Chapter 22
22
[Vale]
W hen Wednesday rolls around, I’m nervous.
I haven’t seen or heard from Cort since the weekend.
A weekend that was both an eye-opener and sexy as hell.
But I don’t know where that leaves us, other than as therapist and patient again.
Most of the time Cort and I were in private, he didn’t seem to mind my touching him.
He even appeared to welcome it, until it came to the more intimate moment of me undressing him and taking him in my mouth.
I have no doubt he enjoyed himself immensely, but the fact he had me sit on my hands was worrisome.
Having touch aversion is typically a symptom of some past trauma and I shudder to think that Cort has been hurt in some deep, dark, disturbing way that’s caused him to be afraid of physical contact.
I doubt it was his parents.
Mary and Franklin Haven were good people, kind people, and very loving toward their children.
The mystery lays elsewhere.
And these thoughts rumble through my head while Cort lies face down on my massage table.
His beautiful shoulders on display.
His triceps tight while his arms are at his sides.
The curve of his backside beneath the sheet.
The suggestion of what’s on the front of him vivid in my memory.
My mouth waters when I consider what we did.
What I said to him.
Feed me .
I’ve never been so bold.
So direct. Demanding from him what I wanted him to do.
The memory sends a shiver licking up my spine.
An empowering shiver.
One that has me smiling while I pull down the sheet covering him mid-back and lower, including his arms.
Instantly, I notice a bandage on Cort’s arm.
“What happened?” I ask.
The wrap isn’t something small.
It’s wide and thick and circling around his lower left arm.
“Just a little scrape on the job,” he mutters, his face buried in the circular pillow as I start our warmup routine.
“You need to be more careful,” I scold, frowning although he can’t see me.
He’s in this position in the first place because he fell off a roof.
He needs to take better care of himself.
The thought brings me up short, because I want to take care of him.
I want to wipe away whatever fears still linger about being touched.
I want to erase the pain and give him pleasure.
I want him to learn that hands are for love, not harm.
Massaging methodically along his side, I’m lost in this thought when Cort turns his head on the pillow.
“I can almost hear you thinking, Bee.”
I softly chuckle.
“Just wish you wouldn’t take risks with yourself.” Maybe just take a risk on me.
“I’ll pay better attention,” he says, his eyes open, peering at me as best he can in his current position.
Somehow the words feel telling, like he means something deeper.
Like he’ll note details better with me.
I don’t want to act like this weekend didn’t mean everything to me, but I also don’t want to come across like I want more.
I’ll take whatever Cort offers.
I’m just happy we’re still talking.
He didn’t walk away from me this time.
He didn’t disappear.
He was all sweet smiles and tender kisses, giving me one last, lingering one before slipping from the cabin late at night, leaving me to slumber in a sleeping bag surrounded by his scent.
Like a love-sick teen, I slept in his flannel again.
“Your hands feel so good, Vale,” he murmurs, sounding drowsy from my work.
I’m so pleased he appreciates the massage, and he’s content with my touch.
Then I circle back to his hesitation when it came to placing my hands on him when we were more intimate.
I wish he’d open up with me.
Tell me what happened to him.
Asking deep questions feels like crossing a line, though.
One that moves us from just having fun to something more serious.
I’m so lost in my head, time passes quickly and before I know it, his session is over.
Stepping back to type up my report on this session, Cort shifts, rolling before swinging his legs over the side of the table and sitting upright, dragging the sheet over his lap.
“Look at you,” I tease.
“Almost ready to hop off that table without a hint of back trouble.”
For some reason, I think about us crammed on that narrow twin bunk.
I hope he didn’t hurt himself then.
Or when we were running around the yard at camp, playing childhood games.
Or?—
I stop my thoughts and catch Cort watching me.
“Anyway, no more falling off roofs.” My gaze drops to the bandage on his arm.
Roofing is clearly dangerous work.
“Yes, Queenie,” he teases, fisting the sheet over his thighs, while his legs swing back and forth once.
His voice is light. His smile sweet and slow.
“You only have a few remaining sessions,” I remind him.
His insurance only covered so many.
“How are you doing with the exercises at home?”
As a physical therapist as well, I’ve assigned Cort movements to help stretch his back and keep his muscles loose.
“I don’t know. I might need another home visit to check on my progress.”
I chuckle at his playful tone.
But he probably shouldn’t pop over to my house again anytime soon, and I’m instantly saddened by the thought.
I can’t date Cort. We can’t be seen in public and there isn’t anywhere to meet in private.
Cort reaches for my hand, and I easily give it to him.
He tugs me closer. “You feel so far away.”
“Guess I’m just in my head a little bit today.”
Cort dips his head to look at me, the corner of his mouth curling upward.
“You know I want to help you get out of your head.”
Which is exactly what he did this weekend, giving me orgasms like I’ve never had before.
His physical fingers never left the edge of that magic travel wand.
Still, it was all Cort.
High intention. Total focus.
All patience. Some hidden skills for a man who claims he’s never used toys on companions before.
“Vale,” Cort squeezes my hand.
“I want to take you on a proper date.” He purses his lips and twists them a second before adding, “Even knowing the risks. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what we did this weekend.”
“Me either,” I whisper, lowering my gaze to where he holds my hand, linking our fingers together.
I’m reminded how his touch started small.
A brush of our pinkies.
A finger hooked around two of mine.
Then three. Then my hand cupped in his.
And then our fingers entwined together.
We’ve come so far, and I don’t want it to end.
“I just don’t see how we can do something public. Dinner. A movie.” Because of my brother.
Keeping my gaze lowered, I dig my teeth into my lip.
“We probably shouldn’t be seen together outside of you coaching my son.” Public baseball games for children.
“Then maybe we could do something more private,” Cort suggests.
“Come to my house, Vale. Let me make you dinner.”
My head pops up.
The suggestion is so much sweeter than taking me to a restaurant.
The date would be personal, intimate, private. A secret.