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happen?” she asks as she finally—finally—puts her hands on me.
Not in an intimate way, or at least in as non-intimate a way as she possibly can considering she’s got her hands on my bare skin. She’s pushing on my back muscles, just kind of checking them out, but suddenly all I can think about is what it felt like to have her legs over my shoulders and my mouth on her pussy.
“Eleven weeks. It usually takes between twelve and sixteen weeks to heal completely, and I’ve got two weeks before training camp starts.”
“That’s pushing it a little bit, isn’t it?” She’s running her hands over my shoulder now, pressing lightly on my trapezius in back and the top of my pec minor in front.
“When you’re a baller, you’re always pushing it,” I tell her. “The injury’s healed, though. Now it’s just a matter of playing through the pain.”
“Or, hopefully, getting rid of the pain before you have to play,” she says, and now she’s moving down my latissimus dorsi, pressing with the flat of her hand just where it aches the most. The instant relief feels so good that it’s all I can do not to groan.
“Do you think you can help do that?” I ask even as I fight the urge to push myself into her touch. Or, worse, to turn around and pull her against me so that I can feel her all over and to hell with the rest.
“I can try.” She presses a little harder, her fingers working the tightness I can’t seem to get rid of, no matter how many stretches I do or massages I get.
Then she’s moving back up to my rhomboid major, and suddenly I don’t know what to do, don’t know how to respond. Because it feels so good.
Her fingers are delicate, soft, and as they smooth over my skin all I can think about is how they felt sliding down my stomach, stroking over my dick, digging into my shoulders. I can feel myself getting hard, and I try to shove the memories down, try to concentrate on the fact that this is professional. Try to tell myself that having Sage touch me like this is no different than having any trainer touch me.
But my dick is having none of it. And, to be honest, neither is the rest of me. With Sage’s hands on my body, the last thing I feel is pain, and it’s taking every ounce of willpower I have not to turn around and show her just what I want from her—and how badly I want it.
“You’re really tight through here,” she says, stroking over my deltoid.
I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling her why my whole body is tight as a drum skin right now, every muscle in my body bunched up and activated as I try to keep my damn hands—not to mention my dick—to myself.
“Let’s do a few poses, see if they help you. If they do, we can talk about working up a program to really stretch out these muscles, get rid of the tightness and get you ready for training camp. Sound good?”
Not as good as stripping off her clothes and thrusting myself inside her hot, wet, willing body. Getting rid of the last of the pain from my injury is a poor second to that, but I’ll take it. Especially if it will help me make up the seconds I’ve been missing in my sprints.
“Sounds great.”
“Okay, then the first thing I want you to do is take your shoes off and sit cross-legged on the floor.” Sage demonstrates by sinking gracefully to the ground and crossing her legs in front of her. For the first time, I notice that she’s barefoot. And that her toenails are painted a very soft, very incongruous pink.
I follow her example, putting my hands on my knees, palms facing up, exactly as she has hers.
“I want you to really stretch out your spine here,” she tells me. “Shoulders back, chin tilted up just a little, spine as long as you can make it.”
I follow her directions, but to be honest I’m paying more attention to how she looks when she’s doing it—chest up, breasts thrust forward, hair falling forward to cover up the left side of her face again. She’s beautiful, really beautiful, and now that I’ve gotten a glimpse of the little contradictions that make her up, it’s even harder to ignore than it was in that bar Saturday night.
“Good. Now I want you to breathe.”
And there it is, why I didn’t want to start this ridiculous yoga stuff to begin with. “I’m already breathing.”
She laughs. “Barely. That’s the point. I can hardly see your chest rising and falling at all.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing. I think there’d be a problem if I was out of breath just sitting here.”
“Definitely not the kind of breath I want to see. Here, watch me.”
She breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth. I do the same thing, but it’s obviously not what she’s looking for.
“Here.” She scoots over to me, until her knees brush against mine. Then she takes my hand and puts it on her stomach, at the top of her diaphragm.
As my fingers brush against the undersides of her breasts, I once again feel like a kid with his first girl. And yoga is the last thing I’m thinking about.
Chapter 10
Sage
