Her answer takes me aback, and when she swings around to leave, I quickly stop her by saying, “All right.” When she turns, I glance at the guys. “But I want it on paper she’s not leaving until the tour is over.”
I get up and head over to her.
She watches me approach with those alarmed doe eyes again; they are soft as a deer’s, but far prettier. Her breasts rise and fall, and I like that she knows. She knows something is going on here. She’s confused that I didn’t pursue her like she’d thought, but that is all right. Because my pursuit will be slower now, and deeper, so that in the end I can take her, fast and hard, like I’m used to taking everything in my life by force. But she’s so special, I want to reach the very core of her being before she’s mine. And when I’m there, and she’s soft and yielding to me, I’m not going to let her go.
Holding her gold gaze, I squeeze her hand gently, whispering, “We have a deal, Brooke.”
PAST
TO ATLANTA
There’s an image in my head of Pete and Riley arriving at the airport without Brooke Dumas, and I don’t like it. Pacing the length of my jet, up and down, I ram my hands into my jeans and peer out the window, but there’s still no Pete or Riley or Brooke Dumas.
I pull my hands out and crack my knuckles.
“Save it for the ring, boy,” Coach grumbles, flipping through a sports magazine, and I flex my fingers and inhale deeply. I need to train. I’ve needed to train longer, harder lately. I’m horny as fuck and just thinking about her gives me a hard-on.
From the bar, I grab a bottle of water, down it slow and cold, trying to relax. Then I go take a seat on the bench and put on my headphones. I scan my songs and look for something fast and hard, select it, and let it blast in my ears—then I see movement up in the front of the plane.
All my insides go still.
Nothing does that to me but looking at her.
And, yep, I’m looking.
My eyes feel out of control as they run up and down her body while Pete introduces her to Coach and Diane. My heart starts pumping blood to the south of my body, and the music blasting into my ears is forgotten. She doesn’t see me yet, but I see her. Every inch of my rapidly swelling cock is aware that she’s near.
Her round butt is encased in a knee-length skirt. My eyes run down her lean, toned calves and her pretty ankles to her feet in plain ballet-type shoes. An image of those ankles locked at the small of my back as I thrust into her body flashes through me. I fist my hands at my sides and force myself to exhale, but my blood is still prepping me to mate with her.
I watch as Pete finally directs her in my direction, and every primal instinct inside me stirs as she starts down the aisle toward me. A blush reddens her pretty tan skin. It colors her face and spreads down her throat and dips into her cleavage, and I want to pull open the buttons of her top and see if she’s blushing all the way to the tips of her pretty little tits. God, I want to hold those little tits and take them in my mouth, and most of all, I want to see the expression on her face while I do so.
Pushing the thought aside, I pull off my headphones, turn off my iPod, and stare at her face. She’s not only beautiful as fuck, but she’s excited, her eyes shining into me.
“You’ve met the rest of the staff?” I ask her, my voice gruff with arousal.
“Yes.” She smiles, a genuine smile that goes all the way to her eyes as she takes her seat and neatly straps on her seat belt. Her soft, smoky voice has a strange, calming effect on me. But my dick is still pressing hard against my zipper, and I have no idea what I’m going to do with it for the next couple of hours.
“Did you hire me for a particular sports injury or more as prevention?” she asks.
More so I could claim you. “Prevention,” I whisper.
She chews on the inside of her cheek as she surveys me, and she has no idea that as she measures the breadth of my chest, my arms, and my torso, I’m struggling hard not to lean down and kiss her lips.
“How are your shoulders?” she asks, looking quite the professional little thing. “Your elbows? Do you want me to work on anything for Atlanta? Pete tells me it’s a several-hour flight.”
Yeah, it will be, and I’ll probably have blue balls by the end, but what the hell. I want her to touch me bad enough that I stretch out my arm and offer her my hand.
She seems slightly surprised but takes it in both of hers; I don’t expect the way my gut tangles at the contact. Her body warmth blends with mine when she opens my huge hand with her little fingers and starts rubbing my palm, searching for knots. Her fingers are strong, but soft, and her touch is torture to my libido but too close to heaven to stop.
“I’m not used to such big hands. My students’ hands are usually easier to rub down,” she tells me animatedly.
Soft fingers scrape across the calluses in my palms as we talk about her students, and how I condition eight hours a day.
“I’d love to stretch you when you’re done training. Is that what your specialists also do for you?” she asks.
I nod, and my mind instantly goes to the YouTube video I’ve been watching nonstop. I really fucking wish I’d been there so I could crush the asshole woman’s video camera with my hands.
“And you? Who pats your injury down?” I ask as I signal to the knee brace that peeks from under her skirt.
“No one anymore. I’m done with rehab.” She raises a brow and looks alarmed. “You googled me too? Or did your guys tell you?”
I googled you, and I wanted to punch my fist through a wall, then go get you and carry you off that track and lick your tears dry.
Pulling free of her hand, I realize I’m the one who wants to do the touching here, so I signal at the knee. “Let’s have a look at it.”
“There’s nothing to see.” She doesn’t seem delighted about the attention, but ends up lifting her knee anyway. I seize it with one hand and rip open the Velcro, instantly spotting the scar cutting across the joint.