“What?” he asked.
“If you told me the second you suspected this was more than a normal bruise.”
“Next time.” He chuckled, nodding. “I promise. I won’t be such a dick.”
I laughed, enjoying the ease at which he now spoke.
Progress.
“You’re not a dick,” I said, drawing closer to the bruise, running my fingers over his thigh, then around the back of his knee.
“Our first game is coming up next week,” he said, like I was unaware. “I thought maybe it’d be gone by then.”
I nodded at the logic. “Most of the time it would be,” I said.
“Oh shit,” he said. “You look like you’re about to say but . . .”
I pressed my lips together, trailing my finger over the swollen flesh around the knee. “But,” I said. “What you have here is a minor knee contusion.”
“Fuck,” he hissed.
“It’s all right,” I hurried to assure him. “It’s not too serious. You probably twisted your knee the wrong direction while making a save in practice, right?”
He nodded.
“I get it.” I’d trained all positions in my camps back in Canada, goalies included. “Trust me. In the heat of the game, you aren’t focused on the limitations of your body.”
He flashed me a confident, challenging look like he didn’t have any limitations.
I laughed again, shaking my head.
“Ice this, four times a day.” I reached for my notepad, scribbling some items down before ripping it off and handing it to him. “Pick up that compression sleeve—like right when you leave here—and put it on. Then elevate it as much as possible. Go easy in practice, and do everything I’ve told you,” I said, eyeing him. “And you’ll be all good for the opening game.”
A deep sigh dropped his shoulders.
“You’re sure?” he asked as if he needed triple confirmation.
I reached for his knee again, double-checking the muscle and tendons around it.
Yes, it was minor.
I nodded. “I can also take some time after practices, if you’d like, to show you some techniques to improve your motion and flexibility while at the goal.”
He cocked a brow at me. “You’d do that?”
“Yes.” I tilted my head. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He shrugged. “Don’t teams and players usually pay out the ass for that kind of help from you?”
I chuckled. “Back when I ran the camps, yes.”
“And you’d do it for free?”
“I’m employed by the Sharks, Gentry,” I said. “I’m at your disposal.”
He pursed his lips like he was making some final appraisal about me. “It’s a date, then,” he said just as my door opened.
Bentley stood there, his hand raised like he’d been about to knock. His eyes darted to my hands, which were still on Gentry’s swollen knee, and then shifted to my face, which was eyelevel with the mass of Gentry’s legs.
Brilliant.
Gentry quickly shifted, shoving his pant-leg down as I rolled back in my chair.
“Fuck, Rogers,” he said. “Ever heard of knocking?”
“Door was open,” he grumbled.
I flashed him a chiding look, despite my heart racing against my chest at the heated look in his eyes.
Gentry hopped off the table, favoring his left leg, and waved the paper I’d given him. “Thanks for this, Chloe,” he said, and I smiled at his use of my first name. “I’ll see you after practice tomorrow?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
He brushed past Bentley, who had refused to move any of his bulk out of his way.
“You okay, Rogers?” Gentry asked, eyeing his tense stance.
“Yup,” he said.
“You’ve been spending too much time with the Trio, man,” Gentry said, the nickname I assumed was for Gage, Rory, and Warren. “Me and the boys are starting to feel neglected. Like you traded up the second they let you into the leader circle.” The tease in his voice did nothing to break the tension in Bentley’s shoulders.
“I know,” Bentley finally said, sighing. “I’ve been busy. Tell the rest of the crew I’ll make it up to them. Soon.”
“I will,” Gentry said. “Whatever you plan—be sure to buy grub from Kinley’s wife first.”
“Noted.”
Gentry flashed me a grateful look as he closed the door behind him.
“Have a date with Gentry?” Bentley asked, strolling deeper into the room.
I stood up, meeting his eyes.
“What if I did?” I teased, unable to not rib him. He was looking at me like he’d caught me making out with the goalie, not doing my job.
His eyes darted to the closed door before they were back to me. A few steps and he’d backed me against my desk that sat in the corner away from the exam table. His fingers on my wrists. “I know I’m your little secret,” he whispered, “but I would not be happy.”
The tone of his voice, so low, so guttural, so possessive.
It sent waves of desire crashing against my core.
“Bentley,” I whispered, my eyes continually going to the door.
This position—him towering over me, his hands gentle yet possessive on my wrist, our bodies nearly flush—this was unprofessional. There would be no explaining this away if someone walked in.
He growled, his eyes closing as he trailed his nose along the line of my jaw.
My breath caught in my lungs, my body aligning with his, going taut and loose all at the same time.
“I don’t like seeing your hands on other men.”
I tipped my chin up, determined to get ahold of my senses—but they were filled with him. His scent, his sculpted muscles, the way I ached for him.
“It’s my job,” I said. “Sometimes I have to examine much more sensitive parts.”
He flinched.
“You have to be okay with it,” I said. “It’s my job and I would never cross any professional lines.”
He chuckled, the possessive lock in his eyes loosening. “Is that right?”
I bit back a laugh.
Well, fuck, he had me there.
“You’re different.”
“Oh, baby, don’t I know.” He smirked. “I’m the best.”
I wetted my lips, knowing full well that was the damn truth, but unable to give it to him. Enjoying the game too much. “You think so?”
Mischief flashed in his eyes and he moved his hands from my wrists to my hips. “Are you still questioning it? After all our . . .” He stopped himself from saying nights together.
Because we’d spent almost every night together—in secret, me leaving before dawn like some bunny on the walk of shame despite the fact that we sometimes didn’t make love. Some nights we simply talked and laughed and fell into the old world that used to belong to only us.
“Do I need to prove it to you right this second?” he teased, pressing his hips into mine.
I wh
impered, the feel of his cock lined perfectly with my center.
“Bentley,” I chided, my eyes once again going to the door.
“Saying my name only makes it worse, baby.”
A warm shiver made my body tremble against him. The risk of getting caught was so close, but it heightened the moment, revving up the desire to an intoxicating level.
His lips moved toward my ear, brushing the shell, sending electric shocks to all of my nerve-endings.
Push him away.
Tell him to wait until tonight.
My brain tried to scream logic, but my body . . . it wanted nothing but him.
“I bet I could make you come before anyone walked by your door,” he whispered and my knees nearly buckled. “I know your body that well, Chlo. I can make it sing in a matter of seconds.”
I released a hiss as he shifted against me, my body a live wire. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”
“Is that a challenge?” He knelt slightly before standing back up, the hard length of him rubbing against me so much I gasped. “Looks like you’re ready to spark,” he whispered, and moved his hand between us.
“Bentley, you can’t—”
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice breathless.
I parted my lips, my breath catching when he rolled his fingers over my slacks. The fabric too damn thin, my mind too damn lost in him.
“Someone could see,” I said instead of saying no.
Instead of stopping him.
Because my very being was centered on his touch, on the way my body flickered to life, soared in a way it hadn’t in so, so long.
A sly grin shaped his lips, that same mischievous look churning his eyes as he spun me, tucking me into the corner between my desk and the wall, his massive body concealing me. Then he flicked his tongue over my lips and plunged his hand beneath the hem of my pants. His fingers found my warmth and he hissed at the slickness that coated them.
“Damn, baby,” he whispered. “Are you always this wet for me?”
“Only for you,” I said, never breaking his gaze.
My heart racing, my brain begging for clarity, my body quelling all logic and risk and turned to pure feeling.
He rolled his fingers against me, sliding between my folds, his thumb circling that bundle of nerves that coiled my insides.