her face. She’s not only beautiful as fuck, but she’s excited, her eyes shining into me.

“You’ve met the rest of the staff?” I ask her, my voice gruff with arousal.

“Yes.” She smiles, a genuine smile that goes all the way to her eyes as she takes her seat and neatly straps on her seat belt. Her soft, smoky voice has a strange, calming effect on me. But my dick is still pressing hard against my zipper, and I have no idea what I’m going to do with it for the next couple of hours.

“Did you hire me for a particular sports injury or more as prevention?” she asks.

More so I could claim you. “Prevention,” I whisper.

She chews on the inside of her cheek as she surveys me, and she has no idea that as she measures the breadth of my chest, my arms, and my torso, I’m struggling hard not to lean down and kiss her lips.

“How are your shoulders?” she asks, looking quite the professional little thing. “Your elbows? Do you want me to work on anything for Atlanta? Pete tells me it’s a several-hour flight.”

Yeah, it will be, and I’ll probably have blue balls by the end, but what the hell. I want her to touch me bad enough that I stretch out my arm and offer her my hand.

She seems slightly surprised but takes it in both of hers; I don’t expect the way my gut tangles at the contact. Her body warmth blends with mine when she opens my huge hand with her little fingers and starts rubbing my palm, searching for knots. Her fingers are strong, but soft, and her touch is torture to my libido but too close to heaven to stop.

“I’m not used to such big hands. My students’ hands are usually easier to rub down,” she tells me animatedly.

Soft fingers scrape across the calluses in my palms as we talk about her students, and how I condition eight hours a day.

“I’d love to stretch you when you’re done training. Is that what your specialists also do for you?” she asks.

I nod, and my mind instantly goes to the YouTube video I’ve been watching nonstop. I really fucking wish I’d been there so I could crush the asshole woman’s video camera with my hands.

“And you? Who pats your injury down?” I ask as I signal to the knee brace that peeks from under her skirt.

“No one anymore. I’m done with rehab.” She raises a brow and looks alarmed. “You googled me too? Or did your guys tell you?”

I googled you, and I wanted to punch my fist through a wall, then go get you and carry you off that track and lick your tears dry.

Pulling free of her hand, I realize I’m the one who wants to do the touching here, so I signal at the knee. “Let’s have a look at it.”

“There’s nothing to see.” She doesn’t seem delighted about the attention, but ends up lifting her knee anyway. I seize it with one hand and rip open the Velcro, instantly spotting the scar cutting across the joint.

I hold her knee in my hand, and I stroke my thumb across, noticing her slim, muscled thighs, the tightness of her quad muscle. She’s strong and lean, but lithe, like a cheetah. I want her. Refusing to stop touching her, I explore her marred skin and she bites her lip and exhales.

“It still hurts?” I gently ask.

She nods and explains that it’s a double injury. She tore her ACL first six years ago, and then again two years ago.

“It hurts not to compete anymore?” I prod.

Her expression softens when she holds my gaze, and something, something invisible, tugs me to her even as I watch her lean the slightest fraction closer to me. “Yes. It does. You’d understand, right?”

Slowly I lower her leg, and instead of nodding, I stroke my thumb across her knee, so she knows that I do understand. More than she knows. We both watch me caress her, and, god, it feels so right I want to drag my finger up the inside of her thigh and under her skirt, so before I follow the impulse, I pull back and stretch out my free hand, gruffly telling her, “Do this one.”

Testing the territory, I slide my arm along the seat behind her as she takes my hand and starts working it. My nostrils twitch at our closeness; she doesn’t pull away. She smells . . . of soap and some sort of berry shampoo, plus her own female scent is sweet and warm in my nose. She probes and searches and I open my eyes and watch her face, soft and yet concentrating. My heart pounds faster.

She moves to my wrist, and she twirls and then probes into my forearm, and when she closes her eyes with a look of utter concentration and pleasure, I want to groan and tease and laugh at her and kiss her all at the same time. She looks young and innocent, and my hunter-gatherer instincts are in full force. I’ve hunted her and now I want to gather her to me. . . .