“Fill it up and come to the living room.”
A smile tightens my face as I walk away and he does as I ask without a fight. I kneel and sift through my supplies, finally removing a thick mat and a foam roller. From my suitcase I remove a set of adjustable weights. I hear the soft roll of wheels on his carpet as he approaches me.
The odd connection I feel to this stranger is confusing the crap out of me. The desire to not only feel his body over, under, and in mine but to know the Viktor living in him—before the anger and pain coated him. I shake my head, scattering my crazy thoughts.
Our eyes meet, and his eyes focus on mine in a way that scares me. They search mine and widen a fraction. They move over my face and down my body in a caress. My body lights up, and my breath catches at the intimacy of it.
I clear my throat. “Okay, um, let’s get started.” At his slight nod, I continue. “I’m sure some of this stuff will be familiar to you. First, we both need you to take care of yourself. You need to stay hydrated, eat healthy, shower, and make sure your limb’s skin is clean, and at its best. I’m going to help you strengthen not only your residual leg, but we also need to make sure your left leg is at its strongest. We are going to work on your balance and upper body strength. You’ll be sore, but I need you to tell me if there is any pain at all. Okay?”
“Okay,” he mumbles, and his lips pull into a thin line.
“Before we start, I need to see your leg and make sure everything looks good.”
He chuckles. “Trying to get in my pants already.”
I swallow my own laughter at the way his brows raise suggestively. “You’re wearing shorts, Viktor.”
His fingers lift and push on the material to the stump shrinker, and it rolls off what is left of his calf. Kneeling before him, I look at the puckered flesh where the sutures brought his skin together. I lift my hand and press my fingers along the skin and muscles of his stump.
Viktor hisses as his leg jerks under my touch, and our gazes collide. “Does this hurt?”
His eyes darken. “No,” he grits out.
“Viktor, in order for me to help you get stronger, you need to talk to me.” Tilting my head, I study his expression. I rub the tissue and note the visual level of discomfort before his leg retreats. The muscle in his jaw tenses, and his lips pull back tight. “Okay, go ahead and put it back on.” I nod at the material in his lap.
I watch him slip the shrinker back into place and lean back with his hands over his stomach. For sitting in a wheelchair, he looks comfortable. Viktor watches me, and his attention makes me dizzy. It’s so intense that I need to force myself to break the connection.
Over the course of the next hour, I stretch the muscles in his legs and back. Teaching him along the way so he can use each motion on his own to ease any pain. Viktor listens to my words, nodding and speaking only when absolutely necessary.
None of it surprises me. Viktor is like so many of my previous patients. The path to recovery is much more than strengthening my client’s bodies. Their minds, hearts, and muscles need to heal and learn to cope with their new bodies. My ultimate goal is to help Viktor realize that his injury doesn’t have to hold him back.
“Go ahead and lie back. I need to grab something.” I reach in my bag for some instant ice I keep on hand and return to where he’s lying with his eyes closed. I take a moment to check him out without embarrassment.
He’s absolutely beautiful. Both of his arms are covered in tattoos, one design woven into the next. The T-shirt he put on earlier now covers the upper half of his body, but from his nearly naked welcome, I know his tattoos continue all the way up. A few disappear over his traps and onto his back. Stories in picture form cover him, on display for all to see. Some are in bright vivid colors, and others pop in black and white.
I observe his face and notice his full, soft, kissable lips twitch under my stare.
“Didn’t your mother teach you not to stare?”
My gaze flies to his. Dark brown eyes almost pitch-black stare into my own. Curiosity and amusement flit across them, and I clear my throat. “Sorry, I thought you were asleep.” I lie, because the truth is not only embarrassing but completely unethical.
Viktor is my patient,I remind myself.
After kneeling at his side, I slide the foam roller under his knees. Looking around me, I spot my massage oil and lean forward to grab it.
“Well hello,” his voice, now husky, teases.
Instantly I realize my error, as the new position presses my belly to his. I can feel his muscles ripple through our shirts. Desire shoots through my body and lands between my thighs. I gasp and push back with the bottle of oil in my hand.
This man has me completely off-kilter. I’m behaving like a student rather than the professional I am.
“Sorry about that,” I say to his stomach and clear my throat. It doesn’t help at all that I’ve seen what his body looks like under that shirt. My imagination would have never done him any kind of justice.
For a man who’s been relatively immobile for the last few months, he’s maintained a pretty damn great physique. This leaves me wondering how good he looked prior to his injury. Holy hell. I don’t think I would have survived seeing however many packs of abs he had then. His six-pack probably had a few six-packs. As it already is, the man still has a firm body.
I force myself to look at his face. “I’m going to remove the shrinker. After this last hour, the tissue could use a massage, and then we’ll ice it to help with any swelling.”
My fingers touch his thigh, and the hair tickles my hands. The muscle under my hand flexes as I slowly pull off the material. I rub a few drops of oil into my palm and begin massaging the stressed tissue.
