Savage: A Pro Football Romance Page 9

  “Well, it’s a pretty big house,” I say, pointing up at the lit up mansion getting bigger and bigger as we approach, “So there’s all kinds of places you could sleep.”

  Cassie gasps at the sight of it, which is pretty much the intended effect. A superstar needs to live in a superstar’s mansion, even if it’s just for the cameras. Besides, with this much space, I can let people from the community stay over while I’m in the city playing football. I like to open it up to kids who need a quiet place to study, or a safe place to have a pool party, or families who want to take their younger kids on vacation but just don’t have the money to go too far out of town.

  But, yeah. It’s fucking huge. And it’s ridiculously nice. Cassie pretty much just stares at it as I pull into the driveway, and she doesn’t move until I turn off the car and unbuckle her seatbelt. And then, as she follows behind me, bag of tacos in hand, I open the front door and she bursts out laughing when she sees the huge poster of me hanging on the wall opposite the door. “Okay, I think someone’s a little too into themselves.”

  I look back at her as I head towards the living room where I’m guessing we’re going to finish our rehab. “I didn’t put that up. When I’m not here, I let people from town use this place, and they hang me up everywhere.”

  Her eyes narrow as she follows me down the hall. “Suuure. A likely story. I mean, it makes sense, because it’s not like you’ve got an ego or anything.”

  Cassie steps out in front of me, and I take a step towards her, our bodies brushing against each other. “For example, the Brady I know would never put something like this up on the wall of his own house.”

  She points towards a shirtless poster of me flexing that somebody hung up on one of living room walls, leaning her body into mine and sending my cock into overdrive.

  “Well hey,” I say, widening Cassie’s eyes as I lean back into her, bringing my hands down to claim her waist, “When the people I’m around practically start drooling every time they look at me, I start to feel like I’m what people want to see around here.”

  I can feel Cassie trembling against me as she looks up into my eyes. “Let’s…uh…let’s start your rehab.”

  She takes a couple steps back into the living room and looks around. “So…you said you had more equipment here?”

  With a grin, I open the nearest hallway closet and toss a couple exercise balls and a yoga mat into the room. “How’s that? Can we do some actual fucking exercises now?”

  Cassie pulls the rehab guide out of her purse and twists her mouth. “Hmm…it’s pretty late, and you were sitting down for a couple hours in a compressed position.”

  Bending over, she grabs one of the exercise balls, squeezes it, and shakes her head. “I think until we know what your limits are, strenuous physical activity should be conducted in the pool.”

  She looks up. “You do have a pool, right?”

  I motion towards the back of the house. “Yeah, it’s out back, want to see it?”

  Cassie nervously looks down the hallway that leads to the pool. “I think…maybe we should just do some cooldown exercises and then call it a night.”

  Then, she looks back at me, hips visibly squirming in the middle of the living room. “Maybe just a couple more lunges, and we’ll start your actual rehab tomorrow.”

  Under normal circumstances, I’d definitely want to do more than a few measly lunges tonight, especially after we barely got anything done in town. But I get it. Cassie doesn’t want to do a lot of rehab tonight…because she’s scared of what she’ll do if she’s around me for too long. And if she’s that fucking turned on, I doubt I’m going to be able to focus on what I’m supposed to be doing.

  So fuck it, let’s just do a couple lunges. And then let’s see what happens next.

  Cassie kicks open the yoga mat, and I walk onto it, getting into position. “Are you going to hold my leg again?”

  “Oh, uh…sure.” She says, leaning forward and gingerly wrapping her fingers around the back of my thigh. As she does, her breathing speeds way the fuck up, and I can feel her trying not to let her hands wander up my thigh. Then, as I lower myself down into my first fucking lunge, Cassie loses her balance, crashing into me face first and bringing some of her weight down on my knee.

  I reach out and grab her before she can fully fall on top of me, and she catches herself in midair, holding on to my leg for dear life and looking up at me with terror in her eyes. “I’m so sorry! Are you alright?”

  I raise myself into a standing position, bringing Cassie up to her knees on the yoga mat. “Yeah, I’m fine, don’t worry about it.”

  Cassie holds onto my leg for a couple more seconds. “Good. Great. For a second I thought I was going to personally injure Brady Mack.”

  Then, she looks up at me with a different type of fear in her eyes. From her knees, she takes in my entire body, and for a second, it almost looks like she’s going to start unlacing my pants.

  But instead, she lets go of my leg and practically runs towards the living room couch. “Okay, you know what? I’m actually really sleepy, like, super sleepy, and I think I’m going to go to bed. Right here. Right now.”

  Fuck, she’s on fire for me. And I’m on fire for her, too. We’ve been at my place for…shit, barely a couple minutes, and you’d need a fucking chainsaw to cut through the sexual tension.

  I know what I want to do right now. I want to walk over to that couch, pick up the horny little med student sitting on it, and take her to my bed, where I spend all night fucking all the inhibitions out of her curvy-ass body.

  But I know what would happen if I tried that. She’s more comfortable around me now than ever, and that’s exactly why she’s terrified that she’s going to give in and break the rules. So for now, I’ll be nice. I’ll keep my distance. “The couch, huh? It’s pretty fucking comfy. I’ll go grab you some pillows and blankets.”

  I turn towards my bedroom, but Cassie cuts me off. “That’s okay! I think I’m good with just the couch.”

  “Alright,” I say, putting my hand on the light switch, “Good night.”

  “Good night,” She says, slinking down on the couch and watching as I kill the lights, heading into my bedroom and shutting the door.

  Shit, I’m actually pretty tired, too. With all that fucking rehab, I forgot I actually played most of a game today. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I pull off my jersey and toss it onto the floor. Then, I look through the wall towards the living room couch. Fuck, it’s going to be hard to sleep knowing she’s out there thinking about what would have happened if she gave into that dirty little impulse she had when she was down on her knees and started undoing my pants. But if I want this fucking leg to get any better, I’m going to have to try.

  I spend a couple minutes looking out the window, remembering what it was like to go out into the desert at night as a little kid and get lost under the stars. Then, I decide to go back out to the kitchen for a glass of water before I hit the hay.

  And on the way back, glass in hand, I catch Cassie staring at my shirtless body on the couch. When she sees me notice her, she jumps a little, like she’s about to pretend to be asleep, but she doesn’t close her eyes. I just smile at her, raising my glass a little bit in a toast before I head back into the bedroom and shut the door.

  To us. Two people trying to get to sleep in a mansion somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, thinking about each other the whole time.

  Chapter 12: Cassie

  I'm in a doctor's office a lot like the one I used to go to when I was in high school. Baby blue walls, diagrams of organs on posters everywhere, a basket of old magazines in the corner: it’s the same, but a little different. There's an eye chart on the wall opposite the exam table, and I'm trying to test my vision while I wait for the doctor to come in, but the letters keep changing around.

  Wait, why am I at the doctor's, anyway? Am I sick? I lift the back of my hand up to my forehead. Hmm. I guess I'm a little warm. It'd be easier to tell if I had a the
rmometer. I’m sure there’s one here, I could just find it and take my temperature. After all, I wouldn't want the doctor to come in and not know why I'm seeing him. That would just be awkward; I'm cringing thinking about it.

  My eyes drift away from the ever-changing eye chart, which is now covered in numbers instead of letters, and towards the cabinets full of medical supplies. I know there's a thermometer there, and I'm more than qualified to take my own temperature, even if I'm technically not supposed to. I mean, hey, what's the worst that could happen? I hop up off the exam table and open up the cabinets, digging through all the random medical instruments looking for something that can take my temperature, when I hear a low, deep voice clear its throat behind me.

  Guiltily, I wheel around, and gasp as I see Brady towering over me, dressed up in a giant doctor's coat stretched across his massive frame and a stethoscope around his neck. His accusing blue eyes burn a hole right through me. “Sorry, I was just—”

  He takes a step towards me, backing my lower body right up against the cabinets, his piercing gaze burrowing deep down into my body. “Just? You were going through my medical supplies with your bare hands. You didn't even wash them first, did you?”

  Teeth coming down on my lower lip, I shake my head, and Brady takes another step towards me, pushing me up against the cabinet with his powerful body. “Well,” he says, his gloved fingers brushing against my sides as he starts to lift my shirt up off my waist, “Since you contaminated all my instruments…I guess I’ll just have to use my hands.”

  Suddenly, I’m back up on the exam table, and instead of the clothes I was wearing a second ago, the only thing separating me from Dr. Brady is a flimsy little hospital gown that only goes down to mid thigh. I try to smooth it down over my legs as I press them together, trying to hide my body from him.

  “I think I see where the problem is,” Brady says, eyes locked like lasers on my gown-covered lap, “But there’s only one way to be sure.”

  His gloved hands come down hard on the bottom of my thighs, the feeling of the latex on my skin causing my trembling lower body to break out in goosebumps. I put my hands on the back of his, and try and tell him that even though he’s my doctor and I know I need to be examined, we still shouldn’t be doing this, but before I can work up the will, he digs his fingers into my thighs and pulls his hands apart, spreading my legs wide open and pulling my gown way up past my waist.

  “Thought you could hide it from me, huh?” He asks, a hungry look on his face, “I think I see what’s going on here, but it never hurts to make absolutely sure.”

  Reaching through the top of my gown, he palms my breast with his gloved hand, using it to guide my back flat on the table. “Just to warn you…what I’m about to do? It might feel really fucking good.”

  And then, as I look up at the tiles on the exam room ceiling, a low, wet cry of need rips itself from the back of my throat as I feel Brady’s thick, glove-covered fingers push their way inside me, stretching me as they feel along my inner walls, examining me, looking for the best, most secret places to touch. Taking their time, teasing their way in and out of me, making this by far the dirtiest pelvic exam I’ve ever had. And as he gets closer and closer to finding the places he’s looking for inside me, I find myself pushing my hips back against him, urging him deeper inside me, guiding the tips of his fingers towards the neediest nerve endings.

  And when he finds them, he pushes so hard against them that I can’t help but arch my back up off the table and moan as he curls against me, hissing his name between my teeth. Doctor Brady has me right where he wants me, and as he presses deeper and deeper inside me, I feel an incredible amount of pent-up heat rushing from my lower body up to my face, bringing me rapidly up to the edge.

  Almost…almost…

  Suddenly, I bolt upright and catch myself on the back of the couch, digging my fingers into the cushions. Breathing hard, I realize that I almost fell right off the couch, and that’s probably what woke me up.

  Then, as I wake up a little bit more, the reality of what just happened hits me. I didn’t just have a sex dream about Brady: I had an insanely dirty, personal, intense sex dream about Brady.

  But that’s nothing compared to how I feel when I come to my senses a little and see the real Brady, the one without a medical degree, in the flesh, sitting in the middle of the living room doing resistance stretches in nothing but compression shorts.

  I’m not sure what the most embarrassing moment of my life used to be, but I definitely have a new one now. For a second, my half-asleep brain considers sinking back down on the couch and pretending that I never woke up, but when Brady turns to look at me and we make eye contact, that plan goes out the window behind me and flies off into the desert.

  “Nightmare?” He asks with a hint of a smirk on his face, thrusting his crotch high in the air from a crabwalk position.

  I slump down against the armrest. “My whole life is a nightmare.”

  Ugh, he heard everything, didn’t he? I can tell from the stupid smug look on his face. I mean, I still have some plausible deniability, right? Like, he doesn’t know what I was dreaming about unless I was talking in my sleep.

  Crap, I just remembered I said his name in the dream.

  “What are you doing out here, anyway?” I say, glaring at him, “You’re supposed to be getting rest.”

  He shrugs, switching positions into a standing lunge. “I woke up and my thigh was really tight, so I thought I’d do another round of the stretches from earlier.”

  “You’re doing it wrong,” I sigh, reaching out to him and starting to get up.

  But before I can, my hand meets the rock-hard muscle of his leg, and he gets back down into the lunging position. “So how am I supposed to do it? Show me.”

  He puts his hand on mine and moves it up his thigh, and suddenly, I get a faint feeling of latex down between my legs. “Stand…like this,” I say, adjusting his form, “And then slowly bring your weight down.”

  I guide him down with the tips of my fingers, feeling his muscles work and trying as hard as I can to forget that insanely inappropriate dream. Unfortunately, when Brady gets into position, his upper body hovers over mine, and it’s not helping.

  “Fuck that’s a good stretch,” Brady says, letting a couple of quick, deep breaths into his lungs. I’m not sure he realizes it, but he’s so close to me that every time he breathes like that, he bathes me with warm air.

  I gulp beneath him. I definitely don’t feel like his doctor now. I feel like I’m this girl spending the night at his house, witnessing something intimate, something the cameras that follow him around 23 hours a day never catch.

  I’m not sure I like this feeling.

  But I’m not sure I hate it either.

  Suddenly, I gasp in shock as a broad, tattooed torso pure muscle crashes down on me, pinning me hard against the couch cushions. I know from Brady’s pained breathing what happened: he tried to get up, overextended his torn muscle, and his leg gave out.

  “It’s okay! It’s okay!” I say softly, pulling him further up onto the couch. “Just slowly stretch it out.”

  Reaching down, I gently guide his leg back into a straight position, just like I read in Coach Bradley’s instructions.

  Of course, the instructions didn’t say anything about doing this stretch with the patient lying on top of you on his couch in his underwear. As my immediate concern for the safety of Brady’s groin muscle fades, I start to realize what my body’s doing to his.

  Pushing back against him. Smashing my breasts against his hard, inked-up pecs like I want him to notice. Like I want him to reach one of his huge, athletic hands up my shirt and claim them. Give me a breast exam, like he might have done if I had kept dreaming, and then peel my shirt above my head and put those huge hands down my pants…

  “Thanks,” Brady says, bringing me back to reality, at least from the neck up, “I thought I fucking tore it again for a second.”

  “That’s why you don’t get
up in the middle of the night and do more stretches, stupid,” I say, noting that my tone comes off more like flirtation than medical advice.

  “Stupid, huh?” He says, shifting his weight up against mine in a way that causes my legs to open up and his hips to move between them, pressing mine down into the couch cushions with his insanely thick bulge, “I guess you must have a thing for stupid guys, because you’re the one who’s still got their hand right next to my fucking cock.”

  Eyes widening in shock, I realize he’s right and pull my offending hand away, bringing our hips even closer together. “I was just making sure everything was alright; that you were good to…go back to bed.”

  He puts on a mock skeptical face. “Really? So it was just medical, huh?”

  Biting my lip, I nod. “Yup. Just medical.”

  Blue eyes getting serious, he brings his face less than an inch away from mine. “So you’re saying you don’t want me to pick your guilty little body up, throw it over my shoulder, carry it to my bed, and slide my cock into it until you forget every single rule stopping you from screaming my name.”

  “At this point,” I whisper, my moving lips practically brushing against his, “You would definitely tear a muscle. So no. Not tonight.”

  He grins victoriously. “Not tonight?”

  Wait, did I really just say that? That’s like saying yes to every ridiculously sexual word that just came out of his mouth.

  “Well, shit, you really know how to motivate a guy to do his fucking rehab,” Brady pounces to his feet, giving my heart enough space to pound as hard as it’s wanted to ever since he fell on me, “I guess I should get some fucking rest, then.”

  Brady brings two fingers up to his temple and salutes me with a smirk on his face, and I press my legs together as I remember what he did with those two fingers in my dream.

  “Sweet dreams.”

  And then, he walks slowly back to his room and shuts the door behind him, and I sink down into the couch, wondering if I just opened a door I shouldn’t have opened.