Chapter 4
I walk into the Crushers rink with my bag slung over my shoulder and my game face on. After spending the last two days convincing myself that I need to get over my...hate for Jay Cross, I'm finally ready to see him.
He's just another patient. Just another thigh. Who cares that his thighs are an anatomical specimen? Not me.
When I push through the locker room doors, it's empty with the noise from the rink filling the room. Good. His teammates are all out there. Fewer people see any of this.
Jay's already sitting on the treatment table in those same obscenely small black shorts when I get to the physio room. Shirtless, he's scrolling through his phone, completely oblivious to my entrance.
Whatever. I don't need a fanfare every time I enter a room, and besides, his reaction only emphasizes that everything he said to me three days ago were just words.
I clear my throat as I make my way around the treatment table. He looks up and a wide grin spreads across his face.
“Hart.” He sets his phone aside, giving me his full attention. I might not be looking at him, but I can feel every inch of his glare over my body. “Skirts suit you.”
Don't take the bait.
I grumble in response, setting my tools out like I do with any other client. Tape. Check. Scissors. Check. Gloves...
“Did you wear it for me?”
“I did not—” I stop myself. Don't engage. Don't let him see that he's getting to you. “I'm here to do your tape. That's it.”
“That's it?” He tilts his head, all faux innocence. “No small talk? No 'how was your day, Jay?' No 'did your training go okay the last three days?'“
I turn, putting my gloves on, letting them snap against my skin. Jay jumps. Only a little, but enough to draw the tiniest bit of satisfaction out of me.
Professional. Professional. Professional.
“Let me get one thing straight,” I say, my voice harder than I feel. “This is a professional relationship. You are my patient. I am your athletic therapist. Whatever happened two years ago—whatever you think is happening now—doesn't change that.”
“Okay.”
I still, taking him in. “Okay?”
Why does that sound too easy?
“Yeah. Okay.” He shrugs, but that smirk doesn't fade. “Professional. Got it.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why do I feel like you're not taking this seriously?”
“I'm taking it very seriously.” He spreads his thighs slightly, making room for me to work. “Come on, Hart. Tape me up. Professionally.”
Something about the way he says “professionally” makes it sound filthy. I hate that I kind of like it.
Grabbing the tape and adhesive spray, I point at his legs.
“Feet apart.”
He complies, watching me with those ridiculous blue eyes as I position myself between his legs.
His thigh muscles flex as I take him in. This is fine. I've done this dozens of times. The fact that I want to study every flex of his muscles is for research purposes alone.
I spray the adhesive across his thigh, and he inhales sharply at the cold.
“Did you do the stretches I asked you to?”
“Every single one.” He grins wider. “Even got Dash to show me a few moves with the foam roller. I obviously got my own as Dash doesn't share. Thought about you the whole time, though. Some of those moves are downright obscene.”
I narrow my eyes. “That's inappropriate.”
“Is it?” He leans back on his hands, and the position makes his abs flex.
I want to count them and then admire him for having such a perfect body, but I don't since that's even more inappropriate than his foam-rolling thoughts.
“I was just thinking about your professional advice. Very clinical thoughts. Nothing weird.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“You wound me, Hart.” He presses a hand to his chest. “I'm a perfect gentleman.”
Bracing his thigh with my forearm, I start smoothing the tape down.
“Relax your leg,” I say in my utmost professional voice.
His muscles relax under my hands, but I can feel his gaze on me, tracking my every movement. “You say that like you know what it does to me.”
“It causes you pain. You're injured.” I press my thumb into a knot of muscle and he exhales slowly. “That spot always get you?”
“Only when you find it,” he says. “You've got a talent for that.”
“It's called understanding anatomy.” And getting firsthand experience with it.
“Feels a little more personal than that.”
I grab the tape, tearing another strip off cleanly. “You're reading too much into it.”
“Am I?” He clears his throat, shifting under my touch. “Because every time you touch me, you flinch. You're trying not to react, but I can see it. You're thinking about me the same way I'm thinking about you.”
“You're wrong,” I reply flatly.
“Then why are you blushing?”
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
I don't respond. Instead, I anchor the tape higher up his thigh, grazing the more sensitive skin. He takes in a sharp breath.
“There,” I say. “That's still sore?”
“Yeah,” he answers. “But I don't hate it. I like a little pain with my pleasure.”
Same.
I push that thought aside.
“That's not the goal.”
He leans back on his hands, giving me a slow, knowing look. “Funny how close you're getting to it anyway.”
I pull the tape tight. He hisses.
“That was unnecessary.”
“Consider that your first warning,” I say flatly.
He grins. “First warning? I thought you liked it when I-”
“Second warning,” I cut in, pressing my palm into his quad hard enough to make my point. “Quiet.
He exhales through a smile. “You going to make me?”
I meet his eyes now, sharp and warning. “Last warning.”
That only makes his grin deepen. “You look real good when you threaten me, Hart.”
That’s it.
I plant my hands on his shoulders and shove him down.
He goes back against the table with a surprised laugh that dies when I keep my hands there, forcing him flat.
His eyes darken.
“Well,” he murmurs. “If you wanted me on my back, you could’ve just asked.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I reach for the tape, and circle the table slowly, deliberately. He follows me with his eyes the entire time, chest rising, smile tugging at his mouth like he'sthe one in control.
He's not. I am.
When I'm standing over his head, I lean down.
I'm Close. Too close. My lips hover inches from his, but I need to make a point.
He looks between my lips and my eyes, his chin tilting up ever so slightly, trying to close the gap.
He smirks. “Knew you’d crack.”
Without warning, I tape his mouth shut.
The sound is sharp. Final.
His eyes go wide—then immediately spark with amusement as I cut the strip of tape from the roll.
I stay right there, hovering over him. Then I pat his cheek patronizingly. “You don’t listen,” I murmur. “So now you’re on mute.”
He makes a muffled sound that feels suspiciously pleased.
“We clear?”
He shakes his head once. Slowly.
I smile in satisfaction, but before I can straighten, his hand comes up and curls around the nape of my neck, tugging me down just enough that our mouths collide—tape and all.
I kiss him back.
Harder.
It's absurd. It's desperate. It's possibly the most unprofessional thing I've ever done.
And I don't care.
His mouth is warm through the thin layer of adhesive, and when he groans against my lips, the vibration shoots straight through me.
His fingers flex against my neck, sending shivers straight down my spine.
His other hand lands on my hips, sliding up under the hem of my polo shirt only to find bare skin.
I make a sound. It's a half moan, half whimper that I'm sure I'll be embarrassed about it later, but he responds by raising his hand further up my waist.
That's when I pull away, breathless. “You are unbelievable.”
Too much. I gave away too much there.
His eyes are dark. Smiling, so I press down on the tape, making sure it's in place.
“Next time,” I say coolly, already stepping back, “listen when I talk.”
He nods. I should step away, but I can't stop looking at him. Jay's laid out on the table with his mouth taped shut, watching me. Only me. I can see the smirk growing on his lips even under the tape.
That face. I hate it. Like he’s won and he's daring me to finish what I started.
I exhale through my nose. He lifts his brows, the tape tugging slightly as his lips curve underneath it.
You want a game? Fine, it's fucking on.
I move before my brain can catch up, fueled by the need to beat him at his own game. I climb onto the table, planting my knees on either side of his head with my hands braced by his hips on the table.
He's mumbling something under the tape, but I'm more concerned about what the hell I'm doing.
My thighs face Jay's face, giving him a nice view of my white panties and I'm staring down at his boxer-covered erection.
What was I trying to prove exactly?
The paper covering the vinyl tears under my grip, and my confidence wavers. I can't just move off him now. It would prove he won.
So, against my better judgment, I start to massage his thigh with one hand, and balance with the other.
His breath stutters.
Good.
“Behave,” I warn.
He stills instantly.
I ignore his growing erection under his boxers, and finish up the tape job with one hand.
That's when I feel him press his taped mouth against my cotton-covered center. His nose circles my slit as he pushes the tape against me.
I stop. A small gasp escapes my lips, and my legs wobble a little.
“J-Jay-”
His hands make their way up my thighs before he pulls me down so I'm sitting on his face.
What am I doing?
Coach McKibbon or any other player could come walking in here and see this, but I don't seem to care.
No, because even though Jay's mouth is taped and I'm wearing panties, he's getting me closer to an orgasm quicker than any man before.
He tilts his head just slightly, adjusting. The tape drags against me in a way that’s rough and deliberate, the friction sending a sharp pulse straight through me. His nose presses into the wet fabric, moving to see what will make me squirm.
My hips tip forward before I can stop myself.