Page 8 of Her Puck Daddies (Game On Daddies #2)

AVA

I brace myself as the hour for Eric’s appointment draws near. I’ve already scrubbed the surface with an unscented disinfectant to make sure nothing could irritate his bare skin, and I’ve laid a fresh sheet across the table.

Right on time, Eric appears for his appointment. I go through my usual spiel about undressing and crawling up on the table facedown, then step out to give him privacy. A few minutes later, I square my shoulders, knock lightly, and at his “I’m good,” I step back in.

Eric Schwartz is the tallest and burliest of all the players on the team.

His broad shoulders are so wide that none of my table is visible, and his feet dangle off the end.

I recall his chart listed him as six-foot-four, and I can believe it.

During our wild night together, he’d felt like a massive force as he loomed over me.

Nope. I’m not going there. Not now. Not ever .

Shoving all of that out of my brain, I concentrate on easing his physical tension and decide to start at his feet. But the second I press on his arch, he flinches out of my grasp.

“Ticklish?” I ask, keeping my expression serious. Despite everything, we don’t know one another, so I don’t try to joke around with him.

“Yeah. Sorry. Should’ve warned you, I guess.”

I guess.

“That’s fine,” I say, even though a heads up would’ve been appreciated.

I knead the tops of his feet instead, working my way up and specifically avoiding coming into contact with anything along his groin that I don’t have to.

Eric’s tension is generalized throughout his body.

His calves, hamstrings, back, obliques, shoulders and neck are all taut enough that I could likely bounce a quarter off them.

And while that’s exemplary for a freshly made bed, it kind of sucks for the physical form of a human.

Particularly a human who needs to be loose to effectively play his professional sport.

Slowly but surely, I go point by point through each of his major muscle groups, massaging, kneading, and caressing until they reach the softer consistency I’m after.

But some of them stiffen all over again when I’m done.

It’s like working with a slab of granite.

Once I’ve done his calves twice only for them to tighten up again, I have to stop.

“Eric, care to tell me why you keep tightening back up?”

“I… I’m just…” But he trails off without completing his sentence.

“You’re just?” I prompt, but he shuts down. Maybe I shouldn’t find this so exasperating but having a man on my table who’s so stubborn that he won’t let me assist him frustrates me beyond belief. “I’m really trying to help you here, Eric.”

“I know,” he sighs, twisting that gigantic frame of his until the towel falls onto the floor revealing the fact that he chose to wear nothing underneath. “It’s hard to relax around you.”

And, boy, does he mean that literally because like many others I worked with when I was with Dean, he’s one of those clients whose cock swells when receiving a full-body massage.

It’s not like I don’t notice, I simply don’t mention it.

Actually, the term “swells” doesn’t even begin to describe Eric’s cock.

Lying at the angle he is, he’s as erect as a flagpole on the Fourth of July—just like he was that night when he treated me to a fireworks show of orgasms .

I blow out my breath. “Do you need me to request physical therapy for you instead? It’s not the same, but since you can’t work with me—”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts, and frankly, I’m shocked to hear it. “I’m always stiff like this before games. That’s why I try to get rubbed down real good… or have sex.”

“But… you’re not even trying to give me a chance,” I object. “That’s the problem.”

“That’s because I can’t quit thinking about having sex with you.”

I pause for a beat, taking a moment to compose myself before I speak again. “Eric, you need to put the past behind you if you want to play at your best.”

He smirks, an all-too-familiar glint in his eyes. “Yeah, but the temptation right now… and the memories from then.”

“Excuse me? You and Levi could barely tolerate me on the plane. And now this?” I recall what Sven said about the awkwardness of being with someone you’ve already been with, but Eric’s shift in tone has me at a loss. How am I supposed to process this?

I glance down at the man sprawled out before me, feeling my pulse race despite my attempts to stay composed.

Against my better judgment, I let myself remember that night—when he had me writhing beneath him, lost in wave after wave of ecstasy.

Eric Schwartz knows exactly how to touch a woman, how to bring her to the brink and keep her there, delivering endless bliss like it’s second nature to him.

And he wants me again? That’s dangerous territory—territory I might not be strong enough to resist, even with my job on the line.

“I can’t have sex with you again,” I say, though the words sound weak, barely carrying any conviction. Almost a whisper, nearly a whimper. But I know the rules—we both do. “We can’t. And you know why.”

“I do,” Eric says to my breasts despite me not having the slightest bit of cleavage on display, his expression desolate.

He’s not even trying to persuade me, much less coerce something out of me.

He’s levered himself up on one arm, his torso with its landscape of heavy pecks and the defined lattice of his abs in full view.

Also—and I’m not even sure that he’s aware of this—the head of his impressive cock is peeking out from between his hips, the slit leaking drops of precum on the leather of my massage table.

God, his body is fucking flawless .

I fan myself, feeling overheated. How high do I have that thermostat set again?

He’s holding his body as tight as a drawn guy-wire bracing a critical utility pole, tense and straining under the pressure.

If I can’t even lay a hand on him without him flinching, and with his shaft so painfully erect that I’m not even sure he’ll be capable of walking out of here afterward, I have to find another solution—something that’ll help him without making this more complicated than it already is.

“Get on your back,” I say firmly, my voice steadier now, even though my pulse is anything but calm.

He obeys, and before I can second-guess myself, I whip the towel away completely. His cock—thick, heavy, already hard—rests against his abdomen, a blatant reminder of just how unprofessional this is about to feel.

Ignoring the heat curling low in my belly, I squeeze more massage oil into my palm, steeling myself as I wrap my fingers around him.

This is nothing more than a necessary part of his therapy. A clinical touch. A strictly professional technique. Just another form of treatment, I keep telling myself .

But my body isn’t buying it. Not when his breath hitches. Not when his delicious manhood twitches in my grip.

“Whoa…” He gasps. “What are you doing?”

I avoid looking directly at his face. I can’t. Not right now. Not while pretending I’m not doing exactly what I’m doing.

“Massaging you so that you can relax.”

We can’t have sex. We can’t. Especially when the tease of a slow, deep groan rumbles from his chest, unraveling every ounce of self-control I have left.

This isn’t sex, I remind myself.

This is me helping my client… the only way I can.

I’ve never done anything like this before, but that thought barely registers. All that matters is the way my hand moves—slow, deliberate—gliding up and down his thick, throbbing cock. Every stroke sends a shiver through him, but it wrecks me just as much. My body is screaming for more.

But I shouldn’t want this. I can’t want this.

And yet, the temptation is unbearable. To strip off my pants. To sink down onto him, take him deep, and ride him until we’re both too far gone to care about the consequences. To remind him how perfect we are together. To show him just how much I miss him—maybe just as much as he misses me.

“Oh, god. Oh, fuck …” he hisses, not objecting. Might as well consider that a win.

My pace quickens, pretending not to notice the way his cock twitches under my touch, how the thick veins pulse beneath my palm, or how the pronounced ridge of his head makes it impossible to think of this as just another part of him.

But there’s no ignoring it. No pretending this isn’t intimate—that it isn’t wrong, yet oh so right .

My grip tightens as I stroke him, adding a little twist at the top, squeezing just enough to make his breath hitch.

“Oh, yeah, Hottie. Just like that. Fondle my balls, too.”

I obey without hesitation, my free hand moving to cup his heavy sac, rolling him in my palm, feeling the way they tighten with every pump of my fist. His hips jerk up now, thrusting into my strokes, sweat slicking his chest, his temples, the space just above his upper lip.

“Harder,” he grits out, his eyes dark and locked onto mine. And just like that, I’m right back in that hotel suite, where all of them had me open and completely at their mercy.

“Fuck,” he growls, his smirk downright wicked. “Uhn. ”

The second he moans, a violent shudder racks my body, breaking the rhythm I fought so hard to maintain. My grip falters, my breath stutters, and for a split second, I lose myself completely.

It takes everything in me to reclaim control, to force my hands back into motion, but when I do, I cling to him tighter, my fingers wrapping around him with newfound urgency. Fiercer. Desperate. As if holding onto him will somehow steady me, even as my body betrays me in the worst way.

My panties are drenched, the heat between my legs unbearable, a throbbing ache that pulses with every stroke I give him. But I don’t stop. I can’t stop. My hands move in a frantic blur, working him over, chasing the inevitable, dragging him closer to the edge he’s been teetering on.

There’s a part of me that’s no longer his masseuse—hell, there’s a part of me that no longer sees him as a client at all.

Right now, I’m not just doing this for him.

I want this. I'm craving this. It’s unethical, inappropriate, a complete violation of every rule I should be following—but none of that matters.

Because right now, all that matters is servicing him, making him unravel beneath my hands, giving him exactly what he needs—what we both need—even if the last thing he’s doing is relaxing .

Eric is shifting, writhing beneath me as I drag him higher and higher into pure ecstasy.

His hips buck wildly, his movements so frantic they jolt the table beneath him, rattling it against the floor.

As long as he doesn’t tip it over, I don’t care.

I’m too lost in the moment—too invested, too eager to watch him break.

And when he finally does, it’s glorious.

A thick, pearly rope of cum spurts from his cock, arcing high—so high it nearly clears my head before splattering across my hands and his thighs.

“Uh… Uhn…” he grunts, his voice raw, his body jerking as the second jet follows, launching upward, streaking across his sculpted stomach, pooling in the dip of his navel.

But he’s not done.

The third pulse shoots higher than it has any right to, streaking his chest, marking his perfect, sweat-dampened skin. And then the fourth—hot, thick, relentless.

I should stop. I should let him come down easy. But instead, I keep stroking, milking every last drop out of him, mesmerized by the sight, by the sheer force of it.

And damn, if I weren’t already too far gone, I might have wrapped my lips around him instead—tasted him, swallowed every last drop instead of letting it go to waste on his body .

Only after all of that—after his muscles tremble and his breath comes in ragged pants—is he finally spent.

He’s lying on my table panting, his limbs limp and boneless, his frame covered in sweat, and his face transported with pure joy. I smile at him because I’m the one who’s responsible for that. I made this possible by treating him the best way I knew how.

Once he’s completely still, I pull out a fresh towel and clean him up, even dabbing at his face like some feverish patient in the ER. He glances up at me through sleepy eyelids, and we smile at one another.

After that, I wash my hands and arms, scrubbing away any lingering evidence before filling my palm with more massage oil. I smooth it over his body, kneading the tension from his muscles, ending with him face down once again. His body is warm, pliant, completely relaxed, and it makes my job easier.

He doesn’t speak as I work, and neither do I.

But there’s something gnawing at the back of my mind, a creeping unease that tightens with every silent second.

At first, I push it away, focusing on the rhythmic glide of my hands, the deep pressure working out the last stubborn knots.

But by the time I peel off my gloves, wash up again, and edge toward the door, the sensation is undeniable .

I’m buzzing with anxiety.

My thoughts race, my heart pounds, a restless need to get out clawing at my chest. I don’t linger. I don’t look back. All I know is that I need to leave—now.

“I’ll step out so you can get dressed,” I mumble, my hand already gripping the doorknob.

“Hottie?”

I freeze, my back still to him.

Technically, we didn’t have sex. But I just gave him the happy ending Sven had so casually joked about. And now, a new dread coils inside me. What if he tells Sven? Or Levi? Or—fuck—the entire team?

Shit.

“My name isn’t Hottie,” I remind him, trying to be stern. I’m not sure if I pull it off or not.

“How about Good Girl, then?” he drawls, and my knees quake at the term. Not with weakness but with need.

Dammit. “Not that, either.”

“Well then, Ava, I suppose I should thank you for helping me out. ”

I huff out a laugh that has no levity at all. “Helping you out. Well, that’s one way of putting it.”

What the fuck have I done?

And, as if reading my mind, Eric promises, “I won’t say anything.” He says it solemnly like making a vow in a church. “I won’t. It’s no one else’s business, for one thing. And for another, it helped. I wasn’t joking about that. Sorry if I made it… weird.”

But it wasn’t weird. As my drenched undies can attest to.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I twist in place to peek over at him.

He’s covered his groin with the towel, any evidence of his erection either gone or hidden.

He no longer appears like a lover in my bed, but like the client he was when he entered, only less tense.

A lot less tense. So… mission accomplished.

I guess.

But too bad I’m the one who’s a wreck now.

I don’t speak anymore because I can’t. Instead, I twist back around and run away, glad that he’s my last appointment of the day.