The Athletic Trainer Read online

  “What?” She giggles against my lips.

  “I can’t wait until Thursday. I want you again and again. I want dates and lovemaking and sex. Give it all to me.”

  Her violet eyes blink up at me, and her fingers swipe through my curly hair, toying with the length at my neck.

  “But the other night?” she questions, and I know what happened. It was so real I panicked afterward. What if she didn’t want me? What if she wanted both of us? I told her Haywood was a gift, but when she told me making love to me was her gift in return, I didn’t know how to take it.

  I crush her mouth again, and she giggles against me.

  “Forget the other night. I want tonight,” I say, eager to start hanging out with her. “Tonight, and all the nights.”

  “Tonight?” she teases against my mouth.

  “Yes, every night of the week and then the week after that and the week after—” Up on her toes, she stops my list with her mouth. Hands roam and clothing removes in seconds. Our bodies knock into walls as we move to her bedroom and collapse on her bed as two bodies eager to please one another. I am so turned on, so excited, I didn’t even know where to start on her. Fingers. Tongue. Dick. All of it wants her.

  Climbing over her, I spread her legs and return to kissing her. My fingers blindly wander down her body and find the spot I desire most. Dipping into her soaked pussy, I stroke her.

  “You’re so fucking warm,” I say against her mouth, twitching with how that warmth will feel wrapped around me. Like fucking heaven and sunshine. Pushing up to my knees, I force her legs to lift and clutch at her shins, pressing her bent legs higher. My dick slips over her drenched folds, her wetness coating me until I catch just where I need to be to enter her. Lowering into her, I watch as her body takes me into hers, trusting me to fill her, complete her, make her whole as she does for me.

  “I love how you take me,” I admit. She’s let me fuck her breasts, and she’s sucked my dick while I stood over her. Watching her pussy open and take me in, I am harder than I’ve ever been. It’s damn near pornographic as I hammer into her while she groans under me.

  “I love your fucking sounds,” I tell her, offering her more. The sound of our skin slapping. The slick noise of her pussy against my dick. There’s only one place left to take her, and I pull out, pressing her legs higher, nearly bending her in half. The puckered hole appears, begging me to enter her and claim her everywhere. “Lube?” I question.

  “I don’t have any,” she whimpers, still ready for more from me.

  “Hold your legs,” I command, and her palms slap at the backside of her upper thighs, holding her legs as high as she can. Sticking my finger in her wet heat, I use her own juices to lubricate her hole. Swiping from pussy to anus, I coat her as best I can and then set my head at her back entrance.

  “Give me this gift?” I beg, and she groans, a beg in her own right. Slowly, I enter her, holding her legs for her as I maneuver into her from this angle.

  “Holy shit!” I cry out at the tightness.

  “Eric,” she whispers. I move slowly, allowing her body to stretch and accommodate me.

  “Touch yourself, baby. Make yourself come. I want to feel it like this.”

  I still inside her, taking a deep breath as her fingers slip down her body, and she rubs at her clit. It’s nothing I’ve ever done. It’s nothing I’ve seen, and I’m doing it all with this woman. Slowly, I move, pulling back just a bit as my eyes roll back at the pressure. Sliding into her, she clenches, resistance yet readiness. She’s taking me into her, giving me every part of her.

  “Eric,” she calls again, and I repeat my measured movements, not wanting to hurt her, but euphoric at the sensation around my dick. Her fingers move faster. Her breaths come out as short pants. Just watching her makes my dick flinch inside her. She’s going to set me off sooner than she thinks.

  “Oh God. Oh God. I’m going come.” The final word is an elongated cry as she splits apart, juices dripping from her and dribbling around me.

  Holy shit. It’s too much. I surge into her with one final thrust, and I break, jetting off inside her.

  “You okay?” I whisper as I release her legs, which flop to the bed from the exertion. Her head rolls to the side, and I lower over her.

  “Is it bad that I really liked that?” she questions, sheepish and shy about what we did.

  “Is it bad that I really like you?” I counter question, and her head rolls, so she faces me.

  “Not at all,” she quietly offers, and my mouth seeks hers, giving her tender kisses which I hope to receive every day from this night forward.

  Epilogue

  3 months later

  Alene

  Over the next months, we date, we make love, and we return to the gym. Haywood doesn’t come up again as an extra to our team. Eric tells me I’m all he wants, and I tell him he’s all I need. While our night with him was fun, I don’t need to do it again.

  “Lean on the bench,” he tells me as I fold to my knees and place my middle along the cushioned seat. “Hands gripping the top,” he commands, and I reach forward for the opposite edge of the weight bench.

  Eric kneels behind me, rubbing his hands up and down the back of my legs. My body has tightened up as we’ve put in some legitimate workouts, which normally end up with us screwing somewhere. We’re lucky if we make it back to my apartment. Once we ducked behind a tree after a run, and another time, we ended up in the back seat of his car.

  Tonight, our gym workout leads to this position—him behind me, primed and ready. I’ve given him all he wanted, but he doesn’t go there often. Just enough to be reckless and dirty like his words sometimes.

  “Ready for me, baby?” he whispers, placing his tip at my entrance and nudging gently inside me. He’s teasing me tonight by entering and retracting, bringing me to the brink but not taking me over it. Hopefully, he’s finally done with the cat and mouse play as I need to come. Stretching over my back, he leans forward for my hands gripping the opposite edge of the bench.

  “Breathe, baby,” he tells me, and I purr, eager for him to fill me like only he can. He slips forward to the hilt and then drags to my entrance, taunting me like he’s going to withdraw, only he rushes forward again. “Fuck, you fulfill everything for me.”

  “You do the same for me,” I say quietly, and it’s so true. He plays my body, working me up and pushing my limits, and then he catches me as I fall.

  “I love you,” he whispers, pressing inward and stilling. His mouth comes to my ear, pinning me under his weight. “This isn’t how I planned to tell you, but I want you to know how I feel. It isn’t just the sex talking either. I love how you laugh, and how you get my jokes. I love that you get worked up over baseball, and you snuggle into me when we sleep. Most of all, I love that you just take me as I am.”

  “You’re perfect,” I say, knowing he accepts me for who I am and wants only me. He’s admitted how he struggled with his own perception of perfection after his injury and losing his career, then his temper and losing a job. “I love you, too.”

  He pulls out of me, and I whimper his name. Not again. He’s been teasing me all night like this—fingers, tongue, dick. He drags me off the side of the bench and flips me to my back, catching me before I hit the mat. Gently, he lowers me, and without additional words, he slips into me again, keeping his eyes on mine.

  “I’m the trainer, but somehow, I feel like you’ve trained me,” he says, his voice lowering as he slips forward. His hand reaches for one of mine, clasping our fingers together. “I know this is where we started, but I don’t want us to end.”

  I still myself, staring up at him. “What are you saying?” I question, wondering why we’re having this conversation, connected as we are, and then I realize he wants to feel me as I answer him.

  “Move in with me.”

  I stare at him a minute before I break into a smile I can’t help. My teeth gnaw at the corner of my lip, and my legs circle his waist. My free hand reaches for
his firm ass, sculpted to perfection, and I hold him in place, buried within me.

  “I would love to move in with you.” He hates how cold my apartment feels with no personality, he says, and he’s been looking at homes, bringing me along with him.

  “We’re putting in a workout room wherever we live,” he says, and I rock my hips upward.

  “Think we can just finish this workout first?” I tease.

  “Absolutely, baby,” he says, lowering his mouth for mine. “Thank you.”

  “For what, honey?” I question.

  “For giving me every part of you, especially your heart.”

  I smile at him again, and he finally moves, showing me with his powerful body how strong his own heart is and how he feels about me as the one who trained him.

  + + +

  Did you enjoy this reading experience? Want to read what happened with Andrew? When the Handyman Comes.

  OR perhaps you’d like to start at the beginning? The Doctor Will See You.

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  Turn the page for the first chapter of The Doctor Will See You.

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  Nibble of The Doctor Will See You

  1

  I didn’t know what I’d gotten myself into. Recently divorced, I’d met a young woman who just listened to me rant. I didn’t know why I felt the need to expound my current sexual status on her, but the dating apps had frustrated me. Who could you trust on there? Singles adventure clubs? The annual fees were high, and only half the activities interested me. And then there were the simple singles bars, which I entered once before turning right back around and leaving.

  Being unmarried sucked in this aspect. The issue was I still wanted sex. I didn’t want to be alone with only my fingers. I wanted the feel of a man—the wet of his tongue, the curl of his fingers, and the strength of his hands on me—and I was getting desperate.

  “Have you ever considered swinging?” she suggested, and I nearly fell off my chair. A southern Florida coffee shop seemed like the last place to have this kind of discussion and with a stranger, no less, but she didn’t look like a social deviant. In fact, she looked normal. Average in height, dark brunette hair, the body of someone still youthful, with friendly eyes, and a wedding band.

  “Never thought of it,” I said after choking on my tea.

  She paused for a moment as if she were assessing me and then added, “Not everyone who swings is married. Some are in relationships, and some are single. People participate in all manner of combinations. Couples who want a third party or a single participant looking for a couple who shares. Sometimes, it’s just a mutual agreement between three, but the term comes more so from those looking to experiment within a relationship.”

  I stare down at my paper placemat, uncertain how to respond. It sounded crazy and a bit obscene, but I wasn’t one to judge. I was jealous, in a way. Maybe if Stan and I had experimented more or been a bit more adventurous, things wouldn’t have gotten to the point where they ended. Especially with him in the bed of his secretary.

  “Here’s my name,” she said, offering it on a paper napkin along with a phone number. “If you have any questions. Otherwise, I’d recommend contacting this number. He’s a doctor.” She winked after handing me the napkin, and I took it, smiling good-naturedly even though I knew I’d never call.

  However, the numbers haunted me, and a week later, when I was cleaning out the old receipts in my purse, the napkin remained intact with her perfect script and two phone numbers, the second marked with an asterisk.

  “Dr. Lubton’s office,” a masculine voice answers on the second ring, and the professional confidence in his voice surprises me.

  “I…I’m looking for the doctor.” I swallow back the sudden stutter. “Jessica DeMarco suggested I call.”

  A heavy pause of silence weighs through the phone for a second, and I wonder if I’ve lost the connection. “Hello?”

  “Were you looking for a full exam?” he questions, and I remember Jessica mentioning to request such a thing. I nod, and then recall he can’t see me.

  “Yes.”

  “And will your husband be joining you?” I blink down at the napkin, pinched between my fingers.

  “I don’t have a husband.” Silence falls again, and after another weighted second, I ask, “Do I need one?”

  A soft chuckle fills the line, reassuring instead of mocking. “No.” Pause. “But may I ask if this will be your first exam of this sort?”

  Closing my eyes, I think, What am I doing? I’m no longer certain, and not certain how to answer, so I go with the truth. “Yes.”

  “I see, and for the purposes of an initial consultation, would you prefer an assistant be in the room?”

  Did I want someone else present? A witness to my humiliation? Again, I wasn’t certain what exactly I was getting myself into, any more than I knew how to answer the question. Deciding that embarrassing myself in my lack of knowledge should best be done alone, I reply, “I think I’ll be okay without one.”

  “Very well.” There wasn’t a hint of a smile or frown in his tone, but the continued smoothness of a true doctor. Good bedside manner. I want to laugh out loud at the pun. Instead, I wait for his instructions on how to proceed.

  “I have an eleven o’clock on Thursday open.” It’s strange to consider he does this more than one time a day with more than one person, possibly more than one person at a time, and I realize I’m at great risk of making a fool of myself. Not to mention, can I muster my libido midmorning on a weekday? Remain open-minded, I remind myself. He called it a consultation. Maybe he really is a doctor. Maybe we only discuss options. Maybe he can explain what’s happening to me at forty-five as a single woman, previously married, and desperately seeking pleasure.

  “Thursday would be fine,” I say, knowing my calendar is flexible. I’m a real estate agent. The southern Florida market ebbs and flows based on weather predictions and the hurricane season. I’m mildly successful but wish I was doing better. Older people are a key to my accomplishments, and I fear one day I’ll be classified as one of them. Old.

  “Please dress comfortably and be prepared to sign a consent form.” The instructions surprise me, and once again, I nod. “I look forward to meeting you.” He finishes the call with the address.

  + + +

  On Thursday morning, I pamper and prep, taking a bath to relax and then a shower to shave the areas I’m most concerned with. I haven’t graduated to the waxing craze, and I’m assuming today I’ll learn if that’s necessary. Once present at the medical center, a surprisingly ordinary-looking building, the receptionist greets me, then asks me to take a seat for a second.

  As I sit, my legs cross but shake uncontrollably. I raise a hand to swipe back my silver-blond hair and realize my fingers tremble as well.

  “Whatcha here for?” an older woman next to me asks, possibly noticing my tremors.

  “Routine exam,” I say with a weak smile. Her runny eyes narrow at me, and I worry she’s sick. I hope she isn’t contagious. Thankfully, my name is called out, and I greet the receptionist once again, who gives me a bored expression, waving her hand dismissively to a set of doors.

  “Down the hall to suite 3B.”

  I nod and enter the wide hallway, surprised by the antiseptic scent. The quiet corridor is lined with medical suites, some with blinds exposing their private waiting areas and others closed from view. When I reach suite 3B, I hesitate outside the door. Nondescript, the door offers no explanatory label other than the room number. The specialty within the office before me is unknown, and once again, I question what I’m getting myself into. I’ve already passed a rheumatologist, a podiatrist, and a psychiatrist. Maybe the last one is the office I need. My frame of mi
nd needs examining.

  But my hand reaches for the handle, and while my heart races, I push through the unlocked door.

  I enter some kind of exam room, complete with extra seating, a scale, and a blood pressure cuff, and I’m concerned I’m in the wrong place. It looks like a phlebotomy lab, where blood might be drawn, and I wonder if I need to give blood to participate. Recently, I’d been to my OB/GYN for a routine female physical, and I brought the paperwork with me, just in case any of this was legitimately medicinal.

  As I stand, waiting for what comes next, I hear the soft tinkle of a bell through this intake room and tilt my head to see a second room with a physician’s exam table and additional seating. A man dressed in blue scrubs with a white lab coat slides into view on a rolling stool.

  He’s an older gentleman, no more than fifty, which immediately puts me at ease with my seasoned age. His face is freshly shaven with etched features, and he stands, reaching for some antibacterial soap as he exits the second room. Rubbing his hands together, he draws closer to me and greets me.

  “Lana, I’m Dr. Lubton. Please come in.” His tone is crisp, deep, and soothing, and while my body continues to quake, I’m lulled by his cadence as he directs me to the inner room.

  I take a seat on one of the two extra chairs he points me toward and cross my legs once again, which visibly bounce. If he notices, he doesn’t comment but returns to the rolling stool and scoots over to a desk then back to me with a clipboard in hand.

  “How are you feeling today?” he begins, cool as a common doctor.

  “Nervous,” I admit with a chuckle.