Meanwhile, my system is in full revolt: palms damp, fire simmering low, every shift of his hips sending sparks skittering all over my system. I’ve never felt this throbbing ache before. It’s unsettling and magnetic in equal measure. And I want more of it.
Keep it clinical. Keepit clinical.
I anchor my palm on the solid warmth of his thigh, right above the knee, fingers curving into muscle that flexes under my touch. “Tell me when you feel something.”
His tone drops, almost a snarl. “Define something.”
“Pulling. Tension.”
“Oh.” His stare cuts to mine, razor sharp. “Then I should’ve called it the second you walked in.”
It’s a direct hit. My stomach flips hard, heat licking low, my thoughts scattering like loose change. “Focus, Russo,” I manage, even though I’m the one who can’t.
His lips curve into a smile, the kind that should come with a warning. “Trying to. Hard when your hand’s on my inner thigh, Trouble.”
The nickname slams into me. Trouble was what he called me when I was brave enough to trust him with my fears, young enough to believe he’d always catch me when I fell. Now it’s older, rougher, threaded with promise and danger in equal measure.
The air tenses between us. We’re both flipping through the same reel of memories. Every time he made me feel safe. And all the times I wished it had been more.
“Does this feel okay?” My words are steadier than I expect, even as that old, dangerous gravity tugs at me.
“Peachy.” He tilts his head, expression glinting. “This where things get…hands-on?”
I glance up sharply, a flare of confusion and defense tangling in my chest. “They’ve been hands-on.”
“Not like that,” he murmurs, gaze locking with mine. The low rumble slides under my skin, warm and electric, until I can’t tell if my pulse is in my chest or my throat. Every part of me is too aware—how close I am, how his thigh shifts under my hand, how the air feels thick enough to drink.
My pulse trips over itself. I should break eye contact. I can’t.
Oh my God. I’m going to combust.
I retreat under the guise of switching to glute activation drills, anything to escape the pressure radiating off him. But my skin tingles, every nerve ending tuned to him, and that one word,Trouble, echoing in my chest.
“Roll onto your side,” I say, way too tightly. “We’re doing clamshells next.”
He obeys, grinning now. He knows he’s in control of this session, not me.
And then it happens. I’m behind him, guiding his hips forward for proper alignment. My fingers move below the waistband of his shorts to anchor the top of his pelvis.
His body responds.
Firm. Obvious. Immediate.
I freeze, pulse spiking.
He doesn’t shift away or mumble an apology but lets the silence thicken until my breathing feels too loud. Then, low and rough, “Careful, Trouble. You keep touching me that way, and we’re gonna have a different kind of session.”
The fire that blazes through me is so sharp it almost knocks me off my feet. My brain is scrambling for neutral ground and finding none.
“Most of my patients wait until week three for that milestone,” I try for levity.
A slow grin curves his mouth, dark with challenge. “Guess I’m an overachiever.”
Part of me wants to step away, reestablish the safe, clinical space between us. The other part—the one I didn’t even know existed—wants to find out what happens if I don’t.
We keep moving, but every brush of my hand is a fuse sparking to life, every inhale tightening the air between us.
And the worst part? I don’t want it to stop. Not because I’m ready to cross that line—God, I shouldn’t be—but because I’ve never felt this before. Never had safety and desire coil together in the same breath, tangling so tightly, I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
