I’ve come this far. I’m the one who crossed the line. I’m the one who’s going to keep crossing it.
I keep my eyes away from his as I wrap my hand around his girth, or try to anyway. There is nothing little about him. He’s big, stiff, and very warm. He inhales sharply when I start stroking him gently, and I force my eyes to his. “Like this?” I whisper, sliding my hand up and down, hoping I’m doing it right.
“Too dry,” he says through clenched teeth.
“What—”
I gasp when his hand closes around my wrist, firm but unhurried, drawing my palm to his lips. With his eyes lockedon mine, he licks my palm—slow, deliberate, possessive—before guiding it back into his sweatpants. The wet drag of his tongue against my skin sends pleasure rushing through my core, and I can’t look away from him. I don’t want to.
He guides me into stroking his cock, his hand a heavy weight over mine. He exhales sharply, and those eyes darken but he doesn’t look away from me once. Soon, the room is filled with his sharp intakes of breath, the needy whimpers that leave my lips, and the wet sound of skin meeting skin.
“Faster,” he rasps, his breathing growing labored. “Stroke me faster, little rabbit.”
“Don’t call me that,” I hiss, tightening my hand around him, to which I am rewarded by a loud groan.
“Fuck,” he growls, thrusting into the grip. His hand tightens around mine as he guides me into stroking him faster and faster. My panties grow damp and sticky, my core aching with need unlike anything I’ve felt before. I ache, everywhere, and I crave his hands on me, but he doesn’t touch me. He’s holding himself back—I can see it in the strain of his jaw, the way his free hand fists at his side. He wants to. He’s choosing not to.
“Close.”
“Huh?”
I get the warning only seconds before he explodes into my palm. His muscles tense, and a shudder rolls through his body as wetness coats my hand. He grunts roughly, keeping those dark eyes trained on mine, jaw clenched tight as he thrusts into my grip, spilling onto my fingers. He guides me into stroking him slowly, drawing out the climax before he exhales harshly, a tremor running through his body once, twice before he releases my hand.
Slowly, I pull my hand out and finally break my eyes from his to stare down at it. My palm is streaked white with his release, the warmth of it surprising me, the musky scent less unpleasant than I would have guessed.
“Bathroom,” I whisper.
“Down the hall, second door to your left.”
I turn around and walk out of the room without a word and follow his direction, stepping into the bathroom and locking the door behind me. I run my hand under the tap and watch his cum wash away.
I shut my mind to all thoughts as I clean my hand, refusing to think of what this could mean for my career if it ever got out. I take comfort in the small fact that this man doesn’t seem like the kind to engage in mindless gossip. He’s not the type. The way he watched me—careful, possessive, like he was already deciding I was something worth keeping quiet about—that’s not a man who’s going to use this against me.
I don’t glance up at the mirror but simply turn around and head back to the workout room. Matt looks up, his gaze stopping me in place. He’s changed out of his gray sweatpants into black ones, and those dark eyes track me all the way back to him—assessing, claiming, deciding.
“Okay,” I say, my voice steadier than I expect. “Let’s begin the session now.”
He nods once. Just that. And we begin.
Chapter Four
Matt
Ashley Cork is a temptation I never asked for and don’t know how to refuse.
How else am I supposed to interpret it when day after damn day, I’m forced to be around the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and expected to exercise restraint?
Six sessions in and the difference is real—I lifted my arm above shoulder height yesterday with one of her resistance bands wrapped around my forearm. I held it there for the count she asked for without my face going gray. The knee took my weight through a full step-up on her platform, three sets of ten, both legs working evenly for the first time since they put me back together. And I felt the burn in the muscle, the way a body is supposed to, not in the joint the way it’s been hurting for months. The numbers in her notebook keep getting better. Every goddamn day, they get a tiny bit better.
It barely annoys me anymore when I hear her car approach or her dog bark excitedly when they step out. Hell, I find myself listening for it. Her presence doesn’t feel as intrusive as it did the first couple of days, and there are mornings when I catch myself watching the clock, counting down to her arrival.
Neither of us has spoken about what happened on her second day here. Not a word. She walked in the next morning with Penny at her heels and her notebook in her hand and acted like we’d never crossed that line. I followed her lead becausewhat the hell else was I going to do? Tell my physical therapist I want to bend her over my workout bench?
She has her shoulders squared and her professional voice on every time she steps through my door, and I keep my hands to myself and answer her questions about pain and range of motion like a good patient. She’s touched me—she has to, that’s the job—and every time her fingers land on my skin, I have to lock my jaw and think about anything but the way her hand looked wrapped around my cock that afternoon.
She hasn’t asked me about it. I haven’t offered. We’ve both been pretending, and we’ve both been failing.
But even worse,I’m not going to be able to keep pretending much longer.
