“Your range of motion is limited,” I say, and my voice sounds distant to my own ears. “We’ll need to work on that first. Flexibility, then strength, then agility.”
“Jess.”
“It’s Dr. Hartwell.”
“Right.” He swallows. I watch his Adam’s apple bob. I used to kiss that spot. I used to feel it vibrate against my lips when he groaned my name. “Dr.Hartwell.”
I look up. Our eyes meet.
He’s looking at me the way he used to. Like I’m the only thing in the world that matters. Like I’m the sun and he’s been living in darkness for five long years. Like he wants to spread me out on this table and bury his face between my thighs until I scream his name.
“Don’t,” I warn him. My voice comes out breathier than I intend. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” There’s a glimmer in his eye and I don’t miss the way his lip curls on one side.
Like you want to devour me. Like you’re remembering every single thing you used to do to me in the dark. Like you’re imagining bending me over this table right now.
“You know what you’re doing.”
CHAPTER 7
GRIFFIN
The weather is turning.It’s gray and rainy. It feels right. None of this is working out the way I’d hoped.
Jess wants nothing to do with me.
That much is crystal clear after a week of physical therapy sessions. She treats me like a piece of equipment. When she’s around me, she’s efficient, impersonal, and necessary. Her hands on my knee are clinical perfection. Her voice is pure professional detachment.
But there’s nothing clinical about the way my body responds.
Every session is its own special torture. She leans close to check my form, and I catch a hint of her shampoo, still that same floral scent that used to cling to my pillows. Her fingers press into my thigh, and I have to bite back a groan. She guides my leg through resistance exercises, her palm warm against my calf, and all the blood in my body rushes straight to the bulge between my legs.
I’ve taken to wearing compression shorts under my athletic gear. It’s the only way to hide how hard she makes me. Every. Single. Session.
She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does and she just doesn’t care. Either way, she never acknowledges the tension thatcrackles between us like a live wire. She doesn’t acknowledge the way my dick strains against my shorts every time she touches me.
It’s driving me insane.
Not because I don’t deserve it, I do. But because underneath all that ice, I can still see her.MyJess. The woman who used to wake me up with her mouth wrapped around me. The woman who’d ride me until we were both senseless, who’d beg me to take her harder. The woman who let me push her over the edge so beautifully with my name on her lips.
She’s still in there. I’d stake my life on it.
Today, I’m lying on my back on the treatment table while she guides my leg through resistance exercises. The position puts me at her mercy. I’m flat on my back and vulnerable while she stands over me with complete control.
The metaphor isn’t lost on me.
She’s wearing those fitted scrubs again. The navy blue ones that hug every curve she’s got. Her tits strain against the fabric every time she breathes. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, exposing the column of her neck. I used to bite that neck. I used to leave marks that she’d have to cover with concealer, both of us grinning like idiots.
“Push against my hand,” she instructs. “Harder. I want to feel you working.”
She’s trying to kill me.
My dick twitches with desire. I push against her hand and try to focus on the burn in my muscles instead of the way her words sound like something she’d moan in bed.
Her fingers wrap around my ankle. She’s holding my leg at a ninety-degree angle. Her other hand presses against my thigh, just above my knee. She’s inches from where I’m straining against my shorts. It’s clinical and necessary… And absolutely fucking destroying me.
“Good.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Again.”
