What am I doing?
Sherry should be putting an end to whatever it was she'd started with Rob. She enjoyed teasing him — enjoyed the hell out of it, and she'd never had more fun choosing which panties to wear each morning — but she didn't need someone in her life who wouldn't appreciate her for all she was.
She needed someone who wanted more than to have his fetish indulged.
Yet somehow she'd looked into his eyes and something there had prompted her to suggest she watch him play tennis, to see if he was the hotshot that others had made him out to be (though, in fairness, he'd never bragged).
So she'd hurried home and changed, hating herself just a little for thinking of him when she picked out her new outfit and stepped into a fresh pair of panties. Fuck it. Teasing him was entirely too delicious.
***
"He's on the last court," the guy at the front desk told her. The indoor tennis center was as bizarre to her as any circus. Four courts laid side to side, with a floor-to-ceiling net stretching along the entire right side so people could walk to any court without interrupting play.
Her chest vibrated with the thwock of tennis balls exploding off racquets and the grunts of men and women dripping with sweat. As she walked toward the last court, a ball struck the netting and a short guy with muscular legs retrieved it, seeming to see nothing but the ball and the next point before him. His legs looked as though they could propel him into the rafters. Intense.
The last court appeared to be empty, but then she saw Rob talking to a man who appeared to be in his fifties, at least by the silver streaks in his hair. His coach?
Rob broke into a smile when he saw her, and the other man looked in her direction.
Sherry could almost feel him taking in her outfit, a shortish white dress with a faux red belt, the closest she had to her image of a tennis outfit. She'd even completed the look with white sneakers.
"Where's your racquet?" Rob asked as she stepped around the net and walked onto the court.
Sherry laughed. "Trust me, you don't want to see me play."
"I would love to see you play," Rob countered. "This is my coach, Tim."
"Hi, Tim," Sherry said, and shook his hand.
"Former coach," Tim corrected. "Rob said his coworker wanted to see him hit, and I was already here. You're in for a treat."
"Yeah, I heard he won Wimbledon or something," Sherry said, catching Rob's eye.
Rob looked down, and Tim said, "You can't win a Slam if you walk away."
"Yeah, yeah," Rob said. "I know you only have a few minutes, so let's hit." Addressing Sherry, he said, "You can sit there, if you like." Rob indicated bleachers snugged up to the court on the farthest wall of the center.
"Happily," she said, walking over and climbing to the second row, not failing to notice Rob eyeing her legs as she sat. Her skirt rode up to the middle of her plump thighs, but she kept her knees together, giving him nothing.
Rob struck a ball across the court and when Tim stroked it back Rob pivoted, bent his knees, described an arc with his racquet and whipped the head of it around so the ball fired across the court like a bullet. Tim directed it back across the court — to Rob's backhand, she thought it was called — and he described an even bigger arc with his racquet, this time the head of it almost touching his back on the backswing.
Thwock.
She'd never seen anything like it.
