Page 99 of Tempt Me

As the men came out of the ocean, the water glistened off the defined muscles lining their torsos. The setting was exquisite. Everything from the weather to the crashing waves to the smoking-hot bodies before me. Realizing I’d paused halfway between the nature strip and the ocean, I snapped my jaw shut, took a large breath, and jogged away from the men.

It really was nice to fill my lungs with the fresh ocean breeze. The sun penetrated my flesh with just the right amount of heat, and I made a conscious effort to acknowledge just how alive I felt.

After about fifteen minutes, I stopped and turned back to the way I’d come. I was confident the men would still be on the beach. If my brother’s AFL training regime was anything to go by, they’d be there for at least another couple of hours.

To my delight, not only were they there but so was a crowd of onlookers. Young women, old women, kids, men—all sat alongside the witches-hat marked field to watch the Irish Warriors complete their training.

Now, I could fit right in.

I kept my pace up until I was close enough that I could smell the combination of suntan lotion and sweaty bodies. As I slowed, I spied a couple of girls in gold hot pants and bikini tops. The Gold Coast Meter Maids were somewhat of a tourist attraction. And why wouldn’t they be? Sexy women in tiny gold bikinis who paid for people’s street parking was a brilliant idea.

Now, though, they were nowhere near any parking meters. Instead, they were enjoying the footballers’ rigorous training routine, along with another thirty or so people.

I made my way toward the crowd and eased myself between a chubby man with a young child upon his shoulders and a bunch of giggling young women. The meter maids made sure they had front-row seats to the action.

The footballers stood with half of them lined up on each side of the field. As they commenced a series of drills that they’d obviously practiced many times before, I set about investigating which one of the men interested me the most.

With thirty-plus options to choose from, it was quite a challenge. I decided to treat it like a project. The goal of my fifty-two-week challenge was to experiment. So, my first step in the elimination process was to take out the physical attributes I’d had before. That excluded the dark-skinned guys, and the guy with the biggest biceps I’d ever seen.

Giggling discreetly as I crossed off the men like a wicked queen with a magic wand, I eliminated one after the other for all sorts of random reasons. By the end of my fussy decision process, I had eight men to choose from. Each one was a muscle-bound God most women would dream of. Me included.

The men set up again for another drill, then spaced around the four perimeters of the designated field. At the sound of a whistle, they raced for a ball positioned in the middle of them. An almighty roar erupted from the men as they dived into the sand. A sweaty wrestle of man muscle ensued with bulging biceps, laughter, and grunts. Their commitment was impressive. The man at the top of the pile was dark-haired and had skin that was made for our glorious sunshine, and when he grinned, his entire face lit up.

I kept my eyes on him, watching his every move like an eagle watched its prey, but then he did something that completely put me off . . . he turned to make sure the young women to my side were watching him. One look at the gaggle of ladies was enough to know they were watching him.

That simple little move scratched him from my imaginary list.

It wasn’t long before I realized several of the other footballers enjoyed the attention, too. That put me off them altogether. It was getting close to total annihilation when the redhead who’d caught my eye last night captured my interest again. He wasn’t on the field, though; he was on the sideline.

His shirt was off, showing muscle upon muscle, and a thick mop of red hair covered his head and chest and traveled in a line down into his shorts.

I licked my lips as I studied him. He commanded attention in so many ways and yet, unlike the other men, didn’t ask for it. Mr. Redhead may not have been a footballer, but somehow, he was part of the team. A couple of minutes later, a blond-headed footballer hobbled toward the redhead. The footballer lay on his back on a towel, and my redhead reached for the footballer’s ankle and manipulated it from side to side.

My jaw dropped as the redhead’s arms bulged as he applied pressure to the footballer’s ankle. I moved around the crowd to get a closer look, and when he sprayed something onto his patient’s skin, I smelled hints of eucalyptus and mint.

As his thumbs threaded up and down the footballer’s calf muscle, his biceps moved and flexed. Up and down. Bulge and flex. It was the best show on earth, and I remained mesmerized until the footballer returned to his feet and Mr. Redhead sat back in a chair to wait for his next patient.

The muscle-bound sports physician had just declared himself my twenty-sixth sexual adventure. My insides quivered at the thought of his hands running up and down my thighs.

I just had to figure out which room he was staying in.

Despite receiving much more sun than I usually preferred, I stayed right until the very end of the training session, and so did the young girls. The meter maids had long gone, as had all the young families. I felt as if I’d joined the realms of my young counterparts as I drooled over Mr. Redhead while he left the field.

Somehow, I needed to get myself into the elevator with him and see what floor he was on. Then, in stealth mode, I had to watch which room he went to.

In the end, the first part of my plan was easy. As every other footballer jostled for a place in the elevator, he held back, patiently waiting his turn. Eventually, there were just four of us remaining, and after watching how different he was from the other men, I liked him even more. Redhead was an introvert compared to the other gregarious footballers. My mind went crazy as I wondered what he was like in bed.

When the doors pinged open, he turned to me. “After you.”

“Thanks.” I stepped to the back of the elevator.

The remaining three men, including Mr. Redhead, stepped in after me and pressed a floor button each.

He turned to me, and before he even said anything, my stomach flipped as I realized my error.

“What floor would you like?” His Irish lilt caught me off-guard, though it shouldn’t have. After all, he was traveling with the Irish Warriors football team.

“Oh.” Oh crap. “The ninth floor, please.”

---