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When I don’t expand, he narrows his eyes. “Are ya gonna tell me the options, or am I supposed to guess?”
“Option one,” I elaborate. “You let me do what I need to do as your hired physician so that I don’t have to keep bugging you about it all day long.”
“And option two?”
“You can keep making everything incredibly challenging and ensure that I keep bothering you all day, every day, until I succeed in my task of making that knee of yours healthy again.”
“And I take it option one includes me taking off my pants.”
“Precisely,” I answer with a nod, pointing one index finger toward his bed that I’m going to utilize as my makeshift therapy table. “Take off your pants. Get on the bed.”
When he doesn’t make a move, I add, “If you would like me to step out for a minute so I don’t see anything while you get yourself situated, I can do that.”
He scowls at that. “Darlin’, I’m not insecure about you seeing me in my skivvies.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“You,” he comments on a smirk. “You are my problem.”
“And the sooner you let me do my damn job, the sooner I can officially get out of your hair and be a distant memory.”
He huffs out a sigh, but eventually, he begins the process of taking off his brace before moving to his belt and jeans.
I wish I could say I remain completely professional during the whole process and don’t sneak a peek at what Rhett Jameson looks like in just a pair of black boxer briefs, but yeah, my far-too-curious eyes can’t seem to help themselves.
Thick but lean muscles highlight his thighs and calves, and it’s more than apparent that the bottom half of his body most certainly matches the top.
My goodness. All those hours doing hard labor on his ranch have certainly done his body good.
When my eyes locate a more-than-healthy-sized bulge beneath his briefs, my mind can’t stop itself from thinking, Holy huge packages. This cowboy is big…everywhere.
Oh. My. God. What is wrong with me? Quickly, I avert my eyes and stare at an adorable picture of him and Joey that sits on his dresser. Truthfully, the photo doesn’t make me feel any less dirty that I was just thinking about Rhett Jameson’s penis, but it at least distracts me long enough for him to get on the bed.
In the name of keeping my sanity, I walk into his master bathroom and snag a clean bath towel from the shelf—even though I already set two towels out on his nightstand before he got home—and once I make my way back over to him, I waste zero time covering his body so that my eyes can only focus on his injured leg.
“Now what?” he asks, and I grab my bottle of massage oil from his nightstand.
“Now, you just lie there and relax while I do all the work,” I say, but the second the words leave my lips, my cheeks heat with a hint of irrational embarrassment.
I’ve massaged and stretched and worked with thousands of legs.
And a lot of them have been connected to adult men.
But why does the mere idea of massaging Rhett Jameson’s leg feel like I’m about to do something incredibly naughty?
Probably because you’re wondering what he’d look like without the towel or those formfitting black boxer briefs…
Immediately, I shake off the rogue thoughts.
I will not think about what he looks like naked.
But how about what all those muscles look like while he’s having sex?
No. No. NO.
I refuse to do anything but see this as a doctor treating a patient in a completely professional, focused way.
Considering you’re about to massage him on his bed with him practically naked, that’s a pretty big fucking ask…
“Mind explaining how you massaging my leg is going to fuckin’ help?” he questions, thankfully pulling me from my insane and useless inner monologue.
“Because during your surgery, they had to cut into the muscles and tendons around your knee joint, and that kind of trauma causes painful inflammation and muscle spasms,” I say and squirt some of the massage oil into my hands. “And deep tissue massage that focuses on the quadriceps and hamstring muscles in your thigh can help relieve the tension that causes the inflammation and spasms.”
“No offense, darlin’, but it all sounds like a bunch of fuckin’ hogwash to me.”
I ignore his comment and gently place my hands on either side of his hamstring and being to carefully knead my fingers into the tight flesh. It’s not long before I identify several knots that have locked themselves inside the muscle.
“You feel that?” I question, lightly pushing my fingers against the biggest knot.
Rhett grunts. “Uh, yeah, I fuckin’ feel that. It certainly doesn’t feel good.”
“This knot right here is a buildup of fluid and blood inside your muscle,” I explain. “And massage provides the counterpressure that’s needed to force it back into your blood vessels where it belongs. The more of these I get rid of, the less pain and discomfort you’ll have and the quicker your knee can heal.”
