of them spoke while he completed the exercise. She stood stock-still, observing him. There was something strangely sensual about the complete silence except for the whisper of their feet against the floor. The air crackled between them.
Her eyes flicked over his body. Was she assessing or admiring?
‘You need to rotate your turn-out more,’ she said, walking to him. She placed her hands on his upper thighs, smoothing the muscles outwards. ‘Otherwise you’re putting a lot of strain on the knees.’
Her hands lingered on his thighs, all too close to where his body cried out for her touch. He stirred and bit down on his lip. There was no way he’d be able to hide an erection in these damn tights.
At this distance he could see that her eyes were not merely brown but a medley of chocolate shades: milk, caramel and dark cocoa. Her skin was porcelain-white. She lacked the flaws—freckles and scars—that years on the field had given him. Her lips were rosebud-pink, parted and moistened by the gentle swipe of her tongue.
‘If you leave your hands there I take no responsibility for what happens.’ He leant in, closing the gap between them.
Her eyes flickered up to him, her lips pursing. God, he wanted to taste her. Was she game?
‘Lucky for you I have no problem with taking responsibility,’ she said, withdrawing her hands. ‘You should try it some time.’
Damn.
As they cooled down and stretched out she kept her distance, eyeing him as one might a large dog that wasn’t on a lead. He was momentarily distracted by the sharp pull in his hamstring. Stifling a groan, he leant into the stretch but couldn’t get enough from it. This damn injury was affecting his game and it was pissing him off.
‘Do you want a hand with that?’ She pushed up onto her feet and came closer.
He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, I want a hand—’
‘Finish that sentence and you’ll get nothing,’ she warned.
Jasmine Bell wore the prissy schoolteacher look better than he’d thought possible.
He kept his mouth shut and she knelt down in front of him. ‘Lie flat on your back and put your right leg up. I’ll give you a little push.’
Was it his imagination or did a subtle flush of pink rise up her neck as she instructed him? She leant her shoulder into the back of his thigh and eased forwards. With her body too close to his, he should have been revelling in the fantasy.
Unfortunately the muscle was so resistant he had to blow out a long breath and focus his energy on allowing it to lengthen. For once he couldn’t even voice the innuendo.
Cold fear trickled down the length of his spine. What if his injury couldn’t be fixed? What if he couldn’t lead the Jaguars to victory? He’d bet everything on his career, and if he lost he’d have nothing at all.
* * *
At the time of her next lesson with Grant, Jasmine was in the studio, choreographing a routine for the teachers of the EJ Ballet School. Looking sexy as hell in a leather jacket over his hoodie and jeans, he stood about in the waiting room, watching her through the viewing mirror. He was early...for once.
Instead of heading straight out, Jasmine had the sudden urge to put on a show. She stretched out at the barre, determined to show off the best of her flexibility. Inside, her head sensibly protested that he was not the kind of guy to encourage. But the thought that he might up the ante of their teasing sent a shiver down her spine. Their last lesson had thrown her into a spin. His questions, the genuine concern in his voice, the tenderness of his touch...it was enough to make even the most sensible girl fantasise. And sensible was Jasmine’s middle name.
Her heart fluttered as she stretched, excitement dancing along her nerves. What was wrong with her? She shook her head and forced herself to focus. Abandoning the barre, she set her shoulders straight and drew a deep breath.
Elise got to Grant before Jasmine made it to the waiting room. She was throwing all her charm at him—flipping her wispy blond ponytail and offering him a smile that could power a small city. Something twisted in Jasmine’s gut—a strange pang that she hadn’t experienced in a long time. She pushed it aside and walked out in time to catch the tail-end of their conversation.
‘That would be amazing!’ Elise’s voice was high-pitched. Buoyant. ‘Did you hear that? Grant is going to get us access to the Long Room for Friday’s game. We can watch him in action.’
A warm heat flared in Jasmine’s chest. Access to the Long Room was more than a couple of general admin tickets. It was a sweet gesture, and for some strange reason it made her tummy flutter. Whether that was from the generosity of his act or the thought of seeing him in his element, she didn’t know.
‘Isn’t that exciting?’ Elise nudged Jasmine in the ribs with her elbow, a hint of warning in her voice.
‘That’s extremely generous,’ Jasmine said.
However, as the warm flush of excitement faded she realised what his invitation meant. Access to the Long Room was kind of like an insider event in the art world—filled with people who knew one another, who dressed the same way, who belonged. And she didn’t belong with the other halves of football’s elite.
Her heart sank. ‘Of course I’ll have to make sure I don’t have anything else on.’
‘You don’t have anything else on,’ Elise said pointedly, her elbow once again digging into Jasmine’s ribs. ‘We’ll definitely come and watch.’
Relax, she told herself, it won’t be like the art community. Sport is inclusive, right? Her stomach pitched. Her ex had dragged her around to all manner of gallery openings, VIP exhibitions and artist previews. She’d never fitted in. Everyone at those events had been able to afford the art hanging on the walls. She’d had more in common with the paintings themselves than the people she’d been paraded in front of.
‘Great.’ Grant flashed them both a smile. His eyes lingered for longer than necessary on Jasmine. ‘Elise has given me your number so I’ll text you the details.’
‘Great.’ Jasmine fought to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Of course Elise had given him her number—why would she expect anything less?
An amused smile played on his lips. The two women watched him walk into the studio, both of them locking on to the way his hips rolled in their lazy, sensual gait.
‘I can’t believe you gave him my number.’ Jasmine glared at her friend as soon as the door swung closed behind him.
‘I’m doing you a favour, Jazz,’ Elise said, positioning her hands on her hips. ‘He’s drooling over you during class and you’re too chicken to do anything about it.’
‘That’s not true. He’s practically a celebrity—he could have any of those red-carpet bimbos by his side.’
‘Yes, but he’s looking at you.’ Elise sighed. ‘You’re too blinded by your own stubbornness to see it.’
‘I am not stubborn.’ But even as she said it Jasmine knew it was a lie.
‘Right.’ As if on
