KAMERON
"Harder, Kam!" Mallory's voice was breathy and insistant.
I grunted, not because it hurt, or because of the effort I was expending trying to peddle the damn bike with my bad leg, but because the physical therapist was making it sound like we were making porn in the gym.
Mallory Mason had come very highly recommended by a colleague of mine, as a top-rated "physical therapist to the stars" who was willing to make house calls. She leaned over the recumbent bike. As I found myself staring at her cleavage again, I began to wonder exactly what kind of house calls she'd been making with my colleague.
She was a beautiful woman, in the classic augmented Hollywood kind of way, but I did not find her in the least bit attractive. Everything about her was fake, overdone and contrived.
