Page 23 of Enticing the Enforcer
My eyes land on the bed, covered in a million pillows, iron scroll work at the head and foot.
A vision of Ingrid on all fours, her slim fingers wrapped around the iron headboard flashes through my mind and Jesus Christ.
Unaware of my fantasies, she dips into another room, this time a cavernous bathroom, where she opens a cabinet revealing dozens of labeled slots, organized and sorted like an apothecary. After running her finger over the labels she stops and pulls out a glass jar. She turns to me. “Arnica–it helps with the swelling and inflammation.”
I take the jar from her, the tips of my fingers grazing hers. “Yeah? What do you know about bruising?”
“What do I know about bruising?” she repeats with a look that can only be described as incredulous. “You’re kidding, right?”
I lift my shoulders. “I mean, obviously you have amazing cardio and strength, but it’s not like you’re getting pummeled repeatedly by six-foot-four, two hundred and fifty pound men.”
“Poor baby.” She pouts, patronizing and dismissive. “You’re right. My cardio and strength are incredible, but no one gives me pads and gloves. I’m out there in sparkly spandex and six-inch heels. I’m hoisted by ropes, carried by dancers, playing my guitar or piano for three hours straight. My blistershaveblisters. My bruises are replaced by other bruises. My muscles ache, and then I get up and do it all over again.”
“Well. Now I just feel like a dick.”
“You should.”
“Wow,” I say, twisting the cap open just for something to do with my hands. “So not only are you talented and beautiful, but you’re tough, too. Should I be intimidated?”
“Stupid men have made the mistake of underestimating me before.” She leans back against the marble counter, bending one of those long legs at the knee.
“I’m not stupid, but I have been told I’m stubborn.”
Her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to smile. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably charming?” I throw her my best grin.
“Unbelievably risky.” Her eyebrow lifts. “Do your friends know you’re back here? Do they know about us?”
“No,” I murmur, softer, and the space between us suddenly feels too charged. “Does Madison?”
She shakes her head and takes the jar back. Unscrewing the lid she dips her fingers in and coats them in the cream. “Lift up your shirt.”
I obey, though my pride bristles at the command. I want to be the one telling her to take off her clothes. The cotton pulls against my sore ribs, and I wince as the bruised skin is exposed. It’s already ugly, shades of purple and green blooming across my side like someone’s shitty art project.
Ingrid’s eyes narrow, her mouth tightening, but she doesn’t say anything. She just steps closer, fingertips glistening, and touches me. I suck in a sharp breath. Not because it hurts, though it sure as fuck does, but because her touch is nothing like the trainer’s brisk, clinical hands. Hers are slow. Careful. Almost reverent. She spreads the cream in little circles, her fingers cool and gentle at first before warming against my skin.
Suddenly, I get why Reese is always letting Twyler check his boo-boos.
It’s foreplay.
“This is pretty bad,” she murmurs, eyes flicking up at me through her lashes.
“Part of the job,” I say, though my voice is rougher than I want it to be.
Her fingers skim lower, tracing the edge of the bruise. My abdomen caves, ribs aching under the pressure, but the sting fades beneath another thought. She’s touching me like I matter. Not like I’m a one-way ticket to being a WAG, but like I’m–fragile. Breakable.
No one treats me like that. Not the puck bunnies or sorority girls.
“You should take better care of yourself,” she whispers.
I want to laugh it off, make some cocky remark, but my throat’s too tight. Instead, I let her keep going, her hand moving slow, spreading the cream until my skin hums. The sharp chill mixes with the heat of her touch, a contrast that makes me shiver.
Her palm flattens over my side for just a second, lingering. We’re close enough that I can smell her shampoo, sweet and clean, not some expensive perfume, but Ingrid herself. My pulse pounds.
“You’re good at this,” I note, because I need to say something, anything, before I do something stupid like grab her hand and kiss it. She goes still, just for a beat, like maybe she felt it too–that shift in the air between us. The crackle of energy. Then she smooths the last of the cream across my ribs, her touch lighter now, more like a caress than a treatment.
I can’t look away from her.
