Page 16 of Tempting the King

Emee

I’ve cuddled hundreds of men at this point in my career.

Some were gorgeous. Rich. Some smelled incredible. Some, not so much.

Most were troubled in some way, and in my heart, my connection to each was from a position of empathy and a desire to help them.

With this man lying in front of me now, my desires are flying around inside me like those crazy monkeys in The Wizard of Oz.

Breathe, Emee. Like you tell your clients.

Just. Breathe.

“How are you doing?” I ask, forcing ease and calmness into my voice as the hard muscle of King’s shoulder flexes under my touch.

“I’m doing,” he answers with a low snort. “I’d be better if you put your other hand on me too.”

I grit my teeth against the smile I’ve been holding back since he walked in, as warmth seeps between my legs. He’s an infuriating hockey player, sure.

But there’s an odd sweetness, even in his inappropriate comments. His crudeness isn’t arrogant or entitled, but rather honest and raw.

I clear my throat. The heat blooming in the spot where his butt cheeks are touching my lower belly is scorching. For the first time, I’m second guessing where to go with this session.

“How about I move my hand from your shoulder onto your chest? And my other hand… I’d like to rest it on the top of your head. It will create an emotional current between them.”

Tension writhes in my center, winding around my core and squeezing.

“All good, firecracker. But I’d like a little more cuddle, too. If I gotta be the little spoon here, darlin’, I wanna be spooned. Tits to toes.”

“Mr. Hertzof,” I start on a shaky inhale, knowing if this were any other client, I’d end the session with a fairly long-winded overview of what I deem as appropriate client-cuddler behavior. But there’s something about this client that makes me want to please him more than throw him out.

Still, I try to keep the train on the tracks.

“You call me King, or I’m leaving, and yeah, I know, I know, keep it platonic.” He says the last part like it tastes bad.

“Yes, thank you.” I ease my body against him, running my hand down the hard plane of his chest until I feel the thump thump of his heart under my palm. I lift my other arm, wrapping it over his head onto the pillow and resting it in the damp waves of his hair.

God, he smells so good.

The urge to wind my fingers through his hair and grind against him is almost overwhelming.

Lusty lightning zaps my skin wherever we touch, as though I’ve completed a circuit of some kind, and as King exhales, pushing his head back into me, I think he’s feeling the same thing.

Settling my hand on his head, I note the bump and the scratch of something on my palm, then remember.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” I tug my hand back. “Your head.” I center my eyes on the spot where my hand was resting and hiss on an inhale. “You had to get stitches? You said you weren’t hurt.”

My heart pounds as a riotous flush explodes on my cheeks.

“I’m not hurt. I’ve had so many stitches in my head I’ve lost count. Now, put your hand back where it was. If I need some healing, it’s right there. Follow your instincts there, doc. Heal me.”

“I’m not a doctor,” I correct, easing my hand back into place and softly lowering my palm on top of the stitches. My stomach rolls and I fight to regain my focus. “Normally I wouldn’t rush things, but Dr. Hoffman said there’s a sense of urgency here. In order for me to help, I’m going to ask you some more questions, unless you prefer we lay in silence.”

“Ask away. I’ll tell you anything, baby.” His body stills, muscles hard in what I think is defensive anticipation of my questioning. I read his discomfort and change course, keeping things light.

“Okay. Cartoons or video games?”

He hesitates for a moment, the tension in his body softening. “What?”

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