Chapter 5
Jacob
I lie facedown on Riley’s massage table, trying to breathe normally despite feeling completely fucking exposed.
The towel barely covers my ass, and the rest of me is laid out like a specimen for examination.
I focus on the padded face cradle, staring down at the hardwood floor beneath, counting the planks to distract myself from the fact that I’m naked in a stranger’s house, about to let him put his hands all over me.
But this is medical, right? Professional.
Nothing weird about a doctor doing his job, even if it is after hours in his apartment instead of a clinic.
“Try to relax,” Riley says from somewhere behind me, his voice calm and steady. “I’ll start with the shoulder.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one spread-eagle on a table wearing nothing but a hand towel.
The room is dim, warm, and smells like eucalyptus.
Professional, just like he is. The walls are a soft blue-gray, and there’s a small fountain in the corner making gentle water sounds that are supposed to be relaxing but just grate on my nerves.
I hear him rub his hands together, probably warming them up. Then they’re on me, one at the junction of my neck and right shoulder, the other cradling my shoulder blade.
“I’m going to test your range of motion first,” he explains, and then his grip tightens as he carefully manipulates my shoulder in different directions. I grit my teeth when he pushes it back slightly.
“There,” he murmurs. “That’s the spot. Tell me when it starts to hurt.”
He applies gentle pressure at first, his fingers probing into the muscle with surgical precision. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly. It’s uncomfortable, but in that way that makes me want to lean into it, like scratching an itch that’s been bothering me for weeks.
Then he hits a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
“Fuck!” The word bursts out before I can stop it.
“Scale of one to ten?”
“Six,” I lie, because it’s at least an eight, but I’ve got my pride.
“Mmm.” He makes that noncommittal sound that says he doesn’t believe me but isn’t going to argue. His fingers press in again, gentler this time, working around the tender area instead of directly on it. “This joint is inflamed, but that’s not the real problem.”
“No?” I manage, trying to sound normal despite the fact that his hands feel like they’re sending electric currents through my body.
“No. Your entire body is locked up. It’s not just your shoulder. You’re guarding everywhere.” His hands sweep down my back in one long stroke, then back up. “Your muscles are like concrete. When was the last time you properly stretched?”
I snort. “I stretch before every workout.”
“I mean really stretched. Deep tissue work, mobility exercises.”
“I don’t have time for that yoga shit.”
His hands pause for a split second, then continue their exploration. “It’s not ‘yoga shit.’ It’s basic maintenance. You can’t treat your body like a machine and expect it to run without regular maintenance.”
I want to argue, but his fingers find another knot between my shoulder blades that makes me hiss.
“This is what I mean,” he says. “I need to work your entire body to improve mobility and release the compensation patterns. Your shoulder isn’t working in isolation. Everything’s connected. You’ve been protecting it, which means other muscles are overcompensating.”
I don’t like the sound of that. I came here for a quick fix, not a full-body overhaul. But his hands feel so fucking good on my back that I’m having trouble remembering why I was resistant.
“Fine,” I mumble into the face cradle. “Do what you need to do.”
“Okay,” he says, and I hear the snap of a bottle cap. “I’m going to use some oil. It’ll help me work deeper.”
The warm oil hits my skin, and I flinch slightly.
Then his hands are spreading it across my back, and holy fuck, it feels amazing.
The glide of his palms is smooth now, slick with oil as he works the length of my spine.
He uses his thumbs to press into the muscles alongside my vertebrae, working his way methodically down and then back up.
His hands are strong. Stronger than I expected from a doctor. They’re not the soft, uncalloused hands I would have imagined. They know exactly where to go, how much pressure to apply, when to ease off. I find myself sinking deeper into the table, my breathing slowing.
Riley shifts position, moving to stand at the head of the table.
His hands slide up to my neck and skull, fingers threading through my hair as he works the base of my skull where it meets my neck.
I’ve never had anyone touch me there, and the sensation is so unexpectedly good that a sound escapes my throat—something between a groan and a sigh.
“That’s it,” he says, voice lower than before. “Let it out. The tension, the sounds, all of it. It helps the process.”
I’m not sure I believe him, but I’m beyond caring. His thumbs press into a spot behind my ears that makes my entire body feel like it’s melting, and I don’t bother suppressing the groan this time.
He works his way back to my shoulders, spending time on the left one even though it’s not injured.
Then he moves to my right again, but this time his approach is different.
Instead of direct pressure, he works around the injury site, loosening the surrounding muscles, easing the burden on the damaged area.
When he hits a particularly tight knot at the edge of my shoulder blade, pleasure bordering on pain shoots through me like a lightning bolt.
“Don’t stop,” I mumble, the words coming out before I can think about them. “Feels so good.”
Riley’s hands freeze for a second, and I wonder if I’ve said something wrong. But then they resume, slower now, more purposeful, like he’s paying extra attention to my reactions.
He works down my spine, strong hands kneading into muscles that I didn’t even know were tight until they release under his touch.
It’s like he’s unwinding a spring that’s been coiled inside me for years.
My breathing deepens, becoming heavier with each press of his fingers.
I’m starting to feel heavy, loose-limbed, like I might just melt right through the table and onto the floor.
His hands move lower, to the small of my back, pressing into the muscles there with firm, circular motions.
I can’t remember the last time someone has been this attentive to me, gentle and focused at the same time.
Even the women I’ve been with were always more concerned with the main event than with learning the geography of my body like Riley seems to be doing.
When his hands move to my hips, working the tight muscles there, something shifts in the atmosphere of the room. Or maybe it’s just in me. His thumbs dig into the muscles just below my ass, and I feel a heat that has nothing to do with the room temperature.
He slides his hands under the towel to work my glutes, and I freeze. This is medical, I remind myself. It’s just muscles. But my body isn’t getting the memo, because I feel blood rushing to places it absolutely should not be going right now.
Fuck. No. This can’t be happening.
But it is. I’m getting hard against the table, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
I hold my breath, hoping that if I stop breathing, maybe my dick will get the message that this is not the time or place.
But Riley’s hands are still working my glutes, and every press sends sparks of pleasure straight to my groin.
I’m sweating at my temples now, my whole body running hot.
Does he notice? Can he tell what’s happening?
I’m not even sure what’s happening. I’ve never gotten this hard from a massage before, and definitely not from a guy’s hands on me.
But there’s no denying the heaviness between my legs, the throb of blood pulsing through my cock.
“I need you to turn over,” Riley says, and my heart stops.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
“Let me work on your front side,” he continues, oblivious to my internal panic.
I don’t move. I can’t. If I turn over, there’s no way he won’t see how I’ve reacted. The towel won’t hide shit.
“Jacob?” His voice comes closer, near my head. “Did you fall asleep?”
I almost laugh at that. Sleep is the furthest thing from my mind right now. I’m on high alert, every nerve ending firing, heart pounding like I’m about to step into the cage.
“No,” I manage, my voice strangled. “Just… give me a minute.”
“Take your time,” he says, stepping back. “But we need to work the front of your shoulder too if you want to be in any kind of shape for tomorrow.”
He’s right, and I know it. But turning over means exposing myself, not just physically, but whatever the fuck is happening to me right now.
Why am I hard for a guy? I’ve never been into men, never even considered it.
But my cock is throbbing, and I know with absolute certainty that it’s because of Riley’s hands on me.
“Okay,” I say finally, steeling myself.
I shift carefully, trying to adjust the towel to provide maximum coverage as I roll onto my back. It’s useless. The towel tents obscenely over my erection, which feels even harder now that it’s not pressed against the table.
Riley’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight, surprise written clearly across his face.
I watch him process it, wait for disgust or judgment or awkward professionalism, but his expression quickly settles into something almost neutral.
Almost, but not quite—there’s a flush high on his cheekbones that wasn’t there before.
“It’s a normal physiological response,” he says, voice even. “Nothing to be concerned about.”
But it doesn’t feel normal. It feels like something fundamental has shifted inside me, and I have no idea how to shift it back.
I close my eyes, unable to look at him anymore. My face burns with embarrassment, but my cock doesn’t seem to care. If anything, the humiliation makes it harder. Go figure.
Riley starts working on my front shoulders, his touch just as professional as before. For a while, everything is normal again, and I start to breathe easier. Maybe we can just pretend this isn’t happening. Maybe it will go away if I focus on the therapy and not on how his hands feel on my skin.
But then he moves to massage my pecs, and whatever control I had slips away. My nipples are already hard, sensitive, and when his thumb brushes against one, pleasure zings down my spine like an electric shock.
“Fuck,” I hiss, eyes flying open.
Riley’s watching me, eyes darker than they were before. He doesn’t apologize for the contact. Instead, he does it again, deliberately this time, pressing his thumb against my nipple with firm pressure.
I bite my lip to keep from making another sound, but it doesn’t work. A groan escapes me as he reaches with his other hand to focus on my other nipple, working them both at the same time. This can’t be medical. This isn’t how doctors touch patients. But I can’t bring myself to stop him.
“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself.
My cock is leaking now, a wet spot forming on my lower abs. I’ve never gotten this worked up from foreplay, not even with women who were actively trying to turn me on. I don’t understand what’s happening to me.
“It feels good,” I murmur, the words spilling from my mouth without permission.
Riley doesn’t seem disturbed by it. He works his way down my body, spending time on my abs, my obliques, places I didn’t even know could feel good when touched.
Then he moves to my legs, starting with my feet, which should be the least sexy part of me but somehow aren’t when he’s pressing his thumbs into my arches.
He works up my calves, my shins, to my knees, and then—fuck—my thighs.
His hands slide higher, under the towel, moving gradually closer to where I’m throbbing with need.
My breathing is erratic, my hips subtly shifting toward his hands. I can’t control it. It’s like my body has a mind of its own, seeking out his touch like a heat-seeking missile.
When his hands accidentally graze my balls as he massages the inside of my thigh, I nearly come apart. The sensation is too much, too good, too confusing. I hiss and grab his wrist, stopping him mid-motion.
Our eyes lock. His are wide, pupils blown out, mirroring the shock I feel. For a moment, we’re frozen like that, my fingers wrapped around his wrist, both of us breathing hard.
It’s too much. This whole situation. The confusion, the arousal, the way he’s looking at me like he can see straight through me to something I didn’t even know was there.
Without a word, I bolt upright, grabbing my clothes from where they’re folded on a nearby chair. The towel falls away, but I’m beyond caring about my nakedness now. I just need to get out, to get away from whatever the fuck is happening here.
“Jacob, wait—” Riley starts, but I’m already half-dressed, pulling on my pants without bothering with underwear, yanking my shirt over my head.
“I have to go,” I mutter, not meeting his eyes.
I’m out of the room before he can respond, fumbling with my shoes in the hallway, not even bothering to put them on properly. I hop toward the front door, shoving my feet in, grabbing my hoodie from where I draped it over his couch.
I don’t look back as I pull open his door and step into the hallway. I don’t want to see his face, don’t want to confront whatever just passed between us. I just want to get as far away as possible from Riley Shepard and the questions he’s raised inside me.