Chapter 2 #2
His back was to me. His torso was a broad V-shape of corded muscle, the skin tanned and gleaming with sweat or condensation.
But it was the tattoos that held my gaze.
Heavy, black tribal ink covered his shoulders and trailed down his spine, disappearing into the waistband of his compression shorts.
The ink looked... old. Ancient. Like it had been branded onto him rather than tattooed.
And the scars. Pale, jagged lines crisscrossed his skin, telling stories of fights I couldn't imagine.
He didn't turn around, but his head tilted slightly to the side. He knew I was there. Of course he did.
"Lock the door," he said.
His voice was lower than the rumble of the whirlpool jets.
I swallowed hard, clutching my medical bag. "Excuse me?"
"Lock. The. Door," he repeated, turning his head slowly to look at me over his shoulder.
The amber eyes were back. And in the dim, humid light of the hydro room, they were positively glowing.
"It's policy to keep the door unlocked during treatment sessions," I said, my voice shaking but my chin held high. "For liability reasons. And safety."
Stan turned fully on the bench, facing me. The water dripped off his legs. His chest was covered in dark hair that trailed down his stomach. He spread his legs slightly, a pose of utter dominance and relaxation that made my mouth go dry.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Rachel," he said softly. "But if someone else walks in here while you're working on me... I might hurt them."
"Why?" I asked, taking a hesitant step into the room. The door swung shut behind me, but I didn't lock it. "Why are you so dangerous, Stan? You play hockey. You don't fight in a cage."
He let out a short, dry laugh. "Is that what you think?" He watched me approach. "You smell like antiseptic today."
"I... I changed my soap."
"Shame," he murmured. "I liked the vanilla. It tasted sweet."
He stared at me, his gaze dropping to my hands. "Are you going to fix me, or are you going to stand there shaking?"
"I'm not shaking," I lied.
I set my bag down on the treatment table next to the tub. My hands were definitely shaking. I took out a jar of massage cream, needing something to focus on.
"Coach said it's your shoulder," I said, keeping my eyes on the jar lid. "Right or left?"
"Left," he said. "Rotator cuff. It feels... tight. Like the bone wants to pop out."
"Okay." I took a deep breath. "I need to palpate the area. I need to feel the inflammation."
"Do it."
I stepped between his spread knees. There was no other way to get the leverage I needed on his shoulder. It was a professional stance. I had done it a hundred times with other athletes. But with Stan, it felt intimate. It felt illicit.
The heat radiating off him was unnatural. He felt like a furnace.
I raised my hands, hesitating for a fraction of a second, and then placed them on his left shoulder.
His skin was scalding hot. Hard as rock.
Under my palms, I felt a tremor go through him. A vibration.
"You're running a fever," I whispered, frowning. I moved my hand to his forehead to check his temperature, forgetting for a second that he was the scary defenseman.
As soon as my cool fingers touched his forehead, his eyes rolled back. A low, guttural growl ripped from his throat.
His hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist.
It wasn't painful, but it was unbreakable. His fingers completely circled my wrist, his thumb pressing into my pulse point.
"Don't," he groaned, his voice strained. "Don't touch my face. Not right now."
"Why?" I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. I could feel his pulse under my fingertips on his shoulder. It was racing. Just as fast as mine.
He opened his eyes. They were wild. The pupil was blown so wide the amber was just a thin ring of fire.
"Because," he rasped, pulling my wrist slowly away from his head, but bringing it down to rest over his heart. "My control is hanging by a thread, Little Bit. And your hands feel too good."
We were frozen there. The humidity of the room curled around us like a blanket. The sound of the water faded.
I should have pulled away. I should have reprimanded him for grabbing me. I should have reported him to Wolfowitz.
But I didn't.
I looked at the scars on his chest. I looked at the way his chest heaved with every breath, as if he was struggling for air. And I realized something that terrified me more than his anger.
He wasn't trying to hurt me. He was trying to protect me. From himself.
"Stan," I said softly, testing the name. "What happens if the thread snaps?"
His gaze locked onto mine. The air between us crackled, heavy and thick.
He leaned forward, just an inch, until his forehead was almost touching my chin.
I could smell him now—the damp cedar, the musk, the raw power.
It drowned out the chlorine. It drowned out the antiseptic soap I had scrubbed myself with.
"If the thread snaps," he whispered, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, sending jolts of electricity up my arm, "then I don't let you leave this room, Rachel. I lock the door. I put you on this table. And I ruin you for every other man who ever tries to touch you."
My knees buckled.
I actually swayed. If he hadn't been holding my wrist, I might have stumbled.
A rush of heat pooled low in my belly, a heavy, wet ache that had no business being there. My brain was screaming Red Flag, but my body was screaming Green Light.
"I..." I licked my lips. His eyes tracked the movement like a starving man watching a feast.
"Do your job," he said hoarsely, releasing my wrist abruptly as if it burned him. He turned his head away, staring at the tiled wall, the muscles in his jaw bunching. "Fix the shoulder. Don't talk. Don't ask questions. Just... touch me where you have to, and then get out."
He was giving me an out. He was pushing me away again.
I took a shaky breath. I dipped my fingers into the massage cream, the cold gel a shock against my heated skin.
"Okay," I whispered.
I dug my thumbs into the knot of muscle at the base of his neck. He flinched, a hiss of breath escaping his teeth, but he didn't pull away.
I worked in silence, kneading the tension from his massive trapezius muscle. But the tension in the room didn't dissipate. It grew. With every stroke of my hands, the air got heavier.
I was trapped in a glass box with a monster who had just told me exactly how he wanted to devour me.
And God help me... I didn't want him to stop.
As I worked, I saw his hand—the one resting on his thigh—curl into a fist so tight his knuckles turned white. His claws... I blinked. His fingernails looked longer. Sharper. Digging into his own skin, drawing tiny beads of blood.
He's hurting himself to keep from touching me.
The realization broke through my armor.
I leaned in closer, my chest brushing his back, and whispered, "Relax, Stan. I've got you."
A low, vibrating purr—no, a growl—rumbled through his chest, vibrating directly into my hands.
We were in trouble. We were in so much trouble.