Tyler
So today I was only twelve minutes late. Progress.
She was already in the treatment room when I walked in, iPad in hand, her hair pulled back loose in an effortless way that I guess was more functional than anything. She wore that same ice cold expression from yesterday that had obviously lived rent free in my brain all evening.
Whilst her eyes stayed on the screen reading my notes, I took a moment to really take her in.
She had on form fitting black yoga pants and a black LTA tee that somehow made clinical look criminal.
Huh, this was new. I’d never been with a woman in uniform before.
Hell, I’d barely been with women who wore this many clothes before.
“Morning, doc,” I said, grinning as the door swung shut. “Miss me?”
Her eyes flicked up with the briefest of glacial stares. Ironic really, when I couldn’t help but notice the warm, golden flecks in her hazel eyes that I hadn’t spotted yesterday.
“Hoodie off. Shoes off. Table.”
Damn. I tugged my hoodie over my head, whistling low. “Ever thought about starting with hello? A how’s the hamstring Tyler? You’re looking incredibly handsome today Tyler?”
“No,” she said flatly, the scent of antibacterial gel cutting through the air as she prepped. “I like to avoid unnecessary noise.”
I laughed, stretching out on the table. The vinyl was cold against my skin, but my blood was already trending north. “And yet, here we are. Locked in a room together. Fate’s a bitch, isn't it?”
Orla ignored me, her focus narrowing as she slid a hand under my knee to test the extension.
Too fucking close.
I should’ve been thinking about the quarterfinal ahead of me, Centre Court, biggest match of my year and potential road to a Grand Slam. Instead, all I could feel was the steady, cool pressure of her fingers creeping higher on my thigh.
Her thumb pressed into the knot just inside my groin. Fuck.
My abs locked, heat shot through me, and my cock twitched hard against my shorts, the eager little bastard. My brain started to imagine her hand drifting higher. Her fingers curling under my waistband. Stroking me until I…
Nope. Abort mission. Jesus Christ.
I shifted slightly, clearing my throat and praying she couldn’t see what was happening.
“You okay?” she asked, brow lifted in concern. “You flinched.”
Yeah, sweetheart, because I nearly embarrassed myself with a full-blown, Olympic-level hard-on.
“Just… sensitive after yesterday,” I said with a wink. “Guess you’ve got magic hands.”
Her glare could’ve melted concrete. “This is why people warn me about you.”
My smirk only grew wider. “Hope they’re saying good things about me.”
“They’re saying you’ve got the emotional maturity of a teenager and the self-control of a labrador.”
“Sounds like they’re jealous. Labradors are adorable.”
She didn’t laugh properly, but the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly. A hairline fracture to the ice.
Got her.
“There it is,” I said, propping up on my elbows. “Almost a smile. Careful, you’ll encourage me.”
She shook her head letting her smirk slip through. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet, you keep touching me.”
“I’m paid to.”
I let my eyes drag slowly over her face, the slope of her shoulders, the curves that her uniform was doing a terrible job of hiding. The playfulness died out of my voice, replaced by something thicker. “Still.”
Her hands froze on my thigh as she processed what I said, and our eyes locked. The air thickened instantly. Everything was so still I could hear the overhead tube lights buzzing, matching the frantic hum of my own pulse.
I took a deep breath smelling alcohol gel and her familiar heady scent as I did. Fuck, I wanted to bury my face in her neck, drag that stubborn mouth open with mine, see what she tasted like when she wasn’t pretending to be made of ice.
Instead, I forced my head back down, clenching my teeth. I tried to think of baseline drills. Tennis balls. Anything but Orla and her hands on me.
“Same again tomorrow?” My voice cracked. Total betrayal.
She peeled off a single latex glove with a sharp snap, tossed it in the bin, and gave me a nod that was both professional and dismissive. She was completely unaware—or she was a world-class actress—that I was currently coming undone on her table.
I swung my legs off the bed, dragged my hoodie back on, and tried to hide the fact I was still hard as I re-laced my running shoes.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as she cleaned up.
She snapped the used glove into the trash, scribbled neat notes onto her tablet, and slid a towel into the laundry bag.
Everything about her was efficiently precise and calm.
It shouldn’t have turned me on. But it did. The way she was so steady while I was a mess. The way she didn’t even glance up as I pulled my hoodie down, like I wasn’t worth the distraction.
Jesus.
I’d had women fawn, giggle, even climb over each other to get closer to me. Orla didn’t even blink. And that wrecked me more than any half-naked model ever had.
By the time I slung my bag over my shoulder, my pulse was still doing overtime.
She hadn’t touched me anywhere she shouldn’t. Hadn’t said a single word out of line. But I was walking out of that room like I was down a set, already desperate for the next one.
Christ. I was in deep.