Page 10 of Tempting the King

I have the worst gag reflex ever, but I need to ward off the worst of my mid-cycle symptoms because no matter my personal opinion of hockey players, I owe each and every client my best.

Cuddling is not as easy as most people would think. As society becomes more and more isolated, the lack of empathetic and platonic human touch is feeding anxiety, depression and yes, even violence.

“Show time.” I lock my computer, then stand, a little surprised and annoyed that he’s early, but I do my usual stretch to the sky, wiggling my fingers, then bending at the waist into a quick hamstring stretch, reaching forward to grab a mint from the bowl on my credenza before I spin and press the button under my desk, releasing the lock on the door.

“Come in,” I call out, doing a shoulder shrug, then rolling my head around as the familiar click of the handle and soft swoosh of the heavy door opening are my cue to get into character.

My eyes flick to the shadow of the Coke stain on the carpet for a second, distracting me, then I notice the classic white Adidas, no socks showing, and bare ankles, then trail my gaze upward, finding a new appreciation for gray sweatpants.

I force my usual welcoming smile to my lips, taking in the whole of him.

He’s solid, tall, and ripples of muscle move in his arms that show from the short-sleeved white t-shirt as he runs his fingers through his rich, caramel-colored waves. A casual scruff covers his lower face, framing lips that should have sonnets written about them.

“Fuck,” he says, as I swallow against an instant tightening in my throat, realization spilling over me, and my tongue suddenly feels like sandpaper.

Wait.

It’s him.

Those eyes.

That nose.

“Welcome to…” I start, my greeting stalled as sapphire blue eyes pierce my soul, a wild rush of blood crashing through my eardrums, muffling my voice inside my head. “I’m… Emee Bristol.”

The door closes behind him with a thunk as I admire the hard lines of his face, that unmistakable crooked nose sending my brain and my ovaries into a tailspin.

“It’s you,” he says, stepping forward as he hisses an urgent breath through bared teeth. “Red dress.”

His tongue snaps behind his lips, poking into his cheek as he presses his fingertips to his eyes for a moment, before focusing on me again as if trying to wake from a dream.

Or a nightmare.

“I… It’s you. Blue hoodie.” I press my own fingertips to my lips as my heart stutters, an odd but pleasurable feeling snaking through my belly, wriggling around in the area between my hip bones, forcing my muscles to clench.

Calm down.

He looks over his shoulder toward the door, then around the room. “You here alone?”

The way he says it feels more like concern than opportunity. “Yes.”

He shakes his head on a frown. “And you don’t have a peephole in your door.” He looks around the room. “No cameras?” Tension gathers on his brow, his square jaw hardening.

I brush a tickling hair from my forehead, unsure where this is heading, so I take control and try to get things back on track.

“I hope you weren’t hurt last night in all that chaos,” I offer, thinking of the beer bottle that shattered on the side of his head.

“Nope. I’m unscathed.”

“Good.” I struggle to thread a string of brain cells together and finish with, “Please, come in.”

He steps forward, my eyes sneaking another glimpse downward, and I swear, that loose cannon under the gray fabric is getting bigger.

He doesn’t go for one of the chairs, or my desk, or off toward the window like most clients, but straight at me. His eyes connect to mine and there’s a tug in my chest like a line pulling me forward. As I lean into the vibration, my balance falters in more ways than one.

“I’m in,” he grumbles in a thick, gravely tone that shakes me down to my bones. “I’m King. Dr. Hoffman said you could help me.”

“Yes, I hope so.” The words come out dry and flat, the thumping heartbeat and gathering heat in my chest sucking all the air from the room. I clear my throat, noticing his hair is damp, and for a split second, I imagine his soapy hand moving up and down on his—

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