Page 13 of Tempting the King

Which is something I’ve never done with a woman before. Somehow, that felt like too intimate an act with anyone I’d been with in the past. Wrapping my cock in latex and indulging in my baser instincts, until now, felt detached.

But, with her, I want it all. Skin to skin, tongue to pussy. I want to get to know her clit up close and personal. I want her flavor to brand me. To make me hers as much as she’s going to be mine.

The urge to establish a physical connection to her overwhelms me as I brush my fingers down her arm, watching the flush spill onto her chest and goosebumps rise under my touch but she doesn’t pull away.

Sweet torment flows over me like warm honey as I restrain myself from throwing her on top of that desk and sinking home.

“Mr. Hertzof, I really must…” She side-steps away as I lick my lips. Then she notices her cockeyed phone, frowns, and sets it straight again. “If you want me to give Dr. Hoffman a fair report on our session, I suggest you do what you can to get yourself under control.” She nods toward my growing stiffy, making me grin as her fingertips dig into her palms. “It’s not unheard of for a male client to have this sort of physical reaction, but I will not proceed until you return to a flaccid state.”

Flaccid?

Did she just say flaccid?

After my eyes have laid upon your perfection, I’ll never know flaccid again, my dear.

A dark chuckle rattles in my throat. “Not sure we have that much time, baby.”

“I do not allow my clients to use pet names.”

“I’m not just a client. I’m the guy that defended your honor. I think I should be allowed to color outside the lines a little.”

I’m not usually so forward with women. I’ve indulged, yeah, but my seasonal celibacy brought me to a conclusion: my hand is far more efficient and less complicated than meaningless pussy. And relationships? Never found one that was worth the effort.

But, this girl.

This. Girl.

It usually takes an act of God or a baseball bat to the side of my head to make me feel anything besides anger or a ragey sort of competitive focus.

There’s nothing meaningless about this beauty. She’s got mine written all over her.

But, no matter how much my dick wants to break the rules, fuck, I gotta simmer down.

My ‘team comes first’ mantra feels hollow, looking at the swell of her tits and the way she’s not afraid to put me in my place, but still, I’ve got a locker room full of guys, and their families, relying on me getting my suspension shortened and getting the team name engraved on that cup.

This boner-inducing beauty is apparently the key to that door.

No pussy until the season is over.

That’s my hard and fast rule, and fuck if I want to break it.

Unless it breaks me first.

I fucking know if I get off the starting blocks with this green-eyed man-eater, I’ll be ten kinds of distracted and won’t play worth shit.

That can’t happen.

That’s what I tell myself, but persistent new feelings are writhing inside of me like a basket full of cobras, telling me otherwise.

“Mr. Hertzof?” Her curious, wide eyes lock onto mine, making me imagine her legs wrapped around my ass as I bang her up against the white wall, exhaling with every thrust. Oof, oof, oof. Pump, pump, pump. “Are you listening to me?”

She’s smart and in charge. This is her domain. I like it.

“I’m all ears, baby.”

She tsk’s on an eye roll, but leaves the sentiment without admonishment. The way she presses her lips together with a slight lift of one shoulder tells me she’s carrying too much on her own and needs someone to ease her burden.

God, I need to be the man who does that.

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