That’s what I tell myself, but persistent new feelings are writhing inside of me like a basket full of cobras, telling me otherwise.
“Mr. Hertzof?” Her curious, wide eyes lock onto mine, making me imagine her legs wrapped around my ass as I bang her up against the white wall, exhaling with every thrust.Oof, oof, oof. Pump, pump, pump.“Are you listening to me?”
She’s smart and in charge. This is her domain. I like it.
“I’m all ears, baby.”
She tsk’s on an eye roll, but leaves the sentiment without admonishment. The way she presses her lips together with a slight lift of one shoulder tells me she’s carrying too much on her own and needs someone to ease her burden.
God, I need to be the man who does that.
“Are you ready to proceed with our session? If you can get yourself under control, I’ll overlook your…reaction.” There’s a soft lilt in her voice, and a tsunami of that protective instinct that had me knocking out that asshole last night sweeps through me in a dark rush. “Keep things on a professional level from now on, make some progress, and I’ll write a report to Dr. Hoffman that gets you back on the ice. Keep in mind, our goals here are the same.” She sweeps her hand in the air toward a door. “Shall we?”
“Lead the way.”
Her gaze flicks down again. Even at half-mast, my ‘reaction’ inspires fear and awe. It’s not a point of pride, but when you’ve been playing hockey as long as I have, you see a lot of dicks in showers and locker rooms.
I’m an overachiever when it comes to that particular body part, something that’s earned me an unfortunate nickname from my teammates.
King dong.
Fuckers.
I try to find some unpleasant distraction as I fall into step behind her, but the vision of her ass moving in those painted-on stretch pants…there’s only so much a mortal man can do.
She leads me through a door on the back wall of her office. Inside, there’s a fucking bed in the center of the room, then a little futon sort of floor mat with pillows all around, and a soft-looking white fluffy sofa that would be the perfect place to lean her back, settle on my knees and indulge in what I already know is the pussy to end all pussies.
I’m being tested. My resolve is already packing a bag and getting on the first plane out of town. Soft instrumental music plays as one of those oil diffuser things steams on a side table, making the space smell like some exotic, new-age massage parlor.
“Now, with most clients—” she starts, but I cut her off with a wave.
“I’m not most clients.” I sniff, wondering how I’m ever going to be able to leave here today, knowing she has other clients.
Male clients.
Just the thought of her laying down in that bed with another man has rage bubbling inside me.
“As I was saying.” She hardens her jaw, hands on her hips, but her nipples are still on high alert, telling me things her mouth won’t. “We will start with you laying on your side. I find it’s best for me to then lay behind you. I’ll ask you some questions, try to feel your energy, and when you are comfortable, I’ll place my hand on your shoulder, maybe. Or on the side of your head. Just so you get used to feeling a calm, platonic touch with no expectations.”
“So, you want me to be the little spoon?” I step toward the bed, blood rushing hot into my dick, and there’s no putting that toothpaste back in the tube now.
“Mr. Hertzof—”
“You can call me King.”
“King,” she says with an exasperated sigh, but the sound of my name on her lips sends my brain into spasm. “I noted that is your legal name. Interesting.”
“Had an interesting childhood.”
“I’d like to hear about that… King.” Her smile and the slow blink she gives me while waving toward the bed tell me she’s the thing I’ve been missing. Hearing my name on those plump pink lips seals it.
I’m already looking forward to hearing it again, the moment before those same lips are stretched wide as she swallows the prize I’m saving just for her.
“You get in this bed with other men?” I ask, fists of jealousy punching at my gut as she nods.
“Yes. And women, but most of my clients are men. They tend to be less in touch with their softer, more vulnerable parts. I also use the sofa, the floor. Sometimes holding hands while sitting in the chairs. This ismy business.” She squares her shoulders. “It’s what I do.”
“You don’t have any security,” I say, looking around the room for cameras, manically angry that she’s putting herself in danger by lying down and touching God knows who.