She rearranges the sheets, exposing one of my legs, and runs her hands down the entire length. It’s a strange sensation. I think the only place I’ve ever been touched on my leg is my thigh—when a bunny is getting ready to ask me if I want to go somewhere private so we can stop talking and start fucking.
Based on my body’s reaction, it seems like my dick thinks it’s the next thing Poppy’s going to massage. That reaction wanes when she gets to my IT band, which kills as she uses what feels like her shoulder to dig in.
“Does your trainer encourage any of you to do yoga?” she asks.
“No, why?”
“It might help with this.” She runs her forearm across the outside of my thigh, and I hiss.
“I don’t think yoga’s my thing.”
“Maybe not, but more stretching could be helpful. I can give you some exercises to do at home, if you want.” Her hands smooth down the back of my leg again.
“You could, but I probably won’t do them.”
She laughs. It’s a pretty sound. “At least you’re honest.” She starts working on my ass, which isn’t nearly as sexual as I expected. It actually hurts a lot.
“At the very least you should try to soak in an Epsom salts bath for a good twenty minutes after this.”
“I have a hot tub; will that work?” I get this odd feeling, like this isn’t the first time I’ve had this conversation with her. But that doesn’t make sense at all.
Her arm slips, and her elbow digs hard into tight muscle. I grunt, and she gasps.
“I’m so sorry!” And then her palm is on my ass, kneading the spot, and my dick once again thinks it should be next on the massage list.
After that she doesn’t give me any more advice or ask questions apart from whether the pressure is okay. By the time she’s done with my legs and my ass, I have the most insane hard-on. The top of my dick feels like it’s going to pop off.
She moves away from the lower half of my body after she covers it, and settles a palm in the middle of my back. “Lance?”
I grunt out a yeah.
“If you’d like to turn over, I can work on your quads.”
“No!” I don’t mean for it to come out so aggressively, but there is no way I’m turning over so she can get a load of my hard-on. “I mean, that’s okay. I’m good.”
“You still have another ten minutes. I could work on your neck and shoulders, if you’d like.”
“Do I have to turn over?”
“It would be easier.”
“But you can work on my neck like this?” Beyond not wanting her to see my problem, I don’t think looking at her face is going to help my situation. I might not have been paying close attention when she brought me in here, but she’s a natural redhead, and I have a serious weakness for them. They remind me of the good things about Scotland. And their personalities tend to be fiery like their hair, although I’m not so sure Poppy fits that mold. Either way, propositioning my massage therapist seems like something I’d definitely do, and certainly shouldn’t. Especially when having her touch me feels so damn good.
“If that’s what you’d prefer.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Her fingertips trail a line up my spine through the sheet. At this point it feels like all contact is directly connected to my cock. It twitches between the table and my stomach. I fully expect the neck massage to help calm the issue below, because she’s no longer near that part of my body, but it doesn’t. Instead I get harder—if that’s even possible. I try to stay focused on something other than my goddamn hard-on, but it sure isn’t easy.
I’m almost glad when it’s over. Almost. And then the moment she finishes, I realize that unless I schedule another massage with her, she’s never going to put her hands on me again. Weird panic accompanies that thought.
“Take your time getting up. I’ll be waiting for you in reception.” The door clicks quietly behind her.
I flip over and throw off the sheet. My erection stands straight up. I wait a full two minutes after she leaves the room for my hard-on to deflate. While I’m waiting, I send a message to Balls to let him know I’m done.
Our next stop will be the impound lot where my Hummer is waiting to be picked up, and once I get home, I’m thinking I need a nap. For two days. But first I’ll have to rub one out or the ache in my balls is going to be unbearable.
My hard-on shows no signs of giving up, like it thinks Poppy’s coming back for a happy ending.
I’m almost positive I could make it happen in less than a minute, but that’s sketchy, even for me. Instead I get dressed. I’m fumbly and uncoordinated. I end up having to sit on the chair to get my sweats back on.
As I’m tucking the head into my waistband so it’s not too obvious that I’m sporting wood, I notice the wet spot on the sheets where my cock has been weeping tears of sadness over not being touched. For fuck’s sake. It’s like I’m a damn teenager.
I bunch the top sheet over to hide it.
I feel groggy and out of it as I adjust my baseball cap and prepare to leave, and I don’t think it’s just because most of my blood flow has been redirected to my cock. I move toward the reception area, rolling my head on my shoulders. I’m a lot less tense than I was when I walked in an hour ago—except for my dick.
Poppy’s standing at the desk, talking to the chick behind it. I take the opportunity to check her out, and my hard-on starts crying again. She’s short. Maybe five three or five four, tops.
She’s soft around the edges, nice and curvy. Her black yoga pants hug her ass. I can see her panty line. She’s rocking those boy short things.
Her strawberry blond hair is pulled up in a wavy ponytail, the end of which kisses the space between her shoulder blades. For some reason I have the urge to tug on the end as I approach her. I shove my hands in my pockets so I don’t. I also readjust my hard-on. I wish I had my Hummer, because I need to get my ass home so I can resolve my problem.
Poppy and the receptionist are whispering away when I reach the desk.
“Hey.”
She jumps and spins around, fumbling her clipboard. I catch it before it can hit the ground.
“Wow. You have amazing reflexes,” the receptionist says.
“That’s why they have me on defense.” I wink reflexively and turn to Poppy. The tips of her ears have gone pink, along with her cheeks. “Thanks for fixing me.”
She smiles, but avoids making eye contact. “It would probably be a good idea for you to schedule a follow-up appointment with your regular massage therapist for later in the week.”
“I don’t have a regular massage therapist.”
This time when she looks up she meets my gaze briefly. “But your team must have someone.”
We do, but now that I’ve had Poppy’s hands all over me, I kind of want them again.
“Maybe I could come back and see you?”
The receptionist coughs a little, and Poppy fidgets with her clipboard. She looks tense. Kinda like I was when I first came in here.
“Can you check the schedule for later this week, say Thursday or Friday?” Poppy asks.
I lean on the counter and observe her profile. The bridge of her nose and her cheeks are dotted with pale freckles. A faint sunglasses tan circles her eyes. She’s been enjoying the unseasonable weather and sunshine over the past few days. I wonder what she looks like in a bikini. I bet her ass is amazing.
The receptionist clicks away on the computer for a minute before giving Poppy an apologetic look. “You’re fully booked both days.”
She taps her pen against her lips. “What about Marcie, or April? Do they have any openings?”
“No,” I bark.
Poppy jolts, looking up. “I’m sorry?”
“I want you.” I honestly don’t mean for it to come out sounding like a line, but based on the shade of red she’s turning, it does. “I mean, you’ve already worked on me, so it’d make more sense for me to come to you, right?”
&nb
sp; She clears her throat. “If that’s what you prefer.”
“It is. I do.” I lick my lips. “I prefer you.” I don’t know why her touching me feels different, but it does, and I want that feeling again.
“What’s Saturday look like?” she asks the receptionist who’s now gawking between us.
“You have one opening left, but it’s only half an hour at four in the afternoon.”
“We fly out for our last exhibition game on Saturday.”
Poppy taps her pen against her lips. She’s not wearing lipstick. They’re dark pink, full. I bet they look good wrapped around a cock. I bet they’d look amazing wrapped around mine. Fuck. I need to stop this shit. I can’t be imagining a blow job from my massage therapist. Even if she is hot.
“What if I put you on a waiting list? If there’s a cancellation, I can call you. Then if it works, you can come in before you leave for your game.”
The receptionist’s eyes widen, which tells me this isn’t something Poppy usually does.
“You’d do that for me?”
She looks away for a moment. “I’d do that for any of my clients. You need another session before your game and you’re right, I already know the issues. Bernadette, can you make sure Lance’s number is in the system so I can call if something comes available?”
“Other than workouts and practice, I’m open to come in almost any time.”
The bell over the door to the clinic chimes, drawing Poppy’s attention away. Her eyes go wide, and once again her cheeks flush.
“Hey, Romance, you all loose and limber now?” I hear Miller ask.
Randy snorts. “He’s always loose.”
I turn away from Poppy, annoyed by the interruption.
Miller looks at her and his face changes. “Hey! Poppy from the garden?”
Poppy’s expression is somewhere between embarrassment and mortification. “Heeeeyyy,” she says.
“How crazy is this? How you doin’?”
“I’m fine. Good. And you?” She’s focused on his forehead.
I look back and forth between them. He better not have fucked her. “You two know each other?”
Miller frowns. “Uh, yeah.” He’s not looking at me; he’s looking at Poppy.
When I turn back to her, she’s making hand gestures that she quickly turns into a ponytail adjustment.
“It’s nice to see you again. I have another client.” She gestures over her shoulder and looks at me briefly. “If something comes available before Saturday, I’ll be sure to have Bernadette call you.” She spins around and rushes off down the hall.
Bernadette confirms my number, and I take one of Poppy’s cards, slipping it into my pocket as we leave.
I wait until we’re outside before I start with the questions. “How do you know Poppy? Did one of you fuck her?”
Miller stops walking to stare at me. “What?”
“Poppy. You know her. How?” Jesus. Why the hell do I sound so pissed off?
“You seriously have no idea?” Miller seems surprised.
“No idea about what?” I glance between him and Randy, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
Miller runs a hand through his hair. “She’s been to your house before, dude.”
I guess that explains why she looked familiar. “So she’s a bunny?” I don’t like that possibility. She doesn’t seem like that type, or maybe I just don’t want her to be that type. I try to place her in my memory, but come up with nothing.
“No, man, she’s no bunny,” Miller replies.
The only girls who come to my place are the ones looking to get fucked by a hockey player. “Why was she at my house then?”
“Because you invited her.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Oh, fuck.” Randy smacks Miller’s arm. “Isn’t she the chick who rubbed the dick off your forehead last season?”
Miller grimaces. “That’s the one.”
I vaguely remember pictures of a dick drawn on Miller’s forehead going viral on the internet last year. But I don’t remember Poppy at all, let alone her being the remover of the dick. However, that night is pretty fucking vague, as are many nights over the past couple of years.
“Does someone wanna fill me in here? Did one of us fuck her?”
“No, jackass, she came to your house with her friends, one of which you ended up fucking,” Miller snaps.
Well, that explains why she won’t make eye contact. “At least I didn’t fuck her; that woulda been hella awkward.”
Miller gives me a look and shakes his head.
“Is there more to the story?” I ask.
“Nope. You fucked her friend; she wiped a dick off my forehead. That’s about it.” Miller’s SUV beeps as he unlocks the door.
I’m not so sure I believe him. Something about this still isn’t quite falling into place.
CHAPTER 6
TOUCH ME
TOUCH ME NOT
POPPY
I head straight for my therapy room to change the sheets. I don’t have another massage for a little bit, but I need to get away from Lance and his hockey friends before one of them says something and outs me. That’s a level of embarrassment I can’t deal with right now, if ever.
My room smells like massage oil and Lance. I close the door, and try not to get all swoony over his cologne, or deodorant, or whatever that awesome scent is. I can’t decide if I’m relieved or sad that he didn’t show any signs of recognizing me—not from last year, or when we were kids.
This day was so normal prior to an hour ago. Everything in my life was normal. Maybe even a little boring and predictable, but I don’t necessarily think there’s anything wrong with consistency. Now that normalcy has been turned inside out by the reappearance of Lance, I can’t decide whether it’s good or bad or somewhere in between. Although, I managed to put my hands on him for an hour without inadvertently groping, which is definitely a good thing.
My plan is to prepare quickly for my next appointment and run out to grab a bite to eat, because I have back-to-back sessions for the rest of the evening. I toss the balled-up top sheet in the laundry hamper. It takes a lot of effort for me not to sniff it first, like some creepy obsessed fan.
“Stupid.” I pull the rest of the sheets off the table, tossing them into the laundry as well. I miss, and they land in a heap on the floor. When I crouch down to pick them up, I notice a cell phone lying under the chair in the corner—the one where clients leave their clothes.
It vibrates across the floor toward me, a contact lighting up the screen. I blink a couple of times, sure I can’t be seeing it right, but I am. The caller has been named DO NOT FUCKING REPLY in all caps. Maybe it’s a joke. It stops ringing, and the screensaver pops up. It’s definitely Lance’s phone, because the image is the Chicago team logo. A few seconds later, it starts ringing again.
Maybe it’s Lance calling his own phone. I debate whether I want to answer. It could also be someone he doesn’t want to talk to, and if that’s the case, I probably don’t want to talk to that person either.
A knock on the door startles me, and I fumble the phone, nearly dropping it.
“Poppy?” It’s April.
“Come in!” My voice is high and pitchy.
She peeks in, taking stock of the stripped table, the pile of sheets on the floor, and the phone buzzing in my hand. She slides in through the crack and closes the door behind her.
“So? How’d it go?” She looks again at the phone. “Did you get a picture of his ass?”
“No. I didn’t do something that could potentially cost me my license, April.”
“Wow. You’re testy. I’m guessing it didn’t go so well.”
“It was fine. He left his phone here, though.”
“Oh my God! Lemme see!” She grabs for it, but I hide it behind my back.
“You can’t get into it. There’s obviously a passcode.” I haven’t checked to verify this, but who doesn’t have a passcode on their phone?
“I know that. I just want to see it.”
I roll my eyes and hand it over because there really is nothing she can do besides check out his screensaver.
April rubs it on her shirt before she examines it. “Dammit, it’s thumbprint activated.”
“Seriously, April.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t try it.” A sudden flash nearly blinds me.
I raise a hand. “What’re you doing?”
“Sorry! That was an accident.”
“Did you take a picture of me?”
“I didn’t mean to!”
I grab the phone, but without a password, I can’t delete the photo. “Thanks a lot. How am I going to explain that when he comes back to get it?”
She makes her sorry face. “Tell him the truth. It was an accident.”
“Should I include the part where you tried to get into his phone because you can’t contain your curiosity, or maybe the part where you rubbed it on your boobs?”
“I was cleaning the screen!”
“On your boobs.”
“I bet you stuck it down your pants!”
“That’s just too far.” We both snort laugh.
“Do you think he left it here on purpose?”
“I doubt it. He was looped by the time I was done with him.”
April wags her brows. “Oh, I bet he was. Bernadette said he was all kinds of flirty with you.”
“Bernadette’s full of crap.”
She gestures to the phone. “So what’re you going to do?”
“I guess I’ll try to call him to let him know it’s here so he can come pick it up.”
We check the system for his contact information and discover he’s only left one number. Instead of letting Bernadette do the calling, I use my personal cell, and the phone in my hand rings. I assume he’ll come to the conclusion that it’s here and return for it—but who knows how long that could take.
I only have twenty minutes left for dinner now, so I run across the street, grab a sandwich and a Sprite and scarf it down as quickly as I can before my next appointment.
I follow my rushed meal by working on a man with the worst bacne ever. It’s a stark contrast to Lance’s flawless, freckled, tattooed skin. I try to stay out of my head and remain focused on what I’m doing with my hands, but back acne isn’t all that pleasant, and mostly I’m just trying not to gag.
Pucked Off (The Pucked Series) Page 6