Chapter 2 #3
Standing there, holding a bottle of massage oil and wearing a North Haven Athletics polo shirt that was two sizes too big, was Georgia.
She stared at me. I stared at her.
Her eyes dropped to my chest, then lower, to the compression shorts that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Her face went bright red.
"You," I said.
"Me," she squeaked.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded, my voice low and dangerous.
"I... I have a student job," she stammered, clutching the oil like a weapon. "I needed cash. Fast. The athletic department was hiring student physio assistants. I started today."
"You're an Art major," I hissed. "What do you know about sports medicine?"
"I know anatomy!" she defended herself, though she looked like she wanted to bolt. "I draw people naked all the time! Muscles are muscles!"
"This isn't drawing, Georgia. This is therapy."
"Doc signed off on me!" she whispered furiously. "He said I just need to apply pressure and rub out the knots. I need this paycheck, Toby. Do not get me fired."
I stared at her. This was insane. This was a conflict of interest. This was torture.
"I should get Doc," I said, moving to get off the table.
"Please," she said. She put a hand on my shoulder to stop me.
Her hand was small. Warm. The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight down my arm.
She pulled her hand back as if I’d burned her.
"Please," she repeated, her voice dropping. "If I quit on day one, I don't get paid. I have zero dollars, Toby. Literally zero. I can't buy toothpaste. I can't buy tampons. I need this."
She looked desperate. The brat was gone. This was just a girl trying to survive the mess she’d made.
I looked at the door to Doc’s office. I looked back at her.
My hip was killing me. I needed the work done.
And God help me, I couldn't be the reason she couldn't afford toothpaste.
"Fine," I gritted out. "But if you tell anyone about the apartment, you're dead."
"Deal." She let out a shaky breath. "Okay. Lie back."
I lay back on the table, staring at the fluorescent lights. I tried to think of baseball. I tried to think of the stock market. I tried to think of anything other than Georgia Sterling's hands on my body.
"Okay," she murmured. "Right hip."
She squirted oil onto her hands. She rubbed them together to warm it.
Then, she placed her hands on my upper thigh, just below the band of my shorts.
I flinched. Every muscle in my body seized.
"Relax," she whispered. "You're hard as a rock."
"Phrasing," I choked out.
"Shut up. Just breathe."
She began to work her thumbs into the tight muscle of my quad, moving upward. Her touch was surprisingly strong. She found the knot in my hip flexor and pressed.
Pain radiated through me, sharp and white-hot.
"Fuck," I hissed.
"Breathe through it," she commanded softly.
She worked the muscle, her fingers digging deep. She leaned over me to get better leverage. A strand of her hair fell and brushed against my stomach.
Her face was inches from my hip. She was focused, biting her lip in concentration.
This was intimate. It was more intimate than sex. She was hurting me, and healing me, and touching me in places that no one else was allowed to touch.
She moved her hand higher, dangerously close to my groin, following the muscle attachment.
My body betrayed me. Instantly.
I felt myself stirring against the compression shorts. Thickening.
She froze.
Her eyes flicked to the bulge in my shorts, just inches from her hand.
The air in the room vanished.
She looked up at my face. Her pupils were blown wide. Her breathing was shallow.
She didn't pull her hand away.
"Toby," she whispered. It sounded like a question.
"Don't," I warned, my voice a wrecked growl. "Don't say a word."
"Is this..." she trailed off, her voice trembling. "Is this normal?"
"No," I said, staring straight into her eyes. "Nothing about this is normal."
She swallowed. The tension was a physical weight, pressing us down. If I reached out, I could pull her on top of me. If I moved my hips an inch, I would be grinding against her hand.
We were on a precipice.
"Kincaid! You good?" Doc’s voice boomed from the office.
We both jumped. Georgia snatched her hands back like she’d been electrocuted.
"Good!" I yelled back, my voice cracking slightly. "Almost done."
I sat up, turning away from her to hide the very obvious problem in my shorts.
"We're done," I said to the wall.
"But I didn't finish the release," she stammered.
"You finished," I said harshly. I grabbed my jeans and stood up, keeping my back to her. "Get out, Georgia."
"I work here!"
"Then go clean something. Just... get away from me."
I heard her shuffle back. I heard the hurt in her silence.
"Fine," she whispered.
She grabbed the oil and fled toward the laundry room.
I stood there, gripping the edge of the table, my knuckles white, my heart racing, my body aching with a frustration so potent it felt like poison.
Forced proximity.
I closed my eyes and let out a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush.
It wasn't just a hell. It was a countdown. And the clock was ticking faster than I could handle.