Chapter 8
Pull and Push
Sam’s eyes stayed locked on Angie’s moist pink mouth, his heart rate kicking up in speed as he released one of her hands so his fingertips could dance along the underside of her forearm to her elbow.
Her skin was so damn soft. Widening his legs, he oh-so-slowly drew her close so his thighs bracketed her hips.
She didn’t resist, letting him guide her where his body wanted her.
His eyes lifted to hers once more, searching for a stop signal.
But her lids were lowered, her head tilted, so he moved in, pressing a tentative kiss to her lips.
Planting her palms against his chest, she met the kiss.
A tiny, breathy noise escaped her, and he grasped her other elbow, drawing her in until her pelvis rested against the edge of the table.
It wasn’t close enough. Cradling her face in his hands, he angled her head exactly the way he wanted it, taking a swipe at her lower lip and lightly sucking it between his teeth.
When she parted her mouth, his tongue plunged inside, sinking into all that lush succulence.
The taste of her was familiar yet different somehow.
Better than he remembered, with a flavor that reminded him of honey and a hint of mint.
Deepening the kiss, he scooted his ass to the edge of the table, drawing her against him with one hand spread across the small of her back. She half whimpered, half sighed, and her hands bunched in the fabric of his T-shirt, stoking a fire in his blood, sending it rushing to his stiffening cock.
A switch flipped inside him, and his thoughts dissolved into primal need.
He pulled off her ball cap with his free hand and sent it sailing into a wall, where it hit with a thud.
Her hair had been threaded through the back of the cap, and now it fell in loose waves down her back.
His fingers wove between the silky strands and entangled themselves.
With a mild tug, he pulled her head back and trailed his lips across her jaw, down the column of her neck, sucking and nipping at her salty-sweet skin.
She canted her head to the side, offering him a bigger target, and her moans grew breathier, quicker, more urgent.
Fuck yes.
She grabbed his jaw and pulled his mouth back to hers, and he smiled to himself, letting her take the lead.
For now. When her tongue prodded his mouth, he sucked it in and gave it a playful nibble before giving himself over to her explorations.
Their tongues tangled and danced with more determination.
One hand still twined in her hair, he skidded the other up her side, over her rib cage.
The textured fabric of her polo was nubby, almost coarse, and he ached to feel her velvety skin.
While their mouths stayed locked together in one heated kiss after another, he dropped his free hand to her waist and tugged the hem of her shirt in a bid to free it from her waistband.
When it stayed put, he yanked harder. A ripping noise sounded, but he didn’t care.
Finally, his thumb was pushing under her shirt, caressing the satiny skin beneath.
The little sounds in her throat were more desperate now, spurring him on, making his heart thump against his chest wall and his breath come in short pants.
Soon his hand was under her shirt, his fingers trailing across the soft landscape of her stomach, turn it into a layer of goose flesh, inching toward their target.
When he palmed her breast through her bra, she let out a little cry that he captured.
This was what he remembered about her. About kissing her. About touching her. She was all lights and electrical charges and musical notes, her body a conductor for a pulsing current.
Pushing up her bra cup, he shoved it out of the way for his greedy hand. And then all that fleshy softness was in his hold, filling his palm.
She gasped and broke the kiss when he brushed his thumb over her nipple, but he dragged her mouth back to his and took over the kiss.
Her body quivered and melted against him, warm and pliant.
He sifted her hair through his fingers to free his hand, letting it drift down her back, where he cupped her ass, hauling her closer.
Thank the hockey gods he hadn’t lost any of his upper body strength.
Now if he could hoist her up on the table with him, have her straddle his lap, have her as close as two bodies could be without being connected …
although he wouldn’t be opposed to connecting.
On the table, on her desk, on the floor.
Instead, he changed direction and slid his hand to her back, where he quickly unhooked her bra. Then his eager fingers were back in front, seeking, easily freeing the other breast. If he could lift her shirt the rest of the way, get the fabric out of his way, he could get his mouth on—
She abruptly pulled away and yanked her top back down before raising the back of her hand to her mouth as though to wipe away the evidence of their lip-lock.
“Did I hurt you?” he panted.
She shook her head and stepped backward, putting herself out of his reach. “No.” The butt he’d had his hands on bumped against her desk.
“Then why did you pull away?”
She was panting too. “Because we shouldn’t be doing … that.” She vaguely waved her hand at his face. Then her eyes lowered to his crotch, and she pointed. “Or that.”
He followed her gaze. A raging boner had created a pup tent out of his sweats, and he could have easily housed a family of five under its roof—in his dreams, at least.
Watching him warily, she shoved her shirt hem back into her waistband, which sparked his lust-fogged brain to come back on board—a minor miracle, considering most of his blood supply was still fueling his hard-on.
“I-I’m sorry,” she squeaked. Her eyes were round, her face flushed a pretty shade of pink. “I shouldn’t have done that. You’re my patient, and I—”
“Angie, stop.” He slid from the table’s edge, intent on reaching for her and pulling her back into his embrace. “I’m pretty sure I’m the one who started it.” He’d forgotten about his ankle—a different ache had commandeered his attention—and when his foot hit the floor, he jerked and cursed aloud.
She was right back by his side, her hands on his hip and stomach as she tried to help him stand upright. “Are you all right?”
“Mmph. Yeah, I’m great. Never better.”
“Sit.” If she’d been strong enough, she probably would have lifted him off his feet and plunked his ass on the table, which made him bust a laugh. She peered at him, lips pursed, brows pulled together. “What’s so funny?”
With the help of his good foot, he sat back on the table. “Nothing’s funny right now.”
“You might have re-injured yourself. Let me take a look.”
“No. I’ve got this. In fact …” He slid back to the floor, his weight on his good foot, the toes of his injured one resting gingerly beside it. “I can walk now. I’ve been practicing at home.”
Her hands fell away, but her frown remained etched in her features as she stepped to the side and crossed her arms over her chest.
Her professional mask snapped back into place, and the rhythm of her breathing returned to its usual cool cadence—except her bra was still unhooked beneath her shirt, a sight that was both at odds with her posture and a thrill for him.
Maybe I can take advantage of that later.
Assuming he could talk her into a “later.”
She seemed to read his mind and snapped him back to reality when she turned away, untucking her shirt and refastening her bra. She was business as usual when she faced him again. “Aren’t you living a little dangerously, going without the boot?”
“I’ve been testing it.” Through his disappointment, he managed to flash her a grin. “Except for just now when I landed too hard, it feels pretty good.”
“Uh-huh.” She flicked her wrist at him. “Lie back.”
Lifting his legs onto the table, he leaned back on his elbows. Fortunately, the action in his pants had deflated, so the evidence of their tongue-twining session was no longer visible to the naked eye. “Is this so you can climb on top of me?”
The horror on her face clued him that he’d totally missed the mark with his attempt at flirting.
“Didn’t I just say we shouldn’t have done …
what we did?” Though his torso was still angled upward, she went to work, pressing along the tendons above his ankle.
Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t keep his jaw from flexing.
She slid him a glance. “‘Feels pretty good’ usually doesn’t pull a wince from the average patient. ”
Getting himself under control, he lay back and braced himself. This time her probing and prodding hurt like a son of a bitch, and he muttered under his breath, “Your hands are a tool for sadism.”
“Pain is data, Sam,” she replied blandly. “Don’t argue with science—or me.”
Why had he come in again tonight? It certainly wasn’t to be tortured. No, it was so he could come up with his own rehab plan. “So I can’t work out while I’m here tonight?”
Releasing him, she stood back. “I don’t normally reward bad behavior, but since you went to the trouble of breaking in, let’s do a few exercises and see how the ankle holds up.”
“Let’s see, more alphabet soup?” When she nodded, he added dryly, “Can’t wait.”
She actually had him start with ankle circles, after which she started him on the alphabet with slow, deliberate movements, using his big toe to outline the letters in the air.
“Stiff?” she asked.
Grinning, he quipped, “I was, but not anymore,” pulling another eye-roll from her.
“I’m talking about your ankle,” she gritted out.
He didn’t want to admit it, but every motion tugged at the stiffness in his joint.
When she plucked a resistance band from her box of torture devices, she recited a bunch of textbook jargon about what he was working through, like dorsiflexion and inversion.
His eyes glazed over. But then one of the last moves caused his breath to hitch, and she caught it. Of course she did.
“That’s your high ligament talking.” She tapped away on her keyboard. “You’re not quite ready for rotation.”
He scowled at her. “Why not?”
“Because your ankle isn’t happy with these exercises.”
“Are you saying this could take longer?”
“I’m not saying anything except that you’re not ready for the next step. And yes, it’s possible this is going to go longer than what we were hoping for.”
He spluttered. “You said four weeks!”
“I said four to six, possibly eight or more. That’s for an average patient.” She met his gaze, calm and unflinching. “That’s if you behave and your body plays nice. So far, both of those qualifiers are questionable.”
He let out a mirthless chuckle. “Guess I’m not your average patient.”
Without looking at him, she said, “No, you’re worse. You think being an athlete means you can out-stubborn anatomy.”
They were right back to where they had started, but somehow he didn’t mind the barbed exchanges. They were like foreplay, and he was suddenly very interested in keeping up the banter. Why hadn’t he pursued this girl six years ago?
Oh, right. The NHL had come calling, and he hadn’t been able to hear other voices besides the one telling him to report. Could he have handled it better? No question. Did he regret not trying? He was beginning to acknowledge it was a possibility.
When he moved to the balance board, she hovered close—not hovering enough for him to accuse her of coddling, but near enough to catch him if he lost it. His stabilizers trembled, sweat beading on his forehead. This sucked.
“Three sets,” she instructed.
He grimaced. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Just your ego. And I predict it’s going to be a long, slow death.” He thought he detected a ghost of a smile.
“Are you implying I have a big ego?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m declaring a fact.”
Getting through the exercise routine was tougher than usual, though he wouldn’t admit it aloud. She asked if he wanted to stop after the first set, but he refused. His stubborn streak carried him through all three sets. He could already feel the joint swelling the moment he stopped.
Angie regarded him with something akin to sympathy. “I think your ankle would appreciate some ice and compression, followed by a little babying.”
He didn’t argue. Reality had flayed him, and he couldn’t even muster a snarky, flirty twist to her mention of babying. Other than the kiss, which he’d never be able to repeat again, this entire day and night was one to toss in the crapper.