Page 5 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Velcro. Music. The ridiculous stage names.

Yep. He thinks I’m a stripper.

Or a hooker.

Lovely.

And while I should be insulted that he thinks I’m here because his buddies hired me to dance for him, at least our conversation makes some sense now.

Why does the thought relieve me? Because it redeems him? Not in the least. But maybe he’s not the asshole I pegged him to be. Maybe, just maybe, he was reacting to the situation he assumed and not to me.

But then again, he’s still lying down, still letting this play out, still letting me—the woman he thinks is here to strip for him—touch him.

And while I may have worked in enough clubhouses to know this prank is tame in the scheme of things, I also know there is no better way to get a prankster to take you seriously than to prank him right back. So, I make the split-second decision to ride this ruse out. I’ll play the part, and then when the time is right, I’ll tell him the truth. Perhaps his disappointment that I’m not a stripper will knock some of the cockiness from his smile.

When I meet his eyes again, I hold them just a touch too long, smile a little more seductively. “Do I want music? It’s your preference. Do you prefer that I . . . do it to music? Or would you rather we do a dry run first—see what feels good to you, what doesn’t, and then we can take it from there?” I don’t believe my voice has ever purred before, but right now I feel like I deserve the stage name Kitty.

Those thick lashes of his shock open at my sudden change in demeanor. He glances at me and then out of the training room’s windows to the empty locker room beyond. He must be wondering where Drew and Tino are, because no doubt they’d be standing by to watch their prank play out.

No dice, Hot Shot. The joke’s on you.

“There’s no one else here, Easton. Just you. And me.” I put my finger on his forehead and push so his head rests back. “And the little workout I’m about to give you.”

“A workout? Is that what you call it these days?” His chuckle says it all. So does the quick inhale of breath and the tensing of his muscles beneath my fingertips as I press on the skin atop his rotator cuff to feel for the presence of scar tissue. The first step to try and assess why it’s taking his arm so long to heal when it should be far past the wincing stage.

His skin is smooth. Hot. And there’s a zap of electricity—a hum of something—when our bodies connect in this most innocent of ways. It’s so unexpected and unlike anything I’ve ever felt before that I have to stop myself from pulling my hand away in reaction.

“I appreciate you pretending to know what you’re doing and all, but—”

“Oh, I know what I’m doing, no worries there,” I croon to stop his protest. “Let’s try this now. Does that hurt?” He resists when I try to lift his arm over his head. At least he has enough sense to question letting a stripper work on his million-dollar arm.

“No. It’s just . . . I don’t think you should—”

“I assure you I’m more than qualified.” There’s panic in his eyes, fear over how far this stripper is going to carry on the I’m-a-physical-therapist-routine. So I carry on. “A torn labrum isn’t anything to mess around with. Only a professional will know how to make it feel better. And rest assured, I’m a professional.”

“Handling me is one thing, Scout,” he says with a bit of bewilderment, “but my arm is a whole other matter.”

“You don’t trust me to fix it?” I walk my fingers up his biceps, and his Adam’s apple bobs in reaction as he debates what to do next.

“I highly doubt that’s what you’re here for.”

“No?” I feign innocence. “Then why don’t we get down to exactly what I’m here for?”

In a move I use daily to stretch my players, and before I lose the element of surprise, I hop onto the table so that my knees cage the sides of his hips.

“Wait. Whoa.” Easton’s face is the picture of surprise—eyes wide, mouth opening and closing, eyebrows arching.

“I’m ready if you are.” The purr is back as I lean forward so I’m on all fours with our torsos parallel and my eyes locked with his.

“Yes. No.” He blinks rapidly as if it will help him grasp the fact that what was all fun and games a minute ago is now very real. A part of me likes that he’s hesitant and not all grabby-hands and raring to go with some random woman. The other part of me wonders if I really were a stripper here on a prank, just how far would he let this ride out. “My rehabber—Doc. He’ll be here any minute.” He stutters out the protest.

“No, he won’t.”

“He won’t?” His voice rises in pitch.

“Nope.” I shake my head and lift my eyebrows.

“I knew it. I knew Drew and Tino were behind this.” He breathes out a laugh that’s part disbelief, part relief, but when he starts to sit up, I remain right where I am.