He steps back into position.
"Pick up the driver."
He does.
"No," I say. "Your grip is too distal. You have no leverage."
I step up behind him.
It is a tactical error. Or perhaps a tactical surrender. I am instantly enveloped in his heat. He radiates warmth like afurnace, smelling of spicy deodorant, antiseptic soap, and the distinct musk of a man who has been working hard.
"Relax your shoulders," I murmur.
I reach around him. My arms bracket his, trapping him against the table. I place my hands over his. They are massive compared to mine, rough with calluses, warm and dry.
Jax takes a sharp inhale. His back hits my chest—a wall of solid muscle.
"Max..." his voice is a warning, or perhaps a plea.
"Focus on the needle," I say, though my own focus is narrowing dangerously to the friction of our bodies. I press my chest firmly against his back. "Loosen your grip. The instrument is an extension of your fingers. Don't choke it."
He leans back, settling into me. I can feel the shallow, rapid rise and fall of his ribs against mine.
"Like this?" he whispers.
"Yes."
I guide his hand.Supinate. Pronate.It is a dance.
"Enter the tissue at ninety degrees," I say, my mouth right at his ear. I watch the goosebumps rise on the sensitive skin of his neck. I fight the urge to bite him right there.
We drive the needle through the silicone. It slides perfectly.
"Pull through."
We pull the thread.
"Again."
The rhythm takes over.Drive. Turn. Pull.
But the air in the room has changed. It is thick, heavy. Every time he exhales, his body shudders against mine. I can feel the tension in his glutes, the shifting of his weight.
"You have good hands," I admit softly, my fingers tightening over his knuckles. "They arejust... heavy."
"Heavy?" Jax asks. He turns his head. His nose brushes my cheek. His breath is hot on my skin. "Is that a diagnosis?"
"It is an observation."
I do not step away. Instead, I slide my hands up his forearms, tracing the intricate ink of his tattoos, feeling the ridge of a scar on his wrist.
"Where did you get this?" I ask, my thumbs circling the pulse point. His heart is hammering, a tachycardia I can feel vibrating through his skin.
"Convoy ambush," Jax says, his voice rough, wrecked.
"And this one?" I touch a burn mark near his elbow.
"Cautery pen. Trying to seal a bleeder while the Humvee was doing sixty."
