Chapter 11
Jacob
I pace around my apartment for the tenth time, checking the clock again.
Twenty minutes till Riley arrives. The salt bath I took earlier has done fuck all to calm my nerves.
I’ve never been this jittery before a championship fight, but the thought of Riley walking through my door has my heart pounding like I’m about to step into the cage with The Butcher all over again.
I tug at my t-shirt, second-guessing my decision to put on clothes.
Last time I met him half-naked, and things got…
complicated. Maybe the shirt creates some semblance of normalcy between doctor and patient.
The gray cotton clings to my still-damp skin.
I took a second shower after the bath, scrubbing until my skin felt raw. Clean. Prepared.
For what exactly, I’m not sure I want to admit.
I check my phone: eighteen minutes. Fuck. Time’s crawling.
I sit on the couch, then immediately stand again.
The tension in my body won’t let me stay still.
I walk to the kitchen, pour a glass of water, drain it in one long gulp, then pour another.
My eyes drift to the bedroom door, slightly ajar.
The sheets I changed an hour ago. The towels I set out.
The bottle of lube hidden in my nightstand drawer.
Just in case.
I pull out my phone again and stare at my browser history: “prostate massage benefits,” “prostate massage techniques,” “first time anal male.” I close the tabs quickly, like Riley might somehow see them through the door.
But the images and information are already seared into my brain.
I know what to expect now. I know what he might do.
Do I want it? Well, that’s the million-dollar question right there.
The buzzer sounds, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I check the time: ten minutes early. Of course he is. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the riot in my chest, and press the intercom.
“Hey,” I say, hoping my voice sounds normal. “Come up.”
I buzz him in, then stand in the middle of the room, not sure what to do with myself. Should I open the door? Wait for him to knock? I settle on the latter, shoving my hands in the pockets of my joggers to keep them still.
Three sharp knocks, and I’m moving toward the door like I’m being pulled by a magnet. I open it to find Riley standing there in dark jeans and a forest green sweater that brings out his eyes. He looks exactly as he always does—calm, collected, completely in control of himself.
“Hello, Jacob,” he says, stepping past me into the apartment. His voice holds none of the uncertainty churning inside me. “You’re looking well.”
I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
Riley scans me from head to toe, taking in the t-shirt and joggers. His expression gives nothing away, but I feel exposed under his gaze nonetheless. Like he can see right through the fabric to the skin beneath, can read every thought in my head.
“Shall we get started?” he asks, gesturing toward my home gym.
“Actually,” I say, the words sticking in my throat, “I was thinking we could use my bedroom this time.”
Riley raises one eyebrow, the only indication of surprise on his otherwise composed face.
Heat crawls up my neck. “It’s more comfortable than the bench. And… convenient.” The word sounds stupid even to my own ears. Convenient for what?
Riley studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Lead the way.”
I turn quickly before he can read anything more in my face and walk toward my bedroom, hyperaware of him following a few steps behind.
I push the door open wider, revealing the king-sized bed with its fresh gray sheets and the stack of clean towels on the nightstand.
The evidence of my anticipation is so fucking obvious that I want to crawl under the bed and die.
“This will work,” Riley says, setting his bag down at the foot of the bed. He pulls out his portable face cradle and a few bottles of oil, arranging them on the nightstand. “Sit on the edge of the bed, please.”
I perch on the mattress, trying to look casual and failing miserably. Riley stands in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, subtle and clean. It makes my mouth water.
“Take off your shirt and pants,” he instructs.
The command in his voice sends a shiver straight down my spine and into my groin.
I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, tossing it aside.
I stand briefly to shove my joggers down, grateful that I decided to wear underwear today—black briefs that at least provide some barrier between his clinical gaze and my semi-hard dick.
“Good,” Riley says, and the simple praise lights up something in my chest. “Let me check your shoulder.”
His hands are on me then, firm and professional as they guide my arm through various positions. I focus on my breathing, trying not to react to his touch.
“Much better,” he murmurs. “You’ve been doing the exercises?”
“Yeah. And the salt baths. Dry sauna after workouts too.”
Riley hums in approval. “And meditation?”
I snort. “Tried it. That app you recommended? The guy’s voice made me want to punch a wall. Couldn’t focus on relaxing with him droning on about ocean waves and shit.”
Riley’s mouth quirks upward. “That’s fine. Meditation isn’t for everyone. There are plenty of other techniques.” His hands move from my shoulder to my neck, thumbs pressing into tight muscles at the base of my skull. “Lie back, please. We’ll start on your front today.”
I sink back onto the mattress as Riley reaches for a bottle of oil. He warms it between his palms before placing his hands on my chest. The angle is awkward—he’s standing beside the bed, having to lean over to reach me properly.
“This isn’t going to work,” I say. “You’ll wreck your back.”
Riley frowns. “The angle is a bit challenging.”
“Just sit on the bed. I don’t care if it’s not how you usually do this. Your back will be fucked otherwise.”
He hesitates, and I see the professional boundaries reshuffling in his head.
Finally, he nods and perches carefully on the edge of the mattress beside me, his hip against mine.
The shift in position brings his face closer to mine, and I look away quickly, not trusting myself to maintain eye contact.
His hands return to my chest, slick with oil, and begin working the muscles there with confident strokes. Something about his touch instantly dissolves the tension in my body. It’s like my muscles recognize his hands before my brain does, yielding to him without resistance.
A sound escapes my throat as his thumbs dig into a particularly tight spot—something between a groan and a sigh.
Riley doesn’t acknowledge it, just continues his methodical work, moving from my chest to my arms, then to my abs.
Each press of his fingers sends warmth radiating outward, and I find myself sinking deeper into the mattress, my breathing slowing, my mind emptying of everything but the sensation of his hands on my skin.
My cock stiffens in my briefs, the fabric doing little to hide my arousal. Riley’s eyes flick to it once, then away, his expression unchanged. He continues working on my lower abdomen, his fingers skating dangerously close to the waistband of my underwear.
“Turn over, please,” he says after a few more minutes.
I roll onto my stomach, grateful to hide my erection from view, though the pressure of the mattress against it sends a jolt of pleasure through me.
Riley shifts position, standing again to work on my back.
His hands slide up from my lower back to my shoulders, focusing extra attention on my right side.
I bury my face in the mattress, muffling the sounds I can’t seem to hold back.
His touch is knowing, confident, finding places in my body I didn’t even know needed attention. Each stroke of his hands loosens something in me—not just physically but deeper, like he’s dismantling the armor I’ve worn my entire life.
Riley works his way down my back, then moves to the foot of the bed. His hands wrap around my foot, thumbs pressing into the arch in a way that makes my entire leg tremble.
“Fuck,” I breathe into the mattress.
“The feet contain pressure points connected to the entire body,” Riley explains, his voice clinical despite the intimacy of his touch. “Tension here can affect your shoulders, your back, even your jaw.”
I don’t respond, can’t find words as he works his way up my calves to my thighs. His hands move higher, thumbs pressing into the backs of my legs, working steadily upward until he reaches the edge of my briefs.
“I need to massage your glutes. May I remove your underwear?”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Yeah,” I manage.
Riley hooks his fingers into the waistband of my briefs and tugs. I lift my hips to help him, and then I’m naked on the bed, completely exposed to him. My face burns with embarrassment, but my cock throbs with anticipation.
I hear the sound of more oil being dispensed, and then Riley’s hands are on my ass, kneading the muscles with firm pressure. My breath hitches.
“People hold a tremendous amount of stress in the glutes,” Riley says, his voice slightly husky. “These muscles need to relax to allow proper movement in the hips and lower back, which in turn affects your shoulder.”
It sounds reasonable when he explains it that way, but there’s nothing reasonable about the way my body is responding. Each press of his fingers sends electricity straight to my groin. I fight the urge to grind against the mattress, to seek more friction for my aching cock trapped beneath me.
Riley’s thumbs press deeper, working the muscle in slow circles that gradually move inward. The tip of his thumb grazes the crease of my ass, and I shudder.
“Did you give any thought to trying prostate massage?” Riley asks softly.
I grunt something unintelligible, unable to form actual words.
“I think it would help,” he continues. “We can stop anytime you want.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”