Four
Della
A teensy-weensy, momentary lapse in judgment on a Friday night has morphed into a full-blown guilty crush by Tuesday afternoon. I’ve thought about Trent more times than I want to admit. I watched more of his training today than I ever do.
My heart did little celebratory dances every time he landed a shot, and clenched when it looked like Dallas was going to take him down, there at the end.
When I realize actual feelings have started to take root, I’m tempted to call off our appointment. Would it be too much to say I have a headache and reschedule for when my sanity returns?
Trent needs me though. I can’t let him down just because I’m feeling…Things.
As he strides toward me across the gym floor, I no longer want to cancel.
For the first time in my career as an MT, I want to touch all that hard, sinuous, rolling muscle. For his benefit as much as my own.
“Ready for me?”
“I was born ready,” Trent says. A trickle of sweat rolls down his thick brow and tanned cheek coarse with stubble. Sometimes I make the guys shower first. But to be perfectly honest and weird, I’d rather he didn’t. I kinda like him better this way, all swollen and…glistening.
It’s bad enough I’m harboring a crush on a twenty-two-year-old. When we’re alone in the room and he starts to undress, it takes all the self-control I have not to watch him strip down.
Even that’s not enough. I peek over my shoulder and he catches my eye and throws me a wink that says, caught ya.
I swallow my heart.
“Why don’t we start face down this time?” I recommend. For his sake, and mine.
“Whatever you say, Sunshine.”
That sounds very much like an invitation. If he only he knew, then, the things I’d like to say instead…
I dim the lights and set the mood with calm music and incense. When I press my hands to the base of his neck, Trent shivers.
“Sorry!” I squeal, then rub my hands together and blow on them to warm them up.
“Mmm,” he moans when I touch him again. Trent has never trained so hard before, and it really shows in his rock-hard traps and rounded biceps I just want to bite down on.
Combat athletes are some of the toughest men and women I know, mentally and physically.
Regular massages help the team recover from their intense training, prevent injuries, and keep their muscles loose and limber and ready to fight. Most of the fighters also take ice baths and see a chiropractor and physical therapist.
But let’s face it, massage also feels good. The fighters earn this part.
I make my way down his back in circular movements, kneading him.
Needing him.
The towel covering Trent from the waist down has never served as a boundary before. But now it feels like one. I’m probably making this weirder than it has to be.
I dip the pads of my fingers beneath the towel and assess his reaction. His head is turned to the side, his eyes closed. A hint of a smile tugs the corner of his sensual mouth when I skate my hands a little lower, a little lower…
Combat sports athletes tend to need a lot of…gluteal work. Fighters like Trent have super strong glutes, but they can’t access that strength due to strain in their hip flexors. Holding a fighter’s stance for long periods of time puts pressure on the joint.
My gaze roves his long, strong body, surveying every crenel and bulge, every shallow dip, every groove. I feel my core clench tight. The air in here is unusually charged. Maybe that’s my heart or my libido going berserk. I keep losing track of what I’m doing.
I need to say something. “How’s the pressure?”
“Very good.”
“Good.” I roll the towel down to his thighs and bite my lip when his tight, round butt comes all the way into view.
Now that is one gorgeous ass!
You’re supposed to be a professional, my inner voice coaches me. I try and complement what the PTs offer by adding lowkey corrective exercises and stretches that target key sore spots. Like extending those hips and um…massaging their glutes.
I lay my hands over each of his incredible butt cheeks, not the way he needs me to touch him right now. The way I want to touch him.
There’s that half-smirk, pulling at his mouth again.
I work my way out to his hips. Just as I thought, Trent’s flexors are all locked up and tense. He winces slightly when I start to massage the upper glute.
“You’re tight all in here,” I say the obvious.
“Yeah.”
“I can um, help you with some hip extensions.”
“You need me to turn over for those?”
“Yes.”
Trent glances over his shoulder at me, looking half sedated and half aroused. My god the man is disastrously handsome.
He’s twenty-two. You’re almost thirty!
“Just warning you, Sunshine…this is feeling really good,” Trent whispers.
I take a step back and look in his eyes. “Turn. Over.”
Trent obeys. His dark, smoldering gaze says, I’m warning you.
His proud, heavy erection says, Heeey, as the rest of the towel tumbles down from the tip of his cock.
“We meet again,” I purr. I’m sure my cheeks are red as tomatoes but I can’t help but grin. I look from his face to his long, thick cock and back again, instinctively licking my lips.
Trent sits up a little, leaning his weight on his forearms. “This time maybe you should lock that door.”
I turn around to face the door, clicking the lock as quietly as possible.
“C’mere,” he says.
My head says no.
My body says yes.
My heart says…yes.
I re-oil my hands and step closer to him again. “Lie back,” I instruct.
He frowns. “Sunshine—”
“Have you ever been with an older woman, Trent?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.” I get up on the table and situate between his legs, and I lay both of my hands on his inner thighs. His eyes just about roll back in his head as I start to work up, up, into his groin.
“Fuck,” he keens. “Love on my dick, baby, please.”
“When I’m ready.” I drag my nails up over his hips, making him shiver again. His stomach goes taut as I coast one hand up across the dense ridges of his abdomen and chest, tracing a line along his sternum and up his throat. His chin tilts.
His mouth parts.
His eyes close.
His cock jumps impatiently against my belly.
Languidly, I skate that hand back down toward his hip, and then I lower my other hand, cupping his knee and bringing it up, slowly, toward his waist.
“Hip extensions,” I tell him.
Trent pulls a face. “You’re pure evil,” he groans.
“No sir.” I smile at him. “Just teaching you to respect your elders.”
“You have my respect,” says Trent, and he reaches out to cup my hips, collecting two firm handfuls of my scrubs and flesh, and stealing my breath and making my pussy clench harder. “And anything else you want…”
“Like what?”
“The world,” he says. “The moon,” he says. “My heart.”
My lungs compress. No, no.
“I’m falling in love with you,” he says, gazing deeply right into my eyes.