“I'll have to try that next time.”
We lapse into silence, but these days, it's different from the painful quiet of those first weeks. When we go silent, it’s comfortable and easy.
I adjust the angle of his leg and guide him into a deeper stretch. My hands slide up his thigh to stabilize the movement, and I lean in closer to check his alignment. His muscles are looser today and more responsive. The progress is undeniable.
“You're doing really well,” I tell him. “Your flexibility has improved significantly over the past few weeks.”
“Thanks to you.”
I glance up at him, surprised by the compliment. His eyes meet mine and hold. There's no sarcasm in his expression. There’s just gratitude.
“I mean it,” he says. “I know I wasn't easy to work with at the beginning. I appreciate you sticking with me.”
My cheeks warm, and I look away, focusing back on his leg. “That's my job.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
In my career, I've received gratitude from hundreds of patients. Cards, flowers, and tearful hugs at the end of long recoveries. It's one of the best parts of the job.
But none of those thank-yous have ever made my pulse quicken or my skin flush or my stomach flip the way Ethan's justdid. Two simple words from his mouth, and I'm glowing like he handed me a trophy.
I guide his knee through another rotation, my fingers pressing into the muscle of his thigh. His skin is warm under my palms, and I'm suddenly very aware of how close I'm standing and how intimate this position is.
My hip is almost brushing against the table, and if I leaned forward just a few more inches, I would be pressed against his side.
“Let's try a deeper stretch,” I say in a slightly shaky voice. “I'm going to push your knee toward your chest. Tell me when you feel resistance.”
I lean over him to guide the movement, one hand on his knee and one on his thigh. My hair falls forward, and I tuck it behind my ear. The motion brings my face closer to his, and I catch the scent of his soap. Clean, masculine and woodsy.
I push his knee higher, and he exhales slowly. The position requires me to brace myself against the table, which means I'm practically hovering over him now. His breath is warm on my neck.
That's when I notice the bulge in his shorts.
The thin fabric of his athletic shorts does nothing to hide what's happening beneath them. He's hard. Not just hard but huge, the thick ridge of his erection straining against the material.
I freeze for just a second, but it’s long enough for him to realize that I've noticed.
“Shit.” He shifts on the table and tries to angle his hips away from me. His hand moves to cover himself, but it's too late. I've already seen. “Sorry. It's just a physical response. It doesn't mean anything.”
“It's fine,” I manage to say. My voice is higher than usual. “It happens. Totally normal.”
It's not fine.
All I can think about is the size of him. The sheer thickness of what's straining against those shorts. My imagination runs wild with images I have no business entertaining.
What would he look like without those shorts? Would my hand be able to wrap around his dick? How would he taste on my tongue? Oh my God. And the sound. Would he groan the way he does during stretches if I wrapped my lips around him and took him deep into my mouth?
Heat floods between my legs, and I press my thighs together involuntarily.
“We should move on to the next exercise,” I say, stepping back from the table so fast I nearly trip over my own feet.
Ethan sits up and swings his legs over the side of the table. He's still visibly hard, and he grabs his towel from the chair nearby, draping it across his lap. Neither of us acknowledges it.
The rest of the session is torture.
I guide him through the exercises, keeping my hands on neutral areas and my eyes fixed firmly on his knee. But my body is betraying me with every passing minute.
