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Lady and the Champ

By:Katherine Lace

Lady and the Champ

Katherine Lace



Austin spreads out on a table in front of me, naked except for the blanket that covers him from the waist down. A tiny cotton towel drapes over what I imagine is a fantastic ass, judging from watching him run in the extremely tight fabric of his football shorts. He has beautifully formed shoulders, wide as a door. The muscles on his back rise from his spine to form a groove you could sink your fingers deep into while he was riding you.

“He’s going deep,” the announcer from the small TV screams. “He could go all the way with this one!”

Austin bangs his fist on the table. “Come on!”

“Look at that penetration! He’s going to take it all the way!”

“Don’t stop!”

I bite my lip savagely to stop myself from laughing. God. Who knew football commentary could be so erotic? It’s definitely not helping me take my mind off the more positive features of the body in front of me. In fact, it’s making me think even more about the curve of his back, the rise of his ass, and how tight he could hang on to me with those big thighs.

Penetration, indeed.

That’s inappropriate as hell. Jesus.

Inappropriate, but hard not to think about when I’m locked in a small room that has shelves of massage oils—lube—and one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever laid eyes on.

There are plenty of men who would kill for my job. The women? They’d kill me just to have their hands on Austin “the Champ” Sherwood. Star wide receiver. Larger than life celebrity. Chiseled good looks. Tabloid fodder. Not a day goes by that I don’t see the Champ’s lurid sexploits splashed all over tabloids in the grocery store. He’s a player on and off the field, and right now he’s my insufferable patient.

A small TV blares in front of Austin’s face, propped up by a foldup table. He insisted on watching the game. My boss unplugged his TV from his office and lent it to me to satisfy our very important but extremely annoying client. I don’t know whether I’m more annoyed with him or with the fact that he’s hot. It’s like a punishment to all women from God.

I clutch hard onto Austin’s shoulders, trying to wrench some of the knots out of him while he’s relatively still and at the same time distracting myself from the heat building between my legs.

Focus on the patient.

Yeah, that’s good. Focus on work, which is touching the stupid, hot jock. I deal with a lot of bros in my line of work. It sort of comes with the territory. Conversations in locker rooms tend to revolve around recent advancements in protein shakes, brags about their bench numbers, or how they ‘banged this hot chick last night.’ It’s mind-numbingly boring. They all sound and act the same. Any attraction I have for them vanishes the moment they open their dumb mouths, but working for them pays really well.

“So close!” the announcer says, echoed by Austin, who slams one fist into the massage table. I jump as his blow rattles the whole table.

“Sorry, Doc.”

A stab of irritation hits my chest. “The name is Chloe, actually.”

Austin shifts his body slightly as he turns around. His handsome face breaks into a wide smile that makes heat rise to my cheeks. Damn him, but he won the genetic lottery. He could spend his whole life posing naked for magazines and never want for anything. Austin has a chiseled, masculine face that most guys would kill for. There’s nothing delicate about his six foot three frame or the way he looks at me through those hooded, dark eyes. He wears his hair a little bit longer than the other guys, and somehow it never gets flattened by his helmet.

Why the hell do I notice this shit?

“What’s wrong with calling you Doc?”

I dull my voice into that monotone that I reserve for patients, even though I’m flustered. “Chloe is what I go by.”

“‘Doc’ has a nice ring to it.”

He’s an important client. Don’t tell him to shut up. “I prefer Chloe.”

“So we’re on a first name basis already?”

I know he’s enjoying baiting me, and I’m an idiot for letting him get to me.

Not going to work, buddy. “What makes you say that?”

“The fact that I’m naked and you’re lubing me up.”

Oh my God. He did not just say that. “Mr. Sherwood.”

His grin widens. “I thought we were past the formalities?”

Blood roars in my ears. “Mr. Sherwood, I am your physical therapist. If you can’t behave like a professional, I’ll leave and one of the men will finish you.”

Finish you.

My cheeks blaze as a wicked smile spreads across his face. “I’m not even touching that one.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I totally could, but I won’t. Because I’m a gentleman.”

I highly doubt you’re a gentleman. “Could you please just turn back around?”

“Relax, Doc. It was just a joke.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

This guy has about as many brain cells as a goldfish. I thought having the TV on would help him shut up, but of course the predictable idiot demanded for ESPN. Austin wheels his head around as the game comes back on from commercial, ignoring me completely to stare at the football field.

“Oh my God!”

I draw my hands back yet again as his torso lurches under them. This is ridiculous. I’m never going to get him properly worked over if he keeps doing this.

“He had a hole there but they closed it up before he could fully penetrate.”

I shake my head a little. It reminds me of something I saw online once: “Porn Dialogue or Football Commentary?” How oblivious are these announcers to not hear the words coming out of their mouths? Maybe one too many concussions has left them not realizing how frequently they talk about players giving each other hard blows.

“Get the fucking ball!” he roars at the television.

“You know they can’t hear you, right?”

He ignores me completely, jerking violently at the announcer’s voice. “Look at him go! Tom really loves those tight-ends.”

“Seriously, Austin,” I say, wiggling my hands to get some of the stiffness out of my fingers. “Can we just turn the TV off?”

He’s on his stomach at the moment, and instead of having his head down on the massage table, he’s got his chin propped up on his elbows and he’s watching the football game playing on the TV on the wall. The posture puts a beautiful arch in his back, which curves into the round rise of his ass under the blanket. I could slap that ass, see if that catches his attention and gets him to hold still. The thought makes my face hot. The palm of my hand tingles as I try to squeeze a knot out of his shoulder.

“I’ve got to watch this. It’s an important game.”

I bite my lip to keep from screaming. “No, actually, you don’t got to watch this. It’s called TIVO.”

He throws me a scandalized look. “I’m not watching a recorded game. It’s bad luck.”

“Bad luck?” I say in a high voice, completely dropping my professional tone. “How is it bad luck if it already—you know what? Never mind.”

Football players and their silly superstitions. I can tell that he’ll probably have a tantrum if I turn the TV off, and unfortunately he’s a pretty important client so I can’t piss him off.

Several quiet moments pass while he just stares at the screen. “I’m not trying to make you angry. I just can’t stop watching the game.”

I roll my eyes behind his head.

“Then you need to hold the hell still. I can’t give you a proper massage when you’re moving around.”

“Then maybe you should just give me an improper massage.”

I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even realize what he said. Then his eyes narrow and a smirk starts to lift the corner of his mouth. Before I can find out what kind of joke he makes when he’s not doing it by accident, a roar erupts from the television.

He jerks around to face the TV. Somebody made a touchdown, apparently. Austin shoots both hands up in the air and makes a whooping noise, so I have to assume the right team scored. “Yes!” he shouts, confirming my assumption.

“If the game’s over, can we go ahead and turn the TV off now?” I ask him.

“It’s not over. They just tied it up.” He lowers his torso to the table again. “Go ahead. I’ll hold still.”

“Sure you will,” I mutter as I replenish the massage oil on my hands. His back and shoulders flex, and I’m caught for a moment, watching the big muscles move under his skin. He’s got a light tan specked here and there with freckles. For a second, my hands just hang in the air, fingertips inches above his lats, and I can feel the heat coming off him. It seems to enter through my hands and wash through my body, settling between my legs.

I clench my teeth. I’m not sure now if I’m more irritated with him or with myself. You don’t like football players, I remind myself. Again. Not to mention that he’s off limits. He has to be, if I have any intention of keeping this job.

“Maybe you should just sit up,” I say suddenly, realizing there’s another play about to start in the football game. He’s just going to lurch up off the table again, and that leads nowhere good.