Page 7 of The Enforcer’s Obssession

Once I’m in the master bathroom, I flip the light switch and step into the shower, not bothering to let the water get hot since I need something to calm down the inferno building inside me. The cold water sends a shock through my system. I welcome it, resting my palms flat against the marble tile, letting the water pour over my head, down my back, and across my shoulders. I close my eyes, and the second darkness hits, she’s there.

My hand moves on instinct, reaching down, my palm wrapping around my rock-hard dick. I swallow a low, rough groan as my thumb slides over the thick tip. My stroke tightens, working up and down my length with slowness, wanting to prolong this for as long as possible. Though, the way I’m feeling right now after having blue balls for the past several hours, I doubt I’ll last long.

The image behind my closed eyelids is of Jett in the facility’s weight room. In my head, the gym is dead silent and empty from the rest of the team, and we’re the only ones there. I’m standing at the dip station, my chest bare, my muscles burning as I grind out reps on the bar. Jett is standing right in front of me, leaning against the rack with her camera lowered, her eyes ablaze with uncontained hunger.

There are no professional boundaries.

There are no PR scripts.

There’s nothing except her watching me work out.

“You like what you see, Jett?” I ask in my mind. My hips twitch in the shower as my grip tightens and my hand moves faster, pump after pump. In my fantasy, she doesn’t answer with words. Instead, she walks right up to the station, stepping into my space until the scent of cinnamon and vanilla invades my senses.

I lock my arms, hanging suspended on the parallel bars, my legs hooked at the ankles behind me, and my chest is heaving for air. She looks up at me, tracking every trickle of sweat rolling down my stomach, straight to the waistbands of my shorts.

Then she takes matters into her own hands.

She reaches out, the tips of her fingers sliding along the elastics band. I grunt out loud in the empty shower as I imagine the cool touch of her hands, the slight scrape of her nails as she drags the fabric down, pulling my shorts past my hips until my aching, fully erect dick springs free, resting heavily against my lower abdomen. She continues pulling the material until it’s down beneath my balls, trapping my legs and exposing me completely to her gaze.

She doesn’t hesitate, not in my head at least. She sinks to her knees right there on the rubber mat. Her short dark hair falls forward over her cheeks as she grips the back of my thighs with her small, warm hands and brings her mouth to my head.

“Fucking Christ.” My lungs expand when she blows a soft breath of air over my slick tip, making my entire body shudder. My feet drop, but my arms stay locked on the bar, for now, and when she opens her mouth, taking me all the way to the back of her throat, I nearly explode.

The image hits hard and fast: her lips stretched wide, wet, warm mouth bobbing up and down, her tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge before she sucks me down again. Jett’s eyes stay open, looking up through her lashes while she continues to wreck me, taking every inch while I keep my hands to myself. I’d have much rather bury my hands in her hair, holding her still while I piston my hips and fuck her face, but that will have to wait for another time.

“Jett… fuck,” I rasp into the steam, my grip on my dick turning tight and desperate. My spine tingles, my head tips back, and a growl is torn from my chest as the stroke of my palm turns fast and frantic. The memory of her blush in the parking lot, the ways she carries herself, and the image I’ve created behind my eyes—it takes me under all at once.

My muscles lock up, and my stomach ripples as the need to let go is ripped through me. I come hard, my seed pumping over my knuckles and splashing against the wet shower tile as a roar is ripped from me, echoing off the walls. I stay where I am for a long-as-hell time, chest heaving, forehead pressed against the wall while the shower washes the evidence down the drain. That’s another thing that would be different if I had Jett in front of me: she’d either swallow every last drop, or I’d enjoy painting her face and chest with my cum.

I’m supposed to be working on my image.

I’m supposed to be focused on getting back on the ice.

What I’m not supposed to be doing is thinking about a dark-eyed, dark-haired woman while I fist my cock.

One thing is for certain: tomorrow, at seven o’clock in the morning, when I walk into physical therapy and Jett is there, I’ll be fighting for my life to keep my hands, and dick for that matter, to myself.

SIX

JETT

I’m dragging ass today. Absolutely, unequivocally running on fumes. My alarm on my phone didn’t wake me, it released me from a six-hour sentence of pure torture. I spent most if not the entire night tossing and turning in my hotel bed, tangled in the sheets, trying to purge one specific male from my brain.

Nothing worked.

I tried everything, including logging onto my laptop at two in the morning to organize content calendars. It didn’t work. I took a scalding-hot shower at four to wash away the phantom memory of his scent and his touch. That also didn’t work. Then, in a moment of sheer desperation, I gave in. I couldn’t help it. I slid my hands between my legs, closed my eyes, and tried to chase a release that would finally let me sleep. Too bad the second my fingers touched my slick center, his voice echoed in my mind: If you were in my head tonight, Jett… you wouldn’t be getting any sleep at all.

I buried two fingers in my pussy, and the palm of my hand pressed on my clit. My eyes rolled in the back of my head, the feeling was that good. But like all good things, they come to an end, and not even five minutes later, I was arching my back into the orgasm, chasing the high. That only left me more wired, more frustrated, and wanting Rowdy more.

By six thirty, I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, using twice the usual amount of concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes, telling my reflection to remain professional and flipping my hair to one side to give it volume. I proceeded to tell myself, he’s a client, a giant, cocky, incredibly sexy client who is wrecking my sanity.

An hour later, I’m pushing open the double doors to the Lonestars’ athlete training facility. The heavy scent of rubber, floor cleaner, metal, and expensive gear immediately hits my nose. I walk down the quiet hallway toward the treatment room, my bag hung over my shoulder, fully prepared to be the unbothered social media strategist I am.

Until I cross the threshold and stop dead in my tracks.

Rowdy’s sitting on the edge of a therapy table in the center of the brightly lit room, and he isn’t wearing a shirt. Again. Of course, he isn’t. Does he ever? Doc, the physical therapist, is standing behind him, applying a strip of black kinetic tape across Rowdy’s left shoulder and upper back. The morning sunlight streams through the windows, illuminating every single carved muscle of his torso. His chest is impossibly massive, smooth skin stretching tightly over hard contours. His abs are sharp and defined, a deep six-pack that tapers down into the low-slung waistband of his gray shorts. His dark hair is slightly messy, falling in rumpled waves over his forehead, and his sharp jawline is shadowed by a dusting of dark stubble.

“Well, well, well.” Rowdy’s gravelly tone fills the room. “Good morning, sunshine. Glad to see you’re awake, Sleeping Beauty.” His smoldering eyes focus on mine, and the moment he recognizes my paralyzed stance, a slow, lazy, sexy grin spreads across his face.