Chapter 8
Riley
The intercom crackles. “Yeah?”
“It’s Riley,” I say, and the door buzzes open.
I take the elevator up, watching numbers illuminate above the sliding door.
Four floors to remember I’m here as a doctor, not whatever the hell else happened last time.
The elevator stops with a jolt that travels up my spine, the doors sliding open to reveal a narrow hallway with exposed pipes running along the ceiling.
Apartment 4C sits at the end. I knock twice, sharp and professional.
But when the door swings open, everything I’ve rehearsed evaporates.
Jacob stands in the doorway, hair wet and slicked back into a half-bun, droplets of water still clinging to his neck and chest. He’s shirtless, every muscle defined like an anatomy diagram come to life.
Gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, revealing a V-line that makes my mouth go dry.
The thin fabric clings in ways that make me suspect he’s not wearing anything underneath.
“Hey.” His expression is guarded, like he’s already regretting this decision.
“Hi. Hope you didn’t forget we scheduled this.”
He shakes his head, stepping back to give me space to enter. “Come in.”
His apartment is a vast open space with exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling windows flooding the room with afternoon light.
The furniture is minimal: a leather sectional facing a mounted TV, a concrete-top dining table with metal chairs, a kitchen island with industrial pendant lights.
No clutter, no excess. The place breathes with space and light.
“Nice place,” I say, meaning it. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the minimalist type.”
Jacob shrugs. “Don’t need much.” He points to a door on the left. “Bathroom’s there if you want to wash up.”
I nod and head that way, grateful for the moment alone.
The bathroom continues the industrial theme—concrete sink, exposed copper pipes, a massive walk-in shower with a rainfall head.
I wash my hands thoroughly, a ritual that usually centers me before seeing patients.
Today, it does nothing to calm my racing pulse.
When I return to the main space, Jacob stands by the windows, arms crossed over his bare chest. Light cuts across his torso, highlighting the ridges of muscle, the scars earned from his career.
“So,” he says, shifting his weight, “where do you want to do this?”
“I’ll need you lying down. Ideally on something like a massage table.”
He grimaces. “Don’t have one of those.”
“I assumed as much. That’s why I brought these.” I reach into my bag and pull out a folded sheet and a small, travel-sized face cradle. “We can make do with whatever flat surface you’ve got.”
Jacob gestures toward his couch. “Would that work?”
I eye the leather sectional critically. “Not really. I need something I can access from all sides.” I glance around the open space. “What about your bedroom?”
His face flushes immediately. “Hell no. Not the bedroom.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smirking. His reaction is oddly endearing for someone who projects such toughness. “All right, then where?”
Jacob runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’ve got a home gym. There’s an adjustable bench in there.”
“That could work. Show me.”
He leads me through a door off the main living area into what must have once been a second bedroom.
It’s been converted into a sparse but well-equipped gym.
Free weights line one wall, a rowing machine sits in the corner, and various bars and attachments hang from organized wall mounts.
One entire wall is mirrored, reflecting our images as we enter.
“This is impressive,” I say, genuinely. The space is as meticulously organized as the rest of his apartment. “If you have all this, why were you training at that gym the night I found you?”
Jacob shrugs, the movement rippling across his shoulder muscles. “I like the variety. And being around people sometimes.”
I don’t point out that he was alone in an empty gym at midnight. Instead, I inspect the adjustable bench in the center of the room. It’s padded, sturdy, and has multiple incline positions. Not ideal, but workable.
“This will do,” I say, setting my bag down. “Let me get it set up.”
I cover the bench with the sheet I’ve brought, attaching the portable face cradle to one end. Jacob watches silently, arms still crossed, like he’s guarding himself.
“Take a seat,” I tell him when I’m done. “I want to check your range of motion first.”
He sits on the edge of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched. I stand in front of him and lift his right arm, watching his face for signs of pain.
“Rotate your shoulder for me. Slowly.”
He complies, and I watch how the muscles move beneath his skin. The mechanics are better than before, but still not perfect. His neck and upper trapezius tighten as he compensates for the weakness.
“See how you’re lifting your shoulder when you rotate?” I place my hand on his upper trap, feeling the tension there. “You’re compensating. Using these muscles to do what your rotator cuff should be handling.”
Jacob nods, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder.
“Let’s start with that, then.” I adjust the bench to a semi-upright position. “Sit facing the backrest, please. Straddle it like a horse.”
He positions himself as instructed, his broad back now facing me. I open my bag and take out a bottle of massage oil, warming it between my palms before placing my hands on his skin.
“Tell me if anything hurts,” I say, beginning to work along the tight bands of his upper back.
Jacob’s skin is warm beneath my hands, his muscles dense and powerful.
I start with gentle pressure, mapping the landscape of tension, finding the knots that need attention.
My thumbs work along his spine, pressing outward to release the tight fascia alongside his vertebrae.
His breathing deepens as I increase the pressure.
“How does that feel?” I ask quietly. “Not just pain level, but tension. Where do you feel tight?”
Jacob rests his forehead against the backrest, his posture softening. “Good. No pain.” He reaches back with one hand, tapping a spot near his shoulder blade. “Tight here.”
I shift my attention to the spot he’s indicated, applying firm, focused pressure with my fingers. The muscle yields gradually beneath my touch, releasing its hold. Jacob’s breath hitches, then extends into a long exhale.
I work across his upper back, shoulders, and rotator cuff, using varying pressure. His body responds beautifully to my touch, his muscles releasing their secrets as I decode them. The power underneath my hands is intoxicating—this massive, formidable man yielding to me.
A soft sound escapes Jacob’s throat as I find a particularly tight spot. Then another, louder this time. Within minutes, he’s making the same sounds that haunted my dreams after our last session. Deep, throaty groans that vibrate through his back into my fingertips.
“You’re holding a lot of tension here,” I murmur, using my elbow to work a particularly stubborn knot.
“Fuck,” he hisses, but it doesn’t sound like pain.
His groans grow more frequent, less restrained. Each one sends a jolt straight to my groin, making it increasingly difficult to maintain professional distance. My pants grow tighter, and I have to shift my stance to accommodate my growing erection.
“I need you to turn around now,” I say, stepping back to give him space. “Lean back against the backrest.”
Jacob hesitates, then slowly swings his leg over the bench to face me. As he leans back, I see why he hesitated—he’s hard too, his erection tenting the front of his sweatpants. A small wet spot has formed on the fabric.
Our eyes meet briefly, and I see the same mix of embarrassment and arousal from our last session. Only this time, neither of us looks away.
“I’m going to work on the anterior deltoid and pectoral muscles now,” I explain, coating my hands with more oil.
Jacob nods, his eyes closed. I place my hands on his shoulders, working my way down to his chest. I try to avoid his nipples, remembering how responsive he was last time, but it’s impossible to work the pectoral muscles thoroughly without coming close.
His breathing becomes shallow as my hands move across his chest, his hips shifting subtly.
“Why does it…” he murmurs, almost to himself, “why does it feel so good when you touch me?”
He bites his lower lip hard enough to turn it white, shame coloring his face. His eyes flutter open, meeting mine with raw vulnerability that knocks the wind out of me. His gaze drops to my crotch, where my arousal is undeniable.
“Fuck,” he curses, his hand moving to his own erection, tugging at it through his sweatpants.
My hands have stopped pretending to be therapeutic. They caress rather than treat, sliding across his chest. Before I can stop myself, I brush my thumbs across both nipples simultaneously.
Jacob’s head falls back, his eyelids fluttering. “Christ,” he gasps.
I do it again, harder this time. His hand moves faster against his clothed erection, his breathing ragged.
“It’s never—” he pants, “—never felt like this before. With anyone.”
The confession hangs between us, heavy with implications.
I should stop. I should step back, apologize, maintain boundaries.
Instead, I watch as Jacob hooks his thumbs into his sweatpants and pushes them down, freeing his cock.
It’s thick and flushed, curving up toward his stomach, the head glistening with precum.
“Touch me,” he says, his words a mix of demand and plea. “Please.”
My body moves before my brain can process. My hand, slick with oil, wraps around him. He hisses at the contact, his hips bucking upward.
“Fuck, yes,” he groans as I begin stroking, finding a rhythm that makes his thighs tense beneath me.
Jacob’s hands grip the edges of the bench, his knuckles white with the force of his hold. His abs contract with each stroke, muscles rippling beneath tanned skin. I tighten my grip, twist on the upstroke the way I like it myself, and am rewarded with a choked gasp.
His head turns, his eyes finding our reflection in the mirrored wall. The sight inflames him further: his massive body spread out before me, my hand working his cock with confident strokes. His eyes lock with mine in the mirror.
“Holy fucking shit,” he breathes, transfixed by our reflection. “I’m going to—I can’t—”
“Do it,” I command, surprising myself with the authority in my voice. “Let it go, Jacob.”
Jacob’s back arches off the bench, a harsh cry tearing from his throat. My name falls from his lips as he pulses in my hand. Hot ropes of come paint his chest and stomach, the orgasm going on and on as I milk every last drop from him.
When it finally subsides, he collapses back against the bench, his chest heaving, looking up at me with glazed eyes. Before I can move away, his hand shoots out, grabbing my belt and pulling me closer. I stumble forward, caught off guard by his strength even in his post-orgasmic state.
His fingers work my belt open with surprising dexterity, popping the button on my slacks and lowering the zipper in quick succession. I don’t stop him. I watch, breath held, as he tugs my underwear down just enough to free my aching cock.
Jacob looks up at me through thick lashes, awe mixed with hunger on his face. His hand wraps around me, his callused palm creating delicious friction.
“Christ,” I gasp as he begins stroking, his grip firm and confident.
He doesn’t tease or draw it out. His strokes are hard and efficient, intended to bring me to the edge as quickly as possible.
After the buildup of working on his body, feeling him come apart under my hands, I’m already close.
When his thumb swipes over my sensitive head, collecting the wetness there and using it to smooth his strokes, my control slips.
“Jacob—” I warn, but it’s too late.
I come with a shout, spilling over his hand and wrist in hot pulses. My knees nearly buckle as the orgasm tears through me, more intense than anything I’ve experienced before. Jacob works me through it, his grip gentling as the last aftershocks subside.
We stay frozen like that for a moment: me half-standing, half-leaning over him, both of us catching our breath. Reality starts to seep back in, bringing with it questions I’m not ready to face. What just happened? What does it mean? Where do we go from here?
But Jacob’s expression holds no regret, no panic like last time. Just a dazed satisfaction and something like wonder as he looks at the mess we’ve made of each other.