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“Do you have epsom salts?” Stevie asks as she opens cupboards and peeks around.
I point to the linen closet. “Should be some in there.”
She runs the water and puts the stopper in the drain, then opens the linen closet. The epsom salts are on the top shelf. Stevie isn’t particularly tall, maybe five four at best, so she has to stand on her tiptoes to reach it.
She manages to get the epsom salts down and dumps a healthy amount into the water, swirling it around to help it dissolve.
“All right, time to strip down,” she says when the bath is half-full.
I wait for her to give me some privacy, but she just stands there, one eyebrow arched, hands on her hips.
“You want me to get naked in front of you?”
“You’ve been flashing me your panties for weeks.”
She has a point. I pull my shirt over my head and drop it on the floor. I have to brace my weight on the counter so I can rise up enough to pull my sweats over my hips, which really hurts. I sit back down with a groan and slide them past my knees. Bending over causes more pain, so Stevie steps up and helps take them off the rest of the way.
I can’t even make it from the toilet to the tub without crutches. I sit on the edge and take a few deep breaths, waiting until the worst of the vicious stabbing pains ease.
Stevie settles her palms on my shoulders. “You okay?”
I lift my head, which isn’t the best idea, since her tits are right in my face. They’re covered by a T-shirt and a bra, but still. They look like they’d be a comfortable place to rest my head. I look down instead of doing that, except now I’m staring at her crotch. Again, covered in black yoga pants, but she’s female and gorgeous, and I’m full of testosterone. Pent-up testosterone, some latent rage, and a high level of frustration over being benched for six weeks. And for the first time in what feels like four million eons, I think I might actually like this woman beyond the surface. I wonder if she’s wearing a pair of those shorts she favors under the yoga pants. I wonder if she’ll wear them for our physio sessions.
“Bishop, you in there?” She snaps her fingers.
“Huh?” I look up, all the way to her face.
Her brow is arched. “You were off in la-la land.”
“Sorry.” The la-la land of her yoga-pants-covered pussy. “Are you gonna leave me alone to soak?”
“I’m going to help you into the tub first.”
“I can get in without help.”
She props a fist on her hip. “You couldn’t get your feet up on the couch last night without help.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Well, go ahead and get in, then.” She takes a step back and motions for me to have at it.
“With my boxers on?”
“Yes, Bishop. With your boxers on. You’re not going to burn candles and sip wine while reading your favorite trashy book. You’re going to sit in a warm bath for fifteen minutes, and then we’re going to assess the damage and see how stiff you are.”
“Fuck. Fine.” I brace my hands on the edge of the tub and turn my body, thinking it’ll be easier to get my good leg over first, and then I can lift the injured one in.
In theory it’s a fantastic idea. In practice it’s a terrible idea. I manage to get my good leg up and over, but the pain is excruciating. I scream and grab Stevie because she’s the closest, most stable thing I can hold on to. The water in the tub is warm, but it’s got nothing on the fire in my goddamn groin.
“Fucking Christ, it feels like my balls are trying to detach from my body,” I groan.
“Would you like some help getting into the tub now?” The “I told you so” is clear in her tone.
“I need a minute.” I take several semishallow breaths, waiting for the sick feeling and ball burning to cease.
It isn’t until I’m no longer blinded by pain that I realize I’m full-on hugging Stevie and that her arms are trapped at her sides. My cheek is also pressed against her boob. I was right about it being a soft place to rest my head.
“Sorry.” I release her.
“Maybe next time you’ll stow the alpha ‘I can do it on my own’ bullshit and save yourself some unnecessary pain.”
She makes me lift my arm and drapes it over her shoulder. She’s incredibly small compared to me. She tucks one arm under my knee and gently grips the back of my calf with the other. “On the count of three,” she orders. I tense up when she hits three. She gets my leg about six inches off the floor, which is when I scream bloody murder again and grab on to her with both hands.
