4. Brady
brADY
I can't think straight.
That's the only explanation for why I'm standing outside Connor's cabin at seven in the morning like a spooked animal.
The door opens before I can knock.
"Brady?" Connor's holding a steaming mug of coffee, looking confused. "Everything okay?"
"I need to ask you something," I say, then immediately regret it. "Actually, forget it. This is stupid."
"Hey, wait." He steps aside, gesturing me in. "Come on in. Coffee?"
I follow him into the kitchen, where Teagan's feeding their son Jamie in his high chair. She looks up with a smile that falters when she sees me.
Damn, I must look like hell.
"Everything all right?" she asks.
Ugh. No way am I talking to Connor with Teagan and their baby right here.
"I'm just going to..." Connor jerks his thumb toward the door. "We'll be on the porch."
I blow out a breath. Thank god.
Outside, Connor settles into one of the rocking chairs and waits. The morning air is crisp, pine-scented, and normally calming. Today it does nothing for my nerves.
"What’s up?" he says after a long moment. "This about your massage yesterday?"
Heat crawls up my neck. "How did you?—"
“Heard you sharpening axes by the equipment shed at the break of dawn. Probably murdering the whetstone in the process.”
I shrug. “Don’t worry, I didn’t decapitate any axes.”
"Sky mentioned you looked like you'd been hit by a truck after you emerged from Imogen’s cabin.” His mouth quirks up. “In a good way.”
I scrub my hands over my face. "This is embarrassing."
“What is?” he asks. “You know, you can talk to me about anything. I guarantee I've been through worse."
I doubt that. Sure, Connor has been around. But a guy like him would have plenty of experience with women before Teagan.
And I’m…a virgin.
“Fine. Yesterday, during my massage. I...reacted."
Connor's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "Reacted how?"
I’m not spelling it out. "You know how."
Understanding dawns on his face, followed by what looks suspiciously like relief. "Jesus, man. You pitched a tent? That's what this is about?"
I make sure no one else is around that heard him, then glare. “Shit. Keep your voice down. I’m supposed to see her again today, and I?—"
"Got hard during a massage," Connor finishes. "Welcome to being a red-blooded male, Brady. It happens."
"Not to me it doesn't." The words come out sharper than intended. "I don't...I'm not used to..."
"To what? Attractive women putting their hands all over you?" Connor's grin is merciless. "Yeah, that'll do it."
My jaw clenches. "She's a professional. I don't want to make her uncomfortable."
"Did she seem uncomfortable yesterday?"
I think about Imogen's easy confidence, the way she handled everything without judgment. "No, but she didn’t see it. I was face down. Today, I might be?—"
"You’re overthinking it. Like you said…she’s a professional. I’m sure it happens all the time." Connor leans forward. "Look, if you're really worried, take care of business beforehand. Takes the edge off."
"Take care of—" I stare at him. "You mean..."
"Rub one out, Brady. Whack off. Dammit, do I have to draw you a diagram?"
I nearly choke, my face going up in flames. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation."
“You’re a forty-three-year old virgin, not a Catholic schoolboy. Welcome to a healthy sexual discussion," Connor says cheerfully.
“Why does it seem like you’re enjoying this?” I ask.
“Because I am.” He chuckles. “It’s kinda fun to see the ‘zen master’ getting all flustered. Oh, how the tables have turned.”
I huff loudly. “Whatever. Just promise me you won't tell Teagan we talked about this."
He snorts. "Like I want to talk about your boners with my wife. Your secret's safe."
* * *
Back at my cabin, my grandfather’s proverb curdles in my throat: Discipline shapes the man.
Somehow I don’t think he was talking about... this. But who knows anymore. These days all I do is question myself.
Then Connor's advice pushes its way through.
It makes sense, in a mortifying, practical way. If I'm going to lie on that table again and let Imogen's incredible hands work my body into submission, I need to have some semblance of control.
I grab my phone and find Imogen’s website photo—pink hair, sexy smile, nose stud. I imagine her biting that sweet lower lip.
This feels so dirty…forbidden even.
Tearing off my clothes, I set the phone down and head to the shower.
The hot water eases the morning stiffness from my muscles. I soap my chest, thinking about yesterday, and how Imogen's fingers explored my back, the little sounds of concentration she made when she found a particularly stubborn knot.
Her low, soothing voice haunts me. “Breathe into it…”
My cock stirs, and I wrap my hand around it almost without thinking. The soap makes my palm slick, and I stroke slowly, letting myself remember the heat of her touch, the scent from the oils she used.
God, the way she looked at me.
I think about her hair falling into her eyes, the way her small hands glided over my skin. Those strong fingers that could find every hidden tension and coax it into surrendering.
What would those hands feel like on my cock?
The thought has me trembling.
My thumb swipes the slit, fantasizing it’s her tongue darting out to taste me. Her fingertips trail down my chest, nails dragging over my inner thigh, lips grazing my ear.
I lean against the shower wall, stroking faster as I imagine Imogen's whiskey-brown eyes watching me as she straddles the massage table, light reflecting off a sexy shoulder I want to bite. That confident smile spreads across her face as her hands slide lower, whispering…
"That's it. You’re doing so good…don't fight it."
“Fuck, Imogen,” I grit out, hips jerking. Muscle memory betrays me—every stroke synced to yesterday’s whispers of “you’re so tight here…let me…”
Reality and fantasy blur as I explode with more curses and a groan that echoes off the tile, my release washing away with the shower spray.
I stand there breathing hard, letting the water cascade over my shoulders.
Better. Definitely better.
Later, I’m standing outside her cabin again, feeling more centered. The edge is gone, replaced by something that feels almost like anticipation instead of dread.
I knock.
"Come in!"
Imogen's voice pulls me inside like a magnet. She's wearing yoga pants and a fitted tank top that shows off her toned arms and pretty tattoos.
"How are you feeling today?" she asks, her smile bright. “You definitely look more relaxed.”
Because I came all over myself thinking about you.
"Yep.” My voice cracks, but I press on. “I’m feeling good. Really good, actually." I gesture to my back. "Whatever you did yesterday is working."
Her face lights up. "I'm so glad. Any soreness?"
"Some, but it feels like proper soreness. Like I actually worked out instead of carrying tension around."
"Excellent." She moves to the massage table, smoothing the fresh sheet. "Ready to go a little deeper today?"
The way she says it makes my pulse react, but I'm able to keep it under control. For now at least. "Yeah."
"Great. Same routine—undress to your comfort level, face down on the table, sheet over your lower half."
She disappears into the bathroom, and I strip faster than dignity allows, folding my clothes neatly on the side table, noting exactly where they are this time.
The padded massage table feels familiar now, welcoming instead of intimidating. I bury my nose in the cradle inhaling the fresh scent of the room.
"Ready," I call out.
I hear her come back in and pump oil into her hands.
"I want to work your back again, but also spend some time on your legs if that’s cool,” she says.
"Whatever you think is best."
Her hands settle on my shoulders, and I let out a long breath. Yesterday's magic happens again—tension melting under her touch, muscles surrendering to her skilled fingers.
"Tell me more about your tattoos," she says as she works down my spine. "You mentioned they were your grandfather's designs?"
"Mostly, yeah." Her thumbs dig into a knot near my shoulder blade, and I pause to breathe through it. "He was a master tattoo artist in Japan before he came to America. Traditional irezumi style."
"They're beautiful." Her fingers trace the edge of a dragon that curls around my ribs. "What do they mean?"
“Each symbol’s a story.” I find myself talking as she works—about my grandfather's stories, the symbolism of the koi swimming upstream, the cherry blossoms that represent the beauty and fragility of life.
Her touch makes the words flow easier, like she's massaging my lungs along with my muscles. “Hammer waves for resilience. Peonies for prosperity. Kintaro battling the koi—tenacity.”
Her finger lingers on the warrior’s face. “And this?”
“Strength beyond brute force.” I swallow as her hand drifts away. “Wisdom.”
"Your grandfather sounds like an amazing man," she says, rolling her fingers into my lower back.
"He was. Taught me that the body tells stories, even when we don't mean it to."
She huffs out a chuckle. “That’s so true. He taught you climbing, too?”
“Yeah. Found himself at a logging camp when he first came over here…and thoroughly embraced it. Loved nature.”
She hums. “Fascinating.”
Her hands move lower, working the muscles near my hips. "These are definitely tight. I'm going to work down the backs of your legs now, okay?"
"Okay,” I reply, and she adjusts the sheet, exposing my legs while keeping everything else covered.
Her touch on my hamstrings is firm and purposeful, but there's something sensual about the way she works—the glide of her hands over my skin. The care she takes in making sure her touches don’t stick or snag.
“Let’s stretch this hip flexor out.” She rests her hand on the back of my knee. “I want you to pull your knee up and out to the side. I’ll have my hand under it so you don’t need to hold it up. Just let me take the weight. I’ll pull the sheet down as you do to keep your lower half covered.”
I do as she says. The stretch is good, and she rocks me slightly, pushing gently on my thigh.
I groan into the stretch.
"Your flexibility is incredible for a man your age," she says, continuing to hold my knee and press downward on my thigh, stretching my hip. "Most guys are locked up like Fort Knox by their forties."
"Climbing keeps you limber," I manage, trying not to think about her innocent, yet backhanded compliment. Yeah, I’m old. Probably too old for this beauty with her hands all over me.
She does the same thing to my other side, then works my calves, my feet, finding tension in hidden places. By the time she's massaging my toes, I'm floating in that same blissful haze as yesterday.
"Ready to turn over?" she asks.
This is the moment I've been dreading.
Even relaxed, just being near Imogen makes me half-hard. Despite Connor's advice, despite taking care of business this morning, I'm still nervous.
But I nod and flip over, settling onto my back with the sheet across my lap.
The first thing I notice is how different this feels—being able to see her face, watching her as she moves around my body. She starts with my arms, working my shoulders and biceps with the same focused intensity.
I relax into it, listening to her breath.
"Your range of motion is amazing up here," she says, manipulating my shoulder joint. "No real restriction at all."
I try to focus on her words instead of the way her tank top gapes slightly when she leans over me, or how her hair slides over her cheek. I wonder how soft those pink strands are…?
Then she moves to my chest.
Her palms press against my pectorals, fingers finding the tight spots where my harness sits during climbs. The touch is professional, therapeutic, but being able to see her face while she works adds an intimacy that makes my heartbeat speed up.
"This okay?" she asks, seeming to notice my tension.
"Yeah," I say, voice rougher than intended. "Just nice, being able to see you."
Such a smooth talker, Brady.
She smiles and works around my chest muscles methodically, but she's carefully avoiding my nipples. Part of me wishes she'd touch them. What would her skilled fingers feel like there? Would she use the same firm pressure or something softer, more teasing?
Christ, Brady. My nipples are definitely stiff now.
"Your pecs are pretty tight," she murmurs, working deeper into the muscle. "All that rope work and reaching overhead."
Her hands move lower, pressing into my ribs, then lower still to my stomach. I suck in a breath as her fingers find the ridges of my abs, working the muscles with slow, deliberate strokes.
"Breathe," she reminds me softly. "Don't hold your breath."
But it's hard to breathe when her touch feels this good, when every stroke sends heat shooting through my body. She works my obliques, the muscles along my sides, and I can feel my body… responding.
No. Not now.
But my body doesn't listen. Blood rushes south, and I feel myself getting hard beneath the sheet.
I try to think about anything else—tree climbing techniques, safety protocols, my to-do list—but her hands inching down my stomach are undoing all my control.
"Shit," I breathe when I realize there's no hiding it. "I'm sorry. I?—"
"Hey." Her hands still, and she smiles at me with those warm brown eyes. "It's completely normal. Please don't worry about it."
My face burns with embarrassment. "I'm not usually—I mean, I don't?—"
"Brady." Her voice is gentle, reassuring. "It's a physiological response to touch. There's nothing to be embarrassed about."
The matter-of-fact way she says it, without judgment or awkwardness, makes some of the tension leave my shoulders.
"You sure?"
"Positive." She gives me another soft smile. "Can I finish up here?"
I nod, and she continues working my stomach muscles, her touch professional, but somehow more intimate now that the…er… elephant in the room has been acknowledged.
When she's finished, I feel boneless and energized at the same time. She covers me with the sheet and steps back, and I have to resist the urge to pull her down onto the table with me.
Oh man, I’m toast.
I get dressed and stare out the window of the cabin.
"Same time tomorrow? I left it open for you,” she asks when she comes back in, and there's something in her tone that tells me the earlier situation didn't change anything between us.
"Yeah," I say, probably too quickly, then clear my throat. "Yes. I'd like that."
Her smile is warm and genuine. "Good. I'll see you then."
As I walk back to my cabin, I’m wondering why I wish something had changed.