Page 17 of Her Puck Daddies
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 stiffenall 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 hehad me writhing beneath him, lost in wave after wave of ecstasy. Eric Schwartz knowsexactlyhow 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.