She clutches at her last excuse. “I’m your PT. This is unethical.”
“That’s not why you’re trembling,” I murmur, leaning back against the treatment table. I reach out, gently tugging her closer by the wrist. She doesn’t stop me. “You think I can’t feel that you burn for me?”
Her jaw tightens. “I don’t. Your ego can’t fit into this room with how big it is,” she scoffs, trying to distract.
“Liar.” I let my hand drift to her neck, then slide my fingers into her hair, finding the tie. I tug it loose, blonde strands spilling over her shoulders. I can see her pulse jump in her neck.
“You hide behind this,” I murmur, fingers sliding through the silk. My palm finds the back of her neck, warm and sensitive, tugging her to me. Her chest rises and falls fast. “The neat bun, the professional mask. But I see you. I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
Her voice wobbles. “You think you know me?”
“I do.” I keep my mouth a breath from hers. “Not the résumé. You. And since I tasted you the other night, I haven’t stopped thinking about doing it again. About how my hands would feel on your skin, on the curve of your waist, the inside of your thighs, the sounds you’d make when I don’t let up.”
The air goes tight between us.
“Let me be clear.” My voice drops. “I want you in my bed.”
Her breath stutters. Fingers knot in my shirt—half pull, half push.
“No,” she whispers, shoving at my chest, panic threading the word. “I can’t. Please, Nate…you have to let this go.”
I ease back an inch, then another, giving her space even as every part of me wants the opposite. Her grip lingers. The pulse at her throat kicks. Her breaths come short and uneven.
I couldn’t get her out of my head when we were kids; I didn’t even know why. Now I do. Now I know exactly what I want with her.
“Tell me why,” I say, low, coaxing. “What are you holding back?”
I know the signs when want is right there under the skin. With her, it’s bright and close. If I slide my hand under those damn scrubs, I know what I’ll find—heat, slick need, all of it for me.
So why the hell is she saying no?
“Eden…” Softer now. “Talk to me.”
Her lips part, then press shut again. She shakes her head once, trying to bury whatever’s clawing its way up.
“Eden,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her jaw, gentling the demand. “It’s me. Remember?”
For a long moment, she just breathes—shallow, uneven—her eyes darting everywhere but mine. Her teeth catch her lip hard enough to leave a mark, her chin trembling.
Finally, on a broken exhale, the words slip free. “I’m scared.”
My chest tightens, my heart limping along, forgetting how to function. “Scared? Of what? I’d never hurt you.”
Her lashes lower, voice catching. “I’m scared of what happens after you figure it out…the way you’d look at me then.”
“Figure what out?”
She hesitates, starts to speak, stops. Tries again. “I can’t—you don’t understand—” The words stick in her throat. Finally, they rip free, raw and jagged. “I’m bad at this.” Her voice cracks, then hardens, as if bracing for the blow. “At dating. Sex. Josh… He said I was cold. That something was wrong with me. That I’m…broken.”
The confession slams into me. I jerk back slightly, brows lifting. “Who’s Josh?”
“My ex. We were together four years.” Her hands twist in my shirt. “He said I was...unresponsive.”
My jaw locks. “Why? You wouldn’t do a kink he asked for?”
Her lashes flutter, cheeks erupting. “Nothing of that sort. I could never—” She swallows. “I could never come when we were together.”
“And he decided it was your fault?” The thought of someone making her feel inadequate twists viciously in my chest.
