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“What?!” She tears away from me, glowering.
“Nevermind.”
With her hatred for me shooting from her golden eyes, I follow her into a separate room with a large massage table in the middle of it.
“Hop up if you can,” she says, turning to face a cooler in the corner.
I hop onto the table, pushing myself back with my palms until my leg is suspended outward, the other dangling over the edge. I lay back, tucking my hands behind my head.
“When was your surgery?” she asks, walking closer to me again with ice packs in her hands. She stalls when she meets me at the table, her jaw twitching as she looks me over, almost angry at the sight of me.
What’d I do now?
I see her head shake slightly before she finally closes the space between us to study my injured leg.
“Uh, Tuesday, which would be...yesterday.”
“We need to get you to a full extension quickly,” she says. “But you need to start following my instructions if you want that to happen. I have a fully detailed custom therapy plan I've constructed specifically for you and your needs.”
She's demanding, but I think I like it. She’s got the same energy I do when there’s a task before me I need to conquer. No daydreaming, just meeting goals. The flip has switched and I feel as if I'm now seen as a patient to her, an important one, high on her list. Her entire aura is strictly professional now. I'm not going to lie, I was worried she had no clue what she was doing and that Ashton’s recovery was a lucky fluke.
She's just standing there, holding the ice, waiting for me to agree. I prop up onto my elbows. Our eyes remain locked as I give her a slight nod, surrendering to her instruction. It appeases her. Her look softens as she gently places the packs around my knee.
“Twenty-minute increments, four times a day, and then the brace goes on and stays on. Crutches, a must.”
I must be scowling because she clears her throat, gaining my attention again.
“You may know your body, Mr. Decker, but I know your injury,” she breathes. “Let me do my job so you can have a chance at doing yours.”
Twisting my mouth, I sit back and admire her determination. And that she called me Mr. Decker. It's hard for me to put trust in anyone but myself to get me to my goals. I know how hard I can work and what I'm capable of. Unfortunately, she's right, though. She knows my injury, and she knows it well, it seems. I need to find a way to let go and trust her, as hard as that is for me.
Her hand is barely touching the side of my knee as she gently manipulates the area. Standing over me, I smell a fragrance that reminds me of an expensive shampoo or hair product. Whatever it is, it doesn't smell homeless. It smells kind of good, actually.
Slowly, her hands slide down the back of my knee, cupping the injury as she assesses the swelling. I’m getting a real good look at her as she inspects me, noticing a tiny freckle on the left side of her slim, little nose and a small scar beneath her left eyebrow. A soft sigh leaves her lips as those hands gently move along my legs with such precision.
She's a therapist. Her touching you means nothing, Lake. It's what she does. Softly strokes legs.
Her hands continue sliding down my calf, stroking until she stops to wrap her soft fingers around my ankle. She does everything so precisely. Strong yet agile, as her hands control me.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, thinking of cacti. Anything but sex.
With her fingers on the top of my shoe, she gently manipulates my foot into a flex and then an extension.
“What's your pain level?”
“Um.” I swallow. I wasn't thinking about pain at all at the moment. I was thinking of how to get my dick to deflate at the thought of her soft hands stroking my third leg and assessing the swelling there. I can’t believe myself. “Good?”
“Good?” She shoots me a questionable glance. “Your pain level is good?”
“I mean, it's fine. Doesn't hurt. I'm fine.”
“All you players are the same. Tough, untouched by pain.” She narrows her eyes. “But I need you to not be a tough guy and be honest if this is going to work. I want to push you, but don't want to break you. Let me know your limits, and I'll make sure to meet them as we go.”
I'm such a guy right now. Everything she just said, I pictured with a side of sex. Meet my limits? Break me? Girl, you wish you could. I'd rock your whole bland little homeless world.
“Got it, Chief,” I respond instead.
She continues the soft flex and extension before readjusting the ice pack a tad higher on my knee. The fingers, I notice right away, are without a ring. Her white, chippy nail polish makes my lips pull to a grin. Apparently she's the kind of girl who uses her hands for work, unlike these other chicks out here with their fake claws, too scared to touch anything and ruin the fresh paint. It’s surprisingly refreshing.
