“I run hot.”
“You told me you run cold.”
Damn it. I did tell him that. And it’s true, just not right now.
“Sometimes I run hot,” I amend weakly. “It depends.”
He doesn’t push it. But there’s something in his expression—awareness, maybe—that tells me he knows exactly what’s happening in my head.
“Let’s work on your shoulders,” I say, desperate to change positions, to put some distance between my hands and his hip flexors. “Sit up straight.”
He complies. I move behind him, grateful to be out of his direct line of sight. My face is probably the color of a tomato.
I place my hands on his shoulders and immediately understand why he carries tension. The muscles are like rocks—knotted, rigid, locked in a permanent state of defense.
“Geez, Banks.” I dig my thumbs into the trapezius. “When’s the last time you got a massage?”
“I don’t like people touching me.”
The words land heavy. I think about what he told me in the training room—how it’s been years since anyone touched him gently. How physical contact is either violent or nonexistent in his world.
“Well, you need one.” I work my fingers into the knots, applying steady pressure. “This is ridiculous. You must be in constant pain.”
“I’m used to it.”
“That’s not the same as being okay.”
He doesn’t respond. But he tips his headforward slightly, giving me better access, and I take that as permission to continue.
I work on him for several minutes. Kneading the muscles, finding the trigger points, coaxing his body to release tension it’s been holding for years. His shoulders are broad—impossibly broad—and my hands look small against the expanse of his back.
He groans.
The sound is low, involuntary, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. It reverberates through his body and into my hands, and something clenches low in my belly.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “That felt…”
“Good?”
“Yeah.” His voice is rough. Deeper than usual. The sound of a man who’s not entirely in control of himself.
I should stop. This has crossed some invisible line from professional to personal, and we’re both pretending not to notice. But I can’t make myself lift my hands.
“You need to take better care of yourself,” I say softly, working my thumbs along his spine. “Carrying this much tension isn’t sustainable.”
“I know.”
“Then why don’t you do something about it?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says softly, “I don’t know how to let go.”
The admission hangs in the air between us.
I keep working. My fingers trace the line of his shoulders, the column of his neck, the tight muscles at the base of his skull. He’s so big, and yetright now he feels almost fragile. Like he might shatter if I push too hard.
I’m hyper-aware of everything. The rise and fall of his breath. The heat radiating off his skin. The way he’s holding himself perfectly still, like he’s afraid any movement might break whatever spell we’re under.
He’s being gentle. That’s what gets me. This massive man, capable of so much violence, is holding himself in check so he doesn’t accidentally hurt me. The restraint is almost unbearable.
