Free Excerpt from Pleasure Points

Chapter One

Grady

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Thanks
to an overzealous marketing department, there are a half dozen microphones
shoved in my face and the season hasn’t even officially begun yet.

“Grady, are you ready
for the first game of the season?”

I
start to answer when I see a burst of red-gold hair that leaves me
speechless.

The
golden locks are long, shiny, and I instantly need to know what they’d feel like against
my skin. Are they as soft as they look? Do they still smell like her shampoo?

She
half turns, glancing down at a paper in her hands. The fifteen feet separating
us is too much. My heart begins to thunder, demanding I take action. Reach out
to her.

I
have no idea who the woman is, but her profile etches itself into my mind.

Before
I can overcome my stunned state, she saunters off and the spell breaks. I slam
my lips closed and glance at the array of microphones. Our marketing
coordinator stands behind them a few feet, waving his hands in a ‘get moving’ motion.

I
laugh. “Sorry,
I was just envisioning how good it will feel to kick Demon butt.”

I
take a deep breath and keep a smile on my face. Interview questions are
suddenly not important, finding the beautiful mystery woman is. If I’d been on any other
team, if I didn’t take my responsibilities so seriously, I would walk away.

But
I can’t.

No
matter how alluring she is, no matter how much I need to find out what her
voice sounds like and what she’s doing down here. The only thing I have going for me is
that her kind of beauty is rare. She’ll be hard to miss, so someone will know
who she is.

My
heartbeat steadies.

Someone
will know who she is and then, so will I.

I’m starting to think
I’m going crazy. Two days have passed, and I’ve asked everyone I’ve come
across, from Coach to the janitorial staff, if they can identify my mystery
woman.

There’s an
anxiousness in my stomach I can’t fix and I’m sure it has to do with her.

I’ve replayed her
image in my head a thousand times, so often that I begin to question my sanity.
Did I imagine her? Could that be it? She’s just a dream girl, a figment of
my imagination?

Thoughts
of her kept me from bringing my A game tonight and I have no one to be pissed
at but myself. It didn’t
matter how many times I told myself to focus, to click in, my eyes kept looking
for her.

Sighing,
I rub my hand over the back of my neck. My inattention cost me. I’m aching all over
and a hot shower didn’t do all that much to help.

Turning
into the therapy room, my eyes lock on lean, porcelain limbs. My bare feet stumble
to a stop as I glimpse red-gold hair.

“Confounded…
junk… I should throw—” She stops her diatribe as if sensing she’s
no longer alone. Straightening, she keeps one hand on whatever the hunk of wood
and metal is.

I
instantly love her colorful language. At her full height, she barely reaches my
chin. That’s
okay; I believe good things can come in small packages. Pivoting, her brown
eyes go wide as they lock on mine. She tucks a strand of her gorgeous hair
behind her ear and offers me a tiny smile.

“Sorry. It’s a bit
of a love-hate relationship, I’m afraid.” She waves toward the thing at
her feet. A second inspection makes me think it’s a massage table.

Whoever
this angelic woman is, she’s definitely not my usual masseuse. Not that I’m
complaining.

No sir.

A
long, thorough perusal shows that her front half is just as delicious as her
back half. Cut-off denim hugs her thighs and a ruby red tank top encases a
torso with curves in all the right places. Her long, strawberry blonde hair is
pulled back in a ponytail that snakes over her shoulder and down to her breast.
It’s messy and
glorious, escaping the confines of the elastic.

In
a word, she’s
spectacular. My teenaged fantasy come to life. Fresh faced and so fucking
kissable. Her words, her slight accent, charm me.

And
she’s going to have her
hands all over me?

My
hormones go haywire.

I
don’t care what her credentials are, I want her hands on me.

“Where’s Chelsea?” I
ask, realizing I should say something instead of standing there like a mute.

Her
lips turn down and I want to smack myself up the back of the head. For just a
moment I’d
been able to enjoy her unguarded regard and then I stepped in it.

“Oh. Um. She broke
her wrist.” The woman’s lips twist to the side.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Grady
McMasters.” I step forward, holding out my hand.

She
glances from my hand up to my face and her semi-smile returns. What would it
take to make her really smile? Like light up a room, mega-wattage smile? And
why the hell does it matter?

Why
does it feel like she matters?

“Daisy
Smith-Alexander.” Her hand slides into mine, palm against palm; she has the
softest skin I’ve ever felt. A tingle sweeps through me, awareness humming
through my veins. If she had my attention before, I’m laser focused on her now.

Never
has a hand-shake gone from polite introduction to hot-and-heavy fantasy so
quickly.

And
she squeezes as she pumps.

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Holy
hell, that’s
hot. I’ve never felt a grip like hers  on
a woman. Her hand isn’t large, but I immediately get the impression she really
knows how to use them.

“Nice to meet you,
Daisy.”

Understatement
of the century.

I ’ve finally found you.

The
thought echoes through my mind and I realize it has a double meaning.
Obviously, she’s
the woman I’ve been searching for the last two days. But it’s something more.
It feels like there’s more to our meeting, to her. She seems familiar and yet
I’m certain we’ve never met.

My
heart is thundering again.

She
stares up at me, her face an open book. I know when a woman is
attracted to me. It started when I was a teenager and I started lifting
weights in the garage. I keep my hair a little on the long side, I seem to have
a perpetual 5 o’clock
shadow, and more than a few women have told me I have ‘incredible
eyelashes.’

“You too.” She sounds
distracted, and she hasn’t looked away yet.

I
can’t help
but smile.

She
is the breath of fresh air I need after that game. What a cock-up. My left
shoulder is killing me thanks to a run-in with the glass. More than once. The
ache reminds me why I’m
here.

Except,
now I feel like there’s
so much more to it than a massage. I need to find out more about her. I don’t
see a wedding ring, but she wouldn’t be the first person to not wear one while
working with her hands.

“Should we get
started?”

She
blinks.

Damn,
she’s cute. Gorgeous and cute. How is that even possible?

“Oh!” Her sexy lips
curve around the word and I feel a punch to my gut. “Right. Um… just—” She
steps back, her hand dropping from mine. I’m tempted to grab her hand again,
explore her and say forget about the massage. But my shoulder protests.

After
such a tough game, the last thing I expected was to come in here and be so…
delighted. All of my frustration with myself, my team, the refs drains away and
in its place, a new sort of intensity blossoms. As she struggles with her
massage table, my attention narrows on her.

To
those talented fingers and the ponytail that begs for my hands.

God,
I hope she’s
not married. Or serious with someone.

My
hands clench into fists and I force them to relax. Just because she’s hot and her legs
make me want them around my hips…

“Two minutes. I need
two minutes.” She wrestles her folding table into a corner. “I didn’t find out
I was replacing Chelsea until half an hour ago. I think I broke a land-speed
record to get here and I’m still late. She didn’t tell me if I needed a table
or not and—I’m babbling.”

She
purses her lips.

I
smile.

She
looks around frantically before her gaze narrows on the heavy duty massage
table. I cross my arms over my chest and watch her flit around in an enchanting
dance. Her movements are so fluid, so effortless, I admire the way she has
complete control over her body. She finds all the supplies she needs and hums
as she sets everything up.

Christ,
this is a bad idea. I’ve
shaken her hand, stared at her for five minutes and heard her voice a handful
of times, yet it’s enough to make my cock hard as ice. And the towel hugging my
hips will not hide all ten inches of Grady Jr.

Maybe
I should just forgo the massage. Because the idea of those strong hands
running down my body, kneading the strain of the day away…

Fuck.

My
dick is already weeping.

“All set,” she
singsongs. “I’m sure you know the routine?”

She
makes herself scarce when I nod. Damn, she even smells like a dream. It‘s on the tip of my tongue to
call her back just so I can get another whiff of the strawberry scent or was it
bubble gum?

Get on the table.

Easier
said than done with a raging hard on.

Once I’m under the sheet,
face down, cock squished between my body and the table, I feel her at my side.

The
first touch of her hands makes every muscle in my body tighten like a guitar
string. Her skin is cool, her touch sure.

“Hmm.” She doesn’t
sound pleased.

“Something wrong?”

“You feel wound so
tight you might snap.”

Or
explode.

“Explode?”

Fuck.
I said that out loud.

“Rough game.”

“I know nothing about
hockey, but isn’t it, you know, a rough sport?”

“How can you not know
anything about hockey?”

“Well, for starters,
I’m from a little town in South Georgia. The only ice we see is in our glass of
sweet tea.”

That
explained the accent.

Her
thumbs dig into my shoulders, eliciting a groan.

“Too hard?” she asks,
pausing.

“No. Perfect. You
have magnificent hands.”

Three
heartbeats of silence stretch before she starts working my muscles again.

“Thank you.”

“So, what’s a girl
from South Georgia doing all the way up here?” I want to learn everything about
her, especially why shyness crept into her voice. I don’t question it. There’s
something about her.

“Change of scenery.”

I’m sure there’s more
to it, to her, than that.

“Big change.”

“Certainly is,” she
says and gives a wry laugh. There’s a story there, and it piques my curiosity.

“How long have you
lived here?”

“About a year.”

Not
long. Maybe I should offer to play tour guide.

Her
fingers gently dig into a spot on my lower back that has plagued me for days.
All thoughts of ending her tour at my place vanish as a moan rumbles through
me. If she’d
just keep that up, I might be good as new.

To
her credit, she doesn’t
ease up. She keeps working my flesh until I almost can’t stand it any longer.

I’ve always
respected Chelsea and her job, kept my distance, but Daisy is a different
story. I respect the hell out of her and those talented hands but there’s no
way I can keep my distance.

I
stare down at her baby blue toenails. An unusual choice, but it suits her.

Toes
have never been high on my list of things to look for in a woman but with the
world blotted out and my focus zeroed on them, I can’t help but find
them sexy.

She
smells fresh, clean, like a sweetly scented breeze blowing through the locker
room. A toe ring graces the second toe on her left foot.

I
stop myself from reaching out to trace the small, nondescript tattoo on her
right foot. Believe.

“How many tattoos do
you have?” I murmur.

“Six.”

Interesting.

What
would she do if I slid my hand up the inside of her leg?

Would
she swat my hand or let me tease the frayed edges of her shorts? Would she let
me find all her tattoos?

As
she works my legs, I let my mind wander. I bet there’s one at the small
of her back. A butterfly, maybe. And something delicate on her shoulder. In my
experience women love getting tattoos that show when they wear a tank top. It’s
like a secret they get to unveil when they want.

Six
tattoos…

She
hits a spot on the bottom of my foot that makes me groan with pleasure. Damn,
the woman has strong hands. I say as much.

“Massage is only
partly about hand strength,” she quips so quickly I can tell she hears
that a lot.

“Mmm…”

Finish reading

She
hits another spot and my eyes roll back. Holy hell.

“A lot of it is
anatomy.” Firm fingertips run along either side of my Achilles tendon. Her
voice is soft and soothing. “Knowing which muscles to address, when a specific
area needs extra attention.”

My
cock needs extra attention. In the worst fucking way.

Laying
here, feeling her hands kneading my flesh, unable to touch her back… it’s driving me mad.

I’ve been holding off
an orgasm for at least fifteen minutes.

Her
hands coast up my left calf.

Keep going.

“There are pleasure,
I mean, pressure points to consider,” she recovers quickly.

I smile at her
fumble.

 She rattles off some big words, as if she’s
trying to cover her gaff. Her palms continue north. I’m totally digging it. She
obviously knows her stuff, and fuck me, if a Brainiac isn’t sexy as hell.

I’m trying to decide
which will make me come first, her touch or her words, when I hear someone
enter the room.

“Dammit, Grady. Quit
hoggin’ the hands.”

“Go away, Val.”

The
goalie utters a few choice words. The kid’s a hothead. We all know it. He’s
constantly getting into fights on and off the ice. It’s like he’s got a death
wish.

Lucky
for him, he’s
talented. But no one wants a loose cannon on their team. I’ve tried to explain
that, mentor him.

Daisy
doesn’t
miss a beat.

“Give us twenty
minutes.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

He
stalks off, mumbling to himself. I hear the part where he calls me a daddy’s boy and
mutters something about nepotism.

“Nepotism, huh?”
Daisy murmurs. She’s working my other foot now.

I’m pretty sure
I’ve died and gone to heaven.

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