Hot as Sin (Contemporary Romance Box Set)

by Katherine Lace

  Goddamn it. Stop ogling him.

  He’s just… I follow him and suddenly I can smell him—spicy soap of some kind, maybe old-fashioned Old Spice before they came up with all the new versions. And that musky whiff of man. I’m suddenly swollen between my legs and I clench my thighs, trying to get things under control as we head down the hallway to his living room.

  The inside of the house is as intimidating and sprawling as the outside, although it has little spots of hominess. Pictures on the walls that look like portraits of his family. A stack of Sports Illustrated magazines on the coffee table next to a coffee cup and a few overlapping rings on the wood where he obviously put said coffee cup down without a coaster. There’s a wide, sweeping staircase to the left, and I wonder how he’s managing to navigate them, since I assume his bedroom’s upstairs.

  His bedroom.

  Stop thinking about his bedroom.

  But it’s too late. My wayward mind has already drifted up those stairs and is wondering where he sleeps, what he wears when he sleeps, if anything, and how often he invites women upstairs with him. Probably often. Once or twice a day, in fact.

  He opens a door, breaking into my thoughts, and gestures for me to precede him inside.

  “Lie down,” I tell him.

  He sets the crutches aside and begins the laborious process of stretching out on his stomach on the floor. “I like it when you order me around.”

  “Then you should love this whole recovery process.” My bag has a foam roller in it, too, and I get that out. My bag is magical, I’ve been told. A soccer player patient of mine once said she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if I pulled out a whirlpool tub and a running track.

  “How badly does it hurt?” I ask Austin, kneeling next to him.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  He’s lying. Well, maybe not lying, but I’m certain he’s hurting more than he wants to admit. Sure, he can power his way through it, but I don’t necessarily want him to. He still hasn’t taken his meds; I’ll be sure he gets them down before I leave.

  In the meantime, I’ll get his legs rolled out, and then I’ll have to address the tension I’m seeing building up in his shoulders and upper back. I don’t want him accidentally injuring something else because he’s getting tensed up trying to protect his strained leg.

  Even though I told him not to, he starts to move the coffee table. I’m distracted enough by the way his ass looks when he bends over that I forget for a second he’s not supposed to be doing that. Then I rush over and smack him on the arm. Whoa. It’s a big arm. His biceps are like concrete.

  Get it together, Chloe.

  “I told you not to do that.”

  To his credit and my surprise, he backs off. “Sorry.” Taking another step back, he lifts both hands in surrender. “Following your instructions. All of them. To the letter.”

  “Good.” I move the table. It’s not that heavy, and there’s plenty of space in the ginormous living room to give it a temporary home while we work. Once it’s out of the way, I roll out the mat from my bag. “I’m going to get you some water for your meds.”

  Once he’s got his meds into him, I make him lie on his stomach while I grab the foam roller.

  I can’t push him too hard yet, physical therapy-wise, so my focus right now is on keeping things loose so the rest of him doesn’t clench up. If he gets asymmetrical while he’s recovering, his performance on the field will suffer. And compensation injuries aren’t exactly fun, either.

  So I start rolling him out like he’s a man-sized lump of cookie dough. It was an appropriate comparison since I would, indeed, love to eat him with a spoon. Raw. Right out of the cookie dough tub. I press my lips tight together while I work, afraid if I don’t something will come out that I’ll regret. Like, “Oh, hey, your ass is magnificent. Mind if I bite it?”

  Just say no, Chloe.

  “Mmmm,” he says, and for a second I wonder if he’s been reading my mind. “You’re way better at this than the guy I had last year.”

  I’m not sure how to respond to that. “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Much better. How long have you been at this?”

  “A while.” I don’t want him to get to know me better, nor do I want to get to know him better. I just want to get this over with to the best of my ability, without getting fired.

  “I mean how many years?”

  “Four.”

  “Have you always worked with athletes?”

  Stop talking to me.

  “No.”

  I ease up on the pressure as I work on the back of the injured leg. His thighs are solid, rock-hard muscle. I think about what they look like inside his skin-tight football pants. As the roller goes up over the perfect mound of his ass, I fight an obscene urge to cup it. Squeeze.

  “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

  I jolt back to what I’m doing, my face going flaming hot. Shit. Did I say any of that out loud?

  “No. I was just…thinking.”

  “I see.” I can hear the smirk in his voice. My rolling tempo speeds up as I wait for him to lower the boom and call me on my no-longer-secret thoughts about him. “So you just worked on normal people, then?”

  Oh, thank God. “I guess you could say that.”

  “What, like old ladies who fell down or high school athletes who don’t know how to run right?”

  “Sure.”

  “And…why did you become a physical therapist?”

  So I could look at you naked. “It was what I wanted to do.”

  His body’s starting to respond to the rolling; I can feel the muscles going lax. He makes a soft snorting sound.

  “Well, this is a scintillating conversation. We could go on like this all night.”

  I don’t answer. I’m too impressed that he knows the word “scintillating.” I’m also entranced with the way his glutes move under the roller. Like waves on the ocean.

  “I mean…if you want to go on all night, I’m game.”

  Now I’m pretty sure he’s pushing the envelope to see if I’m paying attention.

  “It’s getting close to dinnertime. After we’re done with the massage, you can make me dinner, then later I can make you breakfast.”

  I swat him with the roller to let him know that yes, I am actually paying attention. “I told you—no inappropriate remarks.”

  “How is that inappropriate? If we talk all night, we’re going to need food.”

  I squash the little thrill that rises in my chest.

  “Right. I’m sure that’s exactly what you meant.” I push to my knees. “Get up. We need to set up for your massage.”

  He stands, and abruptly I’m kneeling at perfect blowjob level, staring right into the heart-covered fly of his boxers.

  Didn’t think that one through very well, did you, Chloe?

  I can see the bulge of his cock pressing against the fabric. Thank God he doesn’t have a boner this time. I scramble all the way to my feet and look him directly in the eye. His little smirk doesn’t escape me.

  “You’re such a bastard,” I tell him, my voice snippy.

  “I still don’t understand why you’re pissed. I’ve been nothing but polite.” He sounds vaguely offended, but it’s not very convincing. Especially since he’s still smirking.

  “Fine. Where do we do your massage?” I can’t help it—my gaze flicks toward the stairs. I grit my teeth, utterly infuriated with myself.

  He blinks slowly, like he’s being sultry, and I know he’s registered all the possible opportunities to hit me with more innuendo. “In the massage room. Where else?”

  “The massage room. Of course.” He has a massage room? I grab my bag and make an attempt to clarify my glance toward the stairs. “Are you having trouble with those stairs?”

  He shrugs. “Not really. I have an elevator.”

  My eyes widen. “You have an elevator?”

  He makes another shrugging motion, this time like he doesn’t want to discuss it anymore. “For guests. In
case they can’t manage the stairs.” He turns and heads back down the hallway. I follow.

  He’s not using the crutches. I consider telling him to come back and get them, but he’s walking more or less okay, and it’s probably good for him to keep things loose.

  His ass cheeks clench in his heart-patterned boxers as he walks in front of me. I’m still trembling from the almost-glimpse of his cock and how the hard, tanned muscles felt as they glided under my palms. I pause for a moment, willing my heart to slow down. How am I going to handle him alone when I’m all worked up like this?

  Austin opens a door across the hall from the workout room and leads the way in. I follow him, take a sweeping glance at the room, and my jaw drops a little.

  It’s done up like a massage room at a high-class day spa. A shelf on one wall holds a variety of small vials of oils and an mp3 player on a speaker stand. Along the other walls are shelves with candles. They’re all lit, and at first I think that’s quite the fire hazard, then I realize they’re not real candles. They’re the kind with the electric bulbs inside that look just like candle flames. I can smell chamomile, lavender, and a hint of peppermint. The lights dim as Austin moves a switch down, his smile barely concealed in the low visibility. It’s a cleverly disguised room for seduction. He planned this. There is no doubt about it.

  “It helps me relax,” he explains.

  Relax. Right. The absolute opposite of what I’m doing now. My heart thuds painfully against my chest as the door snaps shut. It’s such a small room, and Austin takes a few steps forward.

  My body throbs as the scents drift in front of my nose. I walk away from Austin and take a look at the oils. My eyes scroll back and forth over the labels, but I can’t seem to read them, and I know it’s because of Austin’s overwhelming presence. His body is like a heat lamp, standing right next to me.

  “Do you like it?” He sounds like he’s a bit disappointed I didn’t comment on the room as soon as I walked in.

  I turn and find myself looking straight at the middle of his naked chest. “I think you did this on purpose.”

  His crooked grin widens. “Did what?”

  “You set up this whole room to put me in the mood!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, please. The candles, the dimmed lights!”

  “I like to smell flowery shit while I’m being massaged. What, are you going to shame me on my scents, too?”

  I’m going to kill him.

  “Just—get on the table!”

  “Do I need to lose the boxers?”

  My face goes red-hot. Dammit, why does he keep doing that? Why do I keep responding? “Um…” I trail off.

  I’m distracted by his thumbs, hooking underneath the waistband of his absurd boxers. They pull the fabric down, exposing a length of mouth-watering thigh and a patch of dark hair that makes my pussy clench.

  He’s taking them off. And I just stare at him, because I apparently suffer immediate paralysis at the potential sight of a penis.

  He slides the boxers down and kicks them off, then settles onto the table. I glance at his thick cock.

  What are you doing?

  I jerk my attention back to his face. He’s smirking so hard his face is probably going to stick that way.

  “Turn around,” I snap, and he stretches out on his stomach.

  At least while he’s on his stomach, I can’t see his cock. I grab a towel and position it over his bare ass. I would have preferred he left his shorts on, but I’m going to need to massage his glutes, so in the long run having him naked makes that a bit easier. I remind myself he’s an athlete—dozens of people see him buck naked every day, so he doesn’t care. Still, I know damn well he’s pulling this shit to try to get a rise out of me.

  I hate to admit it, but it’s working. I’m risen. At this point, just looking at him, I’m having a hard time not thinking about what he’d feel like between my thighs. What it would be like to ride him. I feel myself blush again. Thankfully he can’t see it anymore with his face pressed into the table.

  I pick out a couple of oils—chamomile and lavender—and mix a few drops on the palm of my hand. Once the oil is nicely warm, I start working.

  All I can see is miles and miles of oiled bare skin, flecked with freckles, patterns of small brown moles, the arched curve of his ribcage as it rises on either side of his spine. The flat planes of his shoulder blades.

  God, he’s beautiful. All I can think about is how alive he is, how the soft smell of his skin drifts to me, enhanced rather than smothered in the scent of lavender and chamomile.

  My hands start to tingle as I slide them down his back. My thumbs dig into the muscles on either side of his spine, but my brain is interpreting it as sexual rather than therapeutic. I can feel my breath quickening, my heartbeat speeding up. My fingers touch the edge of the towel I tossed over his ass, and it’s all I can do to keep from moving it aside and grabbing his glutes. I need to massage them, but with my brain where it is, I don’t dare touch him under that towel.

  Stop it, Chloe. Get it under control.

  While my breath has quickened, Austin’s has slowed, and I wonder if he’s drifting off to sleep. Sleeping while I think about molesting him. Could this get any more fucked up?

  Austin makes a small noise in the back of his throat, and I get an immediate answer to my question—yes, it could get more fucked up. Because that soft sound sounds like a sex noise, and I don’t need that added to the mix.

  “You’re really good at this,” he says, his voice fuzzy and quiet.

  “Thanks,” I manage, just barely. I work back up his spine, settling again on his shoulders, and he reaches up and pats my hand there where I’m digging my thumbs into his trapezius.

  I freeze. That touch is like a live electric current running up the back of my hand through my arm, through my whole system, until it hits my pussy and leaves me sitting there so wet and needy I can barely breathe.

  The doorbell rings. The sound jars through my mind, and I jerk my hands back as though burned. Have I lost my mind? He’s a client.

  Austin swears, not quite under his breath. “Who the fuck…”

  He swings out from under the blanket, almost flashing me the full monty, then grabs a terrycloth robe from a hook on the wall and throws it on. He yanks the waist tie so tight it almost looks like it hurts him. It’s not hard to see why; he’s trying—and mostly failing—to keep from tenting it.

  He spares me about half a glance, as if he doesn’t want to make direct eye contact.

  “You were expecting someone?” I say dryly, annoyed. He looks at me sidelong.

  “No. Pretty definitely no.”

  I watch him stalk toward the door, not sure what I should do. It’s not like I should just traipse out to greet whoever has just invaded our privacy. It’s not my house, after all.

  “I’m not in the habit of inviting people over during my physical therapy appointments,” Austin throws back over his shoulder. He leaves the door partially open. I wipe the oil off my hands onto a towel and look out into the hallway.

  He jerks the door open and a woman barrels her way in. She looks like she’s in her mid-twenties, and she’s carrying a baby.

  A baby? What the fuck?

  Quietly, like I’m eavesdropping on something that isn’t my business—because I’m totally eavesdropping on something that isn’t my business—I slip a little farther down the hall so I can hear.

  “What the fuck?” Austin echoes my unspoken sentiment, and for a second I think he’s as much in the dark as I am about the identity of the woman and her offspring. Then he continues, “What are you doing here, Megan?”

  “I need you to take Emma,” she answers.

  “I can’t take Emma.”

  However, as he says it, Megan shoves Emma into Austin’s chest, and Austin takes her automatically. She’s probably no more than six or eight months old, and she holds her hands up to him, smiling. There are a couple of teeth o
n her lower gums, and I barely hold back an “awwwww.” Which is good, because if I “awww” over baby Emma, I’ll get caught eavesdropping, and we can’t have that.

  I’ve got to know what’s going on. It looks like Austin Sherwood is somebody’s baby daddy, and if that isn’t the biggest gossip scoop I’ve ever seen in my entire life, then I don’t know gossip. This Megan woman is petite but curvy, with long black hair and eyes that flash up at Austin as she speaks.

  “Don’t you walk out of here, Megan!” Austin snaps, because Megan has turned and has a hand on the door. “You can’t just dump her off here any time you want.”

  “You always tell me you’d like to see her,” Megan says dismissively. “I don’t see why it’s a problem.”

  “It’s not my scheduled day,” he shoots back. He’s still cradling Emma against his shoulder, and she’s playing with the curls of hair at the back of his neck.

  I envy her a little as he strokes her back with his big hand. She seems happy enough, oblivious of the verbal warfare going on between her parents. Her parents. Good God, I still can’t get my head around this.

  “So? You’re her father—take care of her.” Megan tries again to pull the door open, but Austin slides a foot forward and shoves the door back shut with a sharp kick.

  “You need to at least call me first, Megan. I have shit to do. I have work. I have…” He glances down the hallway and I jump, flattening a little against the wall, but he just continues, “…physical therapy. You’re interrupting. And if I don’t get this knee sorted out, I don’t play, I don’t get paid, and you don’t get paid.”

  Megan also glances toward the hall, but she doesn’t seem to see me, either. “I see. Physical therapy.” Her gaze rakes over him, taking in the robe and his state of undress. “Is that what you’re calling it these days?” She tosses her hair back, glaring up at him. “Don’t be doing any of that shit in front of my baby.”

  “Oh, now she’s your baby?” He shifts a little, pointing Emma in Megan’s direction. “I can take her tomorrow. Not today.”