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I continue observing her careful movements. My greedy eyes suck up every inch of her as I try to guess her story. Looks like the quiet, good girl type. I always had a weakness for the innocent-looking ones.
This is a medical appointment. She’s supposed to help fix my shoulder, not my lonely dick.
No amount of internal warnings stop the heat prickling my skin. Parts of me I thought had died yawn and wake right the fuck up each time her body brushes against mine.
This is ridiculous. And inappropriate as fuck.
She manipulates my shoulder again and I clench my jaw. No more soft, gentle, erection-inducing touches. She means business now.
My left hand curls into a fist.
Knees in the breeze. Starry nights. Freedom. Concentrate on anything other than the pain shooting from my shoulder to my wrist.
Fuck, this is more like a seven or eight on her little pain scale.
“Relax, Grayson,” she says softly.
Relax. She’s joking, right?
Any sign of weakness would’ve gotten me killed in prison. And while my body may have left, my mind is still stuck behind those walls.
“I’m not used to relaxing,” I mutter. Even before prison, I never sat still for long. Always had to be moving and hustling.
A faint smile ghosts her lips. “I can see that.” She gently squeezes my bicep. And, like a damn teenager, I can’t help flexing the muscle.
Her lips part and her gaze travels over my body with more than professional curiosity. Or at least, that’s how the story in my head plays. I worked hard for every muscle and inch of definition. Half the battle inside was just looking scary enough to keep people from messing with you. Now, at least I can enjoy an appreciative glance from an attractive woman.
“How much PT have you had since the injury?” she asks.
“Not much. It didn’t get treated right away. Then, when I finally saw someone, the guy gave me a few stretching exercises to do on my own and sent me on my way.”
“Hmm.”
Fuck, those sexy humming noises she makes every time she takes in new information are driving me crazy.
Her gaze flicks to the papers in her hands again. “Did you do the exercises?”
“Sure did. Didn’t seem like enough, though, so I added in some others to build strength.”
There’s the crease between her eyes again. She doesn’t like that. “Overdoing it can be counterproductive.”
I brush off her light, scolding tone. “The exercises he gave me wouldn’t have tired out a toddler.”
A hint of a smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “I won’t go easy on you if you promise to follow my instructions.”
“I will if you don’t go easy on me because you think I’m old and frail.”
She sweeps her gaze over me again. “You’re definitely not frail, Grayson.”
Fuck, I love the way my name sounds coming out of her mouth.
“Or old,” she adds. “Now, let me try a few tests and see what we’re working with.”
My body tenses again.
“All right,” she says in a firm voice. “Extend your arm to the side for me.” She holds her arm parallel to the floor to demonstrate, and I imitate the position.
“Try to hold it there while I push down.” She clamps her hands on my forearm and pushes. Hard. Strong girl.
Agony shoots through my arm. But I last longer than I should through sheer stubbornness. My curse-filled rants remain in my head as she performs increasingly difficult strength tests. Showing her my weakness is pissing me the fuck off.
“All right. Relax.” She leans over the small desk in the corner. I study her long legs hidden by the hideous baggy pants. Generous hips, but she’s a little on the thin side. Maybe she works long hours and doesn’t have time to cook. Does she go home to a man who appreciates her? Takes care of her? Protects her from pervy patients like me?
She said she’s ridden on the back of a bike before. With who? A boyfriend? A husband? Her father?
Jesus Christ, I’m losing my fucking mind.
I spend the rest of the time she’s writing in my chart staring at the ceiling.
“Okay.” She turns and gestures to the table behind me. “Would you mind laying facedown? I want to perform a different set of tests.”
Don’t care for that. Seems too vulnerable. Then again, I could easily bench press her, so I’m not exactly in danger.
She’s patient, almost serene—her name fits—as I take my sweet time arranging myself on the table.
Soft, gentle fingers probe the muscles around my shoulder, down to my shoulder blade, along my spine. No clue what she’s trying to figure out, but I hope it takes her a while. My body relaxes under her touch. She’s got a much kinder manner than the jerk in prison who’d handled me like I was spoiled meat.
A pleasant shiver races over my skin as she traces a line from my shoulder to the base of my skull.
