Lady and the Champ (2 page)

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.

Then her thumb rams into a spot between my spine and shoulder blade, and it feels like she slid a knife into me.

“Ahhhh, shit,” I say, unable to hold it back.

She just holds still, keeping the pressure steady. “Let’s see if this will break it up.”

“What is it?”

“Big knot. Really big.” Her fingertips suddenly feel very warm, as if she flipped a switch. Okay, that’s weird. But the knot begins to ease.

“You’ve got some mad skills with those hands. You can rub me down any time you like.” Of course, I don’t think about what that sounds like until after I’ve said it.

She makes a sound of sheer exasperation. I can’t really blame her. Even I’m frustrated with myself at this point. I can’t get my foot out of my own mouth, and I can’t get my dick to behave. I shift around again, trying to find a comfortable position. There’s no such thing.

She jerks back and makes that angry noise again. “For God’s sake, Austin. What is it now? Can you not hold still for five seconds?”

“I’m sorry. Really.”

“That’d sound a lot more sincere if I thought you actually meant it.” She takes her hands away, shaking them. “That’s it. I’m done. There’s only so much I can do with you flopping around like a trout on a boat dock.”

I lever up on my elbows to look at her. She’s furious—eyes sparking, a patch of dark pink high on each cheek. Goddamn, but she’s hot. And too damn smart. Normally I steer away from women like that—they want more than I’m willing to give them. But this one…

“Could you stop staring at me?” she snaps, and I realize I’m totally gaping at her like the flopping trout she just accused me of being. “And get up and get dressed and get the hell out of here. What are you waiting for?”

I get the feeling she wants me to leave. She’s so subtle about it, it’s hard to be sure. I don’t want to get up. Getting up right now would be a disaster. As mad as she is right now, she’s going to be even madder if I stand up, because that damn erection has a mind of its own, and it’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

I can’t really explain that to her, though.
Sorry, Doc, but I need to lay here for another half hour or so until my boner goes away.
Though it might not go over any worse than if I just stand up and display said boner. Or maybe she won’t notice. I mean, I can’t be the first guy who’s popped wood on her massage table, can I?

I shift to the side and sit up, moving the blanket over my lap. I can maybe wrap the blanket around my waist. I try to arrange it so it looks natural, but of course it doesn’t.

Okay, I’ve done the best I could. I stand up.

And the blanket tents like it’s trying to cover the center ring at the circus.

Don’t notice. Don’t notice…

She notices. Glances down, then back up with a look that could melt flesh. I blink at her. She isn’t just angry. She’s livid. I’ve never seen anyone look the way that word sounds until just this moment.

At the same time, my own face is going hot, and I’m starting to feel like I’m about two inches tall.

“Are you serious? Do you have
any
self-control?”

I’m not about to back down now. It’s not like I can actually do anything about my cock. I cross my arms over my chest, no longer remotely apologetic.

“That’s never really been my forte.”

“You’re out of line!”

Give me a fucking break
. “I’m a
man
. I get excited when a hot chick rubs my naked body. Don’t act like I’m the first guy to get a hard on from a massage.”

Her cheeks blaze. “That’s not the point!”

“You’re right. You’re the one who looked at my cock.” I raise a finger, wagging it in front of her. “
Naughty
.’”

“I did not look at your dick.”

“You totally looked.”

She glowers. “I did not!”

“Then how did you know I was hard?”

“It’s practically a flag right now!”

“So you
did
look.”

“I did not intentionally look.”

That makes me swell with pride. “Oh, now it’s unintentional.” Damn it, but I love seeing her get so worked up over this. “So if I said I
unintentionally
glanced at your tits, would you believe me?”

“You’re a pig.”

“Why are you so uptight? Do you think I care that you checked me out? That’s not something to be embarrassed about.”
That’s fucking hot
.

“I’m not embarrassed. I’m annoyed, and now you’re starting to piss me off.”

Wow. She’s got a bug up her ass.

“How do you think I feel? I’m doing everything I can to ignore you by watching the game, and then you slut-shame me—”

She cuts me off. “Did you really just use the word
slut-shame
in a sentence? Wow. Act like an adult and own up to the fact that you’ve been inappropriate this whole time.”

“That’s a good idea. I think if we can both act like mature adults, we can still have a ‘happy ending’ here.” And this time, deliberately, in time with the words ‘happy ending,’ I give my hips a little thrust.

“Oh my God. Never ask me to work with you again. You understand me?”

“Whatever.’”

She spins on her heel, stalks toward the door, and tears it open. “Stupid.
Stupid
football players,” she growls to herself. “What the ever-loving hell—”

The door slams shut behind her. At first, it feels like a victory. I got one up on the too-clenched-up-for-her-own-good physical therapist. But by the time I get my clothes out of their neat pile on the chair in the corner and start getting dressed, it’s all starting to piss me off. No woman should get under my skin like this. I’m too smart for that shit.

And what the fuck was that “stupid football players” comment? I went to college. Shit, I’ve got a degree. Maybe not some fancy master’s or whatever you have to have to be a physical therapist, but it’s a legitimate college degree. I worked hard for that diploma, unlike some of the other guys on my college team. I had a family counting on me to keep my grades up so I wouldn’t lose my scholarship.

She’s probably from some kind of snobby rich-ass family, probably never had to worry about money for a day of her life. Sure as hell never had to worry about a kid, or a sick parent. Sure, she’s hot as fuck, and damn, would I love to hit that, but there’s no way she’s going to see me as anything but a dumb jock. Some people are just that way. Best to let it go, move on, and use one of the other on-staff physical therapists like I’ve been doing.