Every rational thought exits my brain.
The contact lasts maybe half a second, but it brands itself into my memory. The softness of her. The way my entire body went rigid. I stare at the far wall like it contains the secrets of the universe and try to remember how to breathe.
She doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does and she’s pretending she doesn’t. Either way, I stop breathing for a solid five seconds, just sitting there like an idiot while my blood rushes south and my hands grip the edge of the table hard enough to leave marks.
Her hands slow as she finishes, smoothing over my shoulder. She doesn’t pull back. Her palm stays pressed against my skin, warm and steady, longer than it needs to.
“You’re making good progress,” she says, her voice slightly hoarse. “The inflammation is way down. Another few weeks and you should be back to full capacity.”
“Thanks to you.”
I turn to face her, swinging my legs over the side of the table. She doesn’t step back. Doesn’t give herself room. Just stands there, close enough that when I part my knees, she’s right there between them.
She’s looking at my shoulder. At least, that’s what she’s pretending to do. But I see the way her gaze drifts—down my chest, across my abs, back up to my face. I see her swallow.
I’m shirtless. She’s in athletic leggings that hug every curve and a fitted team polo, her ponytail loose from hours of work. A strand of hair falls across her cheek. My fingers itch to brush it back.
Her lips are slightly parted. She’s not wearing lipstick—she never does at work—but they’re pink anyway, full and soft-looking.
I shouldn’t be noticing her lips. I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about what they’d feel like under mine.
“Zay—”
“I know.” I don’t move. Can’t. “I know the rules.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
Because I can’t help it. Because you’re the first person in years who makes me feel like I’m more than a jersey number anda custody agreement. Because when I’m with you, I remember what it feels like to want something for myself.
I don’t say any of that. But I think she hears it anyway.
“Tell me to back off,” I say quietly. “And I will.”
She’s supposed to say it. She’s supposed to remind me about professional boundaries and her career and all the reasons this is a terrible idea. She’s supposed to tell me no.
“I can’t.”
Two words. Barely a whisper. But they hit me like a puck to the chest.
She’s still standing between my thighs, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off her.
I lift my hand slowly, giving her time to pull away. My knuckles brush along the side of her face, tucking that loose strand of hair behind her ear, then tracing the line of her jaw. She leans into the touch before she seems to catch herself. Her eyes flutter closed. My thumb strokes the soft skin of her cheek.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispers.
“Probably.”
Her eyes open—dark and wanting. She’s so close now I can see the rapid pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
I don’t make her close the distance. That’s on me. After another heartbeat, I lean in and press my mouth to hers.
The kiss is soft at first. Careful. Testing. Like we’re both waiting for the other to come to their senses and pull away.
She doesn’t.
Her hands land on my chest, and a quiet noise escapes her throat—half gasp, half sigh—and it undoes something in me. I slide my hand to the nape of her neck, angling her head, and the kiss deepens into something hungrier.
Her lips part under mine, and I take the invitation, my tongue sliding against hers, and the sound she makes sends heat barreling through me.
