Chapter 8
Claire
The massage table sits in the center of the living room like an invitation to disaster.
I've been staring at it for the past five minutes, trying to convince myself that what I'm about to do is purely professional.
Testing their flexibility and core strength for personalized wellness plans. Nothing more.
But who am I kidding? After everything that's happened—Stuart's possessive passion in his office yesterday, Jonathan's tender night at my place, that unforgettable kiss with Dane—professional boundaries are a joke.
Still, I cling to the idea like a life raft in stormy seas.
"This seems excessive," Stuart says from the doorway, arms crossed over his chest in that defensive posture I'm beginning to recognize as his armor.
He's still marked from yesterday—faint scratches visible on his forearms where his sleeves are rolled up, a bite mark just barely hidden by his collar.
The sight sends an unwanted pulse of heat through me, remembering how he got those marks, how I gave them to him.
"Comprehensive wellness requires comprehensive assessment," I reply, keeping my voice steady despite the way his gray eyes bore into me. "You can't treat what you don't fully understand."
"Some things are better left not fully understood," he mutters, but he enters the room anyway, his movements controlled and precise like everything else about him.
Jonathan's already here, of course, eager and shirtless because he never misses an opportunity to display his gorgeous body.
He's sprawled on the couch like a large cat, all golden skin and defined muscles.
"I'm ready to be thoroughly assessed," he says with a grin that suggests he means something entirely different.
"Where's Dane?" I ask, trying not to notice how Jonathan's muscles ripple as he stretches, or the way his sweatpants hang low on his hips, revealing those carved lines that lead down to—
"Hiding in his writing cave. I'll get him." Jonathan bounds off with his usual energy, leaving Stuart and me alone.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unsaid.
Yesterday's encounter in his office hangs in the air—the sex, the admissions, his desperate need to claim me even while acknowledging he has to share.
I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my hips, the way he held me like I might disappear if he let go.
"Claire," he starts, then stops, running a hand through his silver hair in that gesture I'm learning means he's struggling with emotions he doesn't know how to express.
"We don't have to talk about it now," I say softly, though part of me wants to. Part of me wants to understand what's happening in that brilliant, complicated mind of his. "Let's just get through the assessments."
"Very professional of you."
"I learned from the best."
Something flashes in his eyes—hurt maybe, or regret—but before he can respond, Jonathan returns with Dane in tow.
Dane looks like he's been dragged from another dimension, his salt-and-pepper hair mussed in twelve different directions, wearing a ratty t-shirt with coffee stains and what appears to be ink smudges on his fingers.
"This is unnecessary," Dane protests, blinking owlishly in the afternoon light. "My body is merely a vessel for my consciousness. Its condition is irrelevant."
"Your chronic back pain suggests otherwise," I counter, noting the way he's unconsciously rubbing his lower back even now. "When's the last time you stood up straight without wincing?"
He blinks, surprised I noticed. "It's just from sitting too much."
"It's from sitting incorrectly for years." I pat the massage table, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "Jonathan first. Let's see what we're working with."
What follows is exquisite torture. I start by testing Jonathan's range of motion, trying to ignore how his skin feels under my hands—warm and smooth, with the kind of muscle definition that speaks to dedicated training.
He responds to every touch with subtle appreciation, his body attuned to physical contact in a way that makes even clinical touch feel intimate.
"Breathe normally," I instruct as I manipulate his shoulder, the same one I've been treating for the injury.
"Hard to breathe normally when you're touching me like that," he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.
"This is a professional assessment," I remind him, though my hands may linger a moment longer than strictly necessary on the warm expanse of his back.
"Sure it is." His grin is audible in his voice. "That's why your heart rate just increased."
He's right, damn him. I can feel my pulse quickening, especially when I have to lean across him to check the opposite shoulder, my breasts brushing against his back.
His flexibility is surprisingly good, but there are still imbalances—tightness in his hip flexors from heavy squats, shortened hamstrings despite his stretching routine.
"You focus too much on strength, not enough on mobility," I tell him, manipulating his leg to demonstrate the limitation. The position requires me to brace his thigh against my hip, intimate despite the clinical purpose. "Power without flexibility will only lead to an injury."
"I'm very flexible in certain situations," he says, voice dropping to that register that makes my stomach flip.
Stuart makes a sound that might be a growl from his position by the window.
"Stuart, you're next," I say quickly, before the tension can escalate further.
Stuart's assessment is different—controlled, resistant.
He holds himself rigid as I test his range of motion, like he's afraid of what might happen if he relaxes.
His body is leaner than Jonathan's, but there's strength there, wiry and enduring.
And surprising flexibility in some areas, particularly his hips and lower back.
"Surgeon's flexibility," he explains when I comment on it. "Hours of standing in unusual positions during long procedures."
I catch myself noticing things I shouldn't—the way his muscles contract under my touch, the slight hitch in his breathing when my hands move to his lower back, the clean scent of soap.
"You carry all your tension in your shoulders and neck," I observe, pressing on a particularly tight spot between his shoulder blades. He jerks away from the pressure. "Probably from hunching over in the OR for hours on end. You need regular massage therapy."
"I don't like being touched by strangers."
"Good thing I'm not a stranger then."
Our eyes meet, and the air crackles with electricity.
Jonathan clears his throat loudly, breaking the moment. "Dane's turn."
Dane approaches the table like it might attack him, each step reluctant. "This really isn't necessary—"
"Shirt off," I instruct.
"I don't—"
"Now, Dane."
He sighs but complies, revealing a body that's surprisingly well-defined for someone who claims to live entirely in his head.
Lean muscle, elegant lines like a swimmer's build, with a writer's characteristically terrible posture.
There's something vulnerable about the way he stands there, arms crossed protectively over his chest.
"Lie down," I instruct gently. "On your stomach first."
He does, and I begin my assessment, running my hands along his spine, checking for misalignments, tension points. He's a mess—knotted muscles like rope, compressed vertebrae, hip imbalance that's pulling everything off kilter.
"Jesus, Dane. You're like a walking anatomy lesson in what not to do." I press on a particularly tight spot in his lower back, and he groans—part pain, part relief. "How long has your back been hurting?"
"Years," he admits into the table, his voice muffled. "It's worse when I'm deep in a manuscript. Sometimes I don't move for eight, ten hours."
"Which is always," Jonathan supplies helpfully.
I work on the pressure points, using techniques I learned treating athletes with similar issues. My hands find each knot, each area of tension, working them out with practiced pressure.
Dane makes sounds that are increasingly less professional—soft groans, gasps when I hit particularly sensitive spots, a low moan when I work on a knot that's probably been there for months.
"Your hip flexors are incredibly tight," I murmur, working on the attachment points where muscle meets bone. "It's pulling your entire pelvis out of alignment."
My hands move lower, working on the glutes and upper thighs where tension accumulates from prolonged sitting. It's necessary work, but intimate—my hands kneading muscle that rarely gets touched, finding trigger points that make him arch slightly off the table.
Dane's breathing changes, becomes deeper, more irregular, and I realize I've crossed from therapeutic into something else. My hands slow but don't stop, drawn by the way his muscles respond to my touch, the way his skin warms under my palms.
"Claire," he says, voice rough with something that isn't pain.
"Does this hurt?" I ask, pressing on a spot that makes him grip the edges of the table.
"No. The opposite."
The admission hangs in the air like a confession. I'm aware of Stuart and Jonathan watching us.
My hands continue their work, but now every touch feels deliberate, intentional. I trace the muscles along his spine, feeling them relax and contract under my touch.
"Turn over," I instruct softly, my own voice not quite steady.
Dane does, and our eyes meet. His are dark, dilated, filled with an intensity that makes my breath catch. There's desire there, yes, but also something deeper.
I work on his shoulders, leaning over him to get the right angle. The position puts us close, so close I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes and count his eyelashes. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and I realize mine is matching his rhythm.
"Your muscles are responding well to treatment," I say, voice barely a whisper.
"That's not all that's responding."