8. Brody #2
“We’ll give your muscles a minute to warm up first,” I say, stepping back. “Then I’ll do some gentle stretching before hooking you to the TENS.”
“Brody…”
“Yeah?”
“This heat is making me sleepy.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Have a nap. You’re in a safe place.”
“You’re going to stay?” The vulnerability in her voice nearly undoes me.
“Yeah, Jami,” I say. “I’m going to stay.” God, the way she trusts me—it’s almost too much. Especially considering the lie we’re keeping from her brother.
I dim the lights and return to my desk, letting her soft exhale fill the room. I shuffle through charts, make a few notes, and after about half an hour, she stirs.
“Hey,” I whisper.
Her head turns toward me, a long pillowcase line pressed into her flushed cheek. “You stayed.”
I feel my chest tighten at the sight. “I promised I would.”
“Man of your word, right.” She smiles. “I fell asleep.”
I walk over to her, and lower my voice to match hers. “I know. Everyone here knows, actually.”
“Did someone…” she turns to her side, her worried gaze darts to the closed door, her body tense as she shifts to get up.
As a measure of vulnerability flashes in her eyes, I rest a hand firmly on her abdomen, keeping her still.
She settles, but wait… Did she just… moan?
Does she like being under my hold like that?
Oh this is not good. Not good at all.
“It was the snoring?” I say quickly, teasing, trying to mask the jolt of awareness her reaction gave me. “Rattled the walls.” She chuckles softly and relaxes. I lean closer. “I’d never let anyone in here while you were sleeping. You were safe with me.”
She nods and her hand slides over mine, holding it on her stomach, and my pulse jumps.
“I do not snore,” she assures me.
I lean a little closer, my voice dropping. “Whatever you say, Jams.”
She chuckles. “Jams?”
I put my hand over hers. “What, you don’t like it?”
I lightly run my thumb over her delicate wrist.
She takes a soft breath. “No one calls me that.”
“You’re saying I’m no one?” I tease back, spreading her fingers with mine.
She gives a shaky laugh, her head moving side to side. “I’m saying… what are we even talking about? You’re so annoying I don’t remember.”
I thread my fingers through hers.
“Your nickname,” I counter, voice low as she shifts, her T-shirt lifting, exposing the soft skin of her stomach.
I press my thumb to hers, rub it over her exposed flesh.
Her breathing changes, becomes a bit deeper. “That is not my nickname.”
I move our thumbs lower, her waistband a barrier I don’t dare cross.
“Jams,” I say again, tasting it on my tongue. “I like it.”
She moves her body, like she’s trying to guide our fingers lower. Past the barrier I know better than breaching.
“Are you talking about Jam… like the fruit spread you put on toast?”
I grin and a quiver goes through her and she moves our fingers lower. Fuck. “I like that too. I guess you could say… jam is kind of my jam.” Her laugh fills the quiet clinic. “What’s your middle name?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Just do.”
She lifts her hips, a moan catching in her throat. “Fine, it’s Robin. Like the red breasted bird.”
“Does anyone call you that?”
“Just my parents when they’re mad,” she breathes out. “They use my full name. Jami Robin Grant.”
“Robin huh? I pause to consider that. “I think it fits you.” She cocks her head. “Small but resilient. Independent. Spirited. But I’m not going to call you something your parents do when they’re mad. Instead, you’re going to be my little birdie.”
“Birdie,” she whispers like she’s warming to the nickname.
I suddenly remember the airport—our first, or rather second—meeting. That’s when something niggles loose in the back of my brain. “Did you call me Big Dill?” I ask.
Our fingers surreptitiously dip beneath the band of her jeans and she sucks in a breath.
What happened to the barrier you knew better than to breach, dude?
Oh, it’s just that my brain has quit functioning.
A streak of pink flushes her face and she bites her bottom lip as she admits, “Yes.”
I can’t help it. Laughter spills out of me, echoing around the room. Her body shakes with mine, for numerous reasons. “Why did you call me that?”
My dick presses against my zipper as she slightly turns toward me, the waistband of her jeans loosening in this new position.
“You told me you played pickleball, Broderick.”
The heat between us curls around our bodies, the tension almost too much to bear.
“I did,” I admit, our fingers brushing over a place that makes her pulse quicken. “Is that the real reason?”
Our fingers are so close to that needy spot that made her swell beneath my tongue.
“There could be others,” she says, the needy moan in her throat sending heat through my body.
“Do you remember what you told me at the hotel?” I whisper near her ear, my restraint thinning.
“Okay fine,” she breathes. “I lied about my name too.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Brody,” she moans, her body needy now and I press my forehead to hers, practically panting with want.
“I want to touch you, Jami. I want my mouth on you again.”
She wiggles, and I press down on her, restricting her movement and a keening cry catches in her throat. “I…I want that too,” she admits, her body trembling.
Seconds before I’m about to follow through, about to rip into her button and tug her pants off, laughing fills the hallway just outside my door and my body tenses. My synapses refire, smacking some sense back into me. “Fuck…we can’t.”
I meet her gaze, and her lids close briefly. When they open, she’s with me. Eyes full of understanding and agreement. I pull our hands from her waistband, and settle hers on her stomach.
“Man of your word,” is all she says.
“So fucking hard to be good with you, Little Birdie.”
“What are we going to do about this, Brody?”
I rake my hand through my hair and inch back. “We could try to avoid each other.”
“We work in the same facility.”
I grunt out, “Right.”
“Live in the same house, too,” she adds.
“We could stagger our hours.”
She arches a brow. “That could work.”
“It’ll have to.” Switching back to professional mode, I twirl my finger. “Can you turn over?”
She does and I get to work sticking the adhesive pads carefully along the taut muscles of her trapezius. The cool pads cling to her skin, and I can feel a tiny jolt of electricity run up my spine just being this close.
A beat passes and the air between us cools—at least on the surface—as she asks, “Are you going to tell me whatever it is I told you at the hotel, or is this machine going to make me psychic?”
“Maybe…eventually. But it’s possible I’ll let you remember on your own.”
“Like I said,” she mutters. “Annoying.”
“Are you going to tell me the other reasons you called me Big Dill?”
She huffs out a laugh. “I guess we’ll both hold each other’s secrets.”
Secrets.
I hate them.
They can be as bad as lies, but something about sharing secrets with Jami is…dangerously appealing.
Working hard to stay in professional mode, I begin, “You’ll feel a buzzing, kind of like little fingers kneading out the knots,” I explain, my hands brushing near hers as I adjust the wires.
She shivers.
I turn the dial slowly, watching her reaction. “Tell me if it gets too strong.”
The device hums to life, sending gentle pulses along the muscles. Her shoulders sag a fraction, the tension melting.
“Oh,” she breathes. “That’s… wow. That actually feels amazing.”
I notice everything. The way her neck relaxes under my hands, the soft inhale, the subtle way she leans into the sensation. It’s all so familiar.
“Good,” I murmur, keeping my tone neutral—professional—but my fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary to ensure the pads are in place. “Just… stay still for a minute.”
Her eyes meet mine, a hint of need still lingering there, and I have to remind myself this is therapy. Nothing else.
The buzzing continues, rhythmic, almost hypnotic, and I take the chance to check her posture, gently guiding her head side to side. Her body responds immediately, shoulders dropping, spine lengthening.
“Better?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I lean in just enough that my breath brushes the shell of her ear. “Remember to breathe, Jami.”
“Right,” she responds, steadying herself.
I step away, go back to some paperwork and give her space, and when her time is finally up, I return to the machine, slide the dial down slowly before switching it off. I peel the pads off, and help her roll to her back.
“Good.”
“Tingles linger,” she jokes, rubbing her neck.
“Perfect,” I say, smirking. “Means it worked.”
And for a heartbeat, we just look at each other. Too aware of the space between us. I reach for her, my hand settling on her side as I lean in.
“Jami…”