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Then he turns and leaves. A blast of cool air rushes in, and he’s gone, the door shut again.
And I’m alone.
God, what the hell did I just do?
I am completely mortified.
Never in my entire life have I done something like that with a guy I barely know.
Much less with a violent, selfish, arrogant psycho like Fynn.
He’s everything I despise. He’s mafia, like my father, and a total spoiled piece of shit. I don’t care if he has certain good qualities, or if I find him exceedingly handsome, or if he makes my knees clench together with excitement whenever he’s around—I’m supposed to keep this professional.
So much for that.
It’s hard to be professional when your patient gets you off in a sauna. And licks your nipples. And bites your neck and makes you moan. And is a really, really good kisser.
They definitely never taught us how to deal with this level of sexual attraction in school.
I show up to our afternoon session already dreading it. I don’t know what he’s going to say exactly, but I can already imagine it’ll be cocky, and insulting, and demeaning, and frustrating. And it’ll make me want to punch him in the face, but I won’t, because I’m as terrified of him as I am attracted to him. He’s going to swagger around like he won some stupid contest just because I was dumb enough to let him kiss me and touch me, and I’m going to really regret it.
There goes all my credibility. If I had any to begin with.
I step into the gym and he’s there already wearing joggers and a workout shirt. His chest is bulging and muscular, and he looks at me with a serious half frown. I hesitate in the doorway, mind flashing back to just a few hours earlier—my body barely covered by my bikini and his hands all over my skin, his lips on mine, his tongue licking sweat from my nipples as he fucks me with his fingers—and god, I’m so embarrassed I could die.
I want the ground to open and swallow me right now.
How am I supposed to treat this guy after letting that happen?
I’m a total idiot. I hate myself right now, and whatever he’s about to say, I deserve it. I embarrassed myself when I let that stupid moment in the sauna happen, but in my defense, it’s not exactly easy to resist a guy like Fynn, especially when he doesn’t allow any resistance at all. He might like a struggle or a chase, but he doesn’t take no for an answer.
Not that I tried very hard to stop him.
I open my mouth to say—
What? That we can’t do this anymore? That everything’s ruined and I’m too ashamed to keep working with him? I’ll tell him to keep the money, to keep doing the exercises I showed him, and maybe he’ll get better on his own, but I definitely can’t help.
Not after what I did with him in that sauna.
Because the real problem is I’m terrified I’ll want more.
That’s the real fear that lingers in my guts. I’m so afraid I won’t be able to stop this and he’ll keep sucking me deeper and deeper into his world until one day, I look up and there’s no way to climb back out. I’ll lose myself and everything that matters, all to some mafia bastard just like my father. I swore to myself this could never happen, that I’d never make the same stupid mistakes my mother made, but here I am.
Walking that same stupid path.
So I’ll open my mouth to tell him it’s over, I can’t do this, I’m pathetic and weak and he’d be better off without me—
But before I can speak, he talks first.
“Let’s get to work.” His face is calm, almost blank. He’s not smiling, not leering, not laughing.
I stare at him in surprise.
That’s not what I expected. I figured he’d make some joke, or tell me he owns me, or some other possessive crap like that. At least I assumed he’d stare at me like I’m his little fuck doll toy, like he’s going to tear me to pieces today the second I put my hands on him.
Instead, just, let’s get to work.
Just like that, the tension eases.
It doesn’t dissolve—I don’t think it’ll ever go away completely—but at least it’s not making me feel like I want to jump off a cliff.
“Okay then, let’s start with stretching,” I say, and we head over to the mat together.
What follows is a perfectly ordinary (if insanely charged with sexual tension) physical therapy session. I skip the massage because I can’t bring myself to touch his thighs, not with the memory of his hands shoving my legs open still fresh, but we stretch, we do exercises, we do mobility drills. I work him hard for an hour, and he doesn’t make a single comment about what happened. Nothing lewd, nothing demeaning.
