Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Jason
The Accidental (Totally on Purpose) Inner Touch
The room is too warm.
Not just temperature warm—nerve-ending warm. The buzz-under-your-skin kind that makes your whole body hyperaware before anyone’s even laid a finger on you. And for someone like me—with barely suppressed lust and a very active imagination—it’s fucking cruel.
Oh, fuck me. She’s wearing leggings again.
We should have a professional discussion about her attire. Fewer leggings. More shorts. Or, hell, just commit to nothing. Nothing works. Nothing is efficient. Nothing gives me zero distractions.
Jesus, Tate. Get it together.
I’m mentally yelling at myself like that’s going to work. Like that has ever worked.
You promised to keep it professional, remember? Right after the shower where you jerked off so hard that the tiles might file for custody of your unborn children. That was supposed to be the last time. The final finale. Post-nut clarity and everything.
And yet . . .
Here I am, staring at her from across the room like a cartoon wolf.
Again. Okay, no more wanting to kiss my therapist. Or fuck her.
Or both at the same time, because why not?
Let me tell you why not, asshole . . . she’s Leif’s little sister, your therapist, and if you fuck up your recovery, you’re done.
Sure, but how can I do that when my gorgeous therapist has an ass that looks scientifically sculpted for sin?
Focus on something else.
I look at the wall. I swear I do. But her top shifts, drawing my attention to the way her sports bra cradles her breasts like it’s daring me not to notice.
Obviously, I’m losing the challenge because I notice. I so fucking notice those tits. I’m supposed to be focusing on . . . fuck, what am I doing here again?
Right. Rehab.
You’re going to try very hard in this today, Tate. You’re going to do your glute bridges. You’re going to act like your cock belongs in your pants. You’re going to respond like a functioning adult when she touches you and not imagine her mouth anywhere near . . . and you’re already failing.
So, I change tactics. “Morning, Ella,” I say casually, pretending like I’m just another patient who hasn’t memorized the shape of her smile.
She wrinkles her nose. “Really? You’re going for Ella?”
I shrug. “Everyone here calls you that. I thought it’d be weird to keep calling you Scottie.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re acting weird, Tate. Are you feeling okay?”
God, she has no fucking idea how I’m feeling.
She glances at the tablet in her hand. “Did you do your ten-minute warm-up on the treadmill?”
“Absolutely,” I lie. Boldly. Like a man who definitely did not sit in the parking lot debating if jerking off again before walking in would help or make things worse.
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t call me out. Just points toward the open mat. “Need you here.”
Instead of telling her that I’ll be wherever she needs me, I limp over and lower myself with what I hope is the air of a man completely unaffected by the curve of her hips or how her ponytail swings when she walks.
I shift, stretch out, and start moving through the first warm-up sequence with zero focus.
She stands above me, tablet still in hand, stylus spinning between her fingers like she’s conducting a fucking symphony. Her gaze drags across my chest, trails over my thighs, pauses just long enough to make my dick twitch in betrayal.
I grit my teeth. Don’t salute. Don’t salute. Don’t fucking salute.
Then she crouches.
Right next to me. All calm and in control, her voice smooth like we’re not in a room soaked in sexual tension and bad decisions waiting to happen.
“Okay, Tate,” she says. “Glutes fired. Knees up. Now bridge and hold.”
I do it. Or try to. My brain is trying to coordinate muscle activation while also screaming about her proximity, her scent, the fact that her hand is now on my thigh, and Jesus Christ, don’t let her move higher.
“Hold,” she says again, gaze flicking to the screen. Totally unaware that she’s about ten seconds from witnessing a physical and moral crisis.
I clench my jaw and focus on the ceiling.
Not her voice. Not her fingers. Not the way her shirt shifts as she leans down and oh my God, is that the curve of her . . . stop, Tate.
Her palm lands on my hip, and I nearly groan—not because I’m in pain.
It doesn’t have to do with the lunge. Nope. The real struggle here is trying to maintain my balance while she’s touching me like it’s just business.
Spoiler alert: it’s not.
Not for me.
Not when her hand is warm and firm, her fingers curving against my side like she’s sculpting me. Like she could undo me if she wanted to.
“You’re tilting too far forward,” she says, voice maddeningly calm.
Of course, I am. You touched me.
“You need to keep the twist in your torso, not your knee.”
I glance over my shoulder, lips twitching. “I’d probably perform better if you stopped putting your hands on me.”
She doesn’t even blink. “You’d perform better if you focused on your form instead of flirting like a twelve-year-old who just discovered boobs.”
“Too late for that,” I say, straightening, breath punching out of me. She sighs through her nose. “Jason.”
“You leaned over a treatment table wearing that white tank during eval,” I continue, because I’m a shameless asshole with zero self-preservation. “It was practically an invitation.”
She steps back. Just a fraction. Not annoyed. Just recalibrating.
I miss her hand instantly.
“Rotate again. Let’s try the other side.”
I shift position. My thigh burns. My brain’s fried. My dick is still debating whether it wants to be part of the conversation or just take a nap out of spite. Take the nap, buddy; there’s nothing for you here.
Scottie circles me like a lioness in leggings. Cool. Focused. Her tablet beep-beeps when she taps notes into it. Her gaze flicks to me again.
“How’s the pain?”
“Manageable.”
“How’s the swelling?”
“Also manageable.”
She nods. “And the erection?”
I almost choke. “Excuse me?”
Her eyes dance—teasing. “Just checking if the discomfort is all knee-related.”
“Wow,” I say, standing up straight, letting my gaze drag down her body. “That was bold, Crawford.”
She shrugs like my raging libido isn’t her problem. “You’re the one moaning every time I touch your leg. I’m just gathering clinical data.”
“Well, my clinical data says you should kiss me and see if that helps with the inflammation.”
Scottie pauses. Just long enough to make me wonder if I crossed a line. Then, her voice drops just slightly. “You really want me to kiss you right now?”
I freeze.
Because, yeah. I do, I so fucking do.
I want it like I want oxygen. Like I want a second chance at the career I’m not sure I’ll ever get back. Like I want her legs around my waist and her mouth open beneath mine.
But the room shifts. The energy thickens with something else.
Vulnerability?
I don’t answer right away. She’s watching me too closely now.
“I do, but I also think,” I say slowly, “that kissing you might ruin everything.”
She swallows. Her throat moves. Her eyes flick away for the briefest second before locking back on mine.
“But I also think that not kissing me might ruin you more,” she says, giving me a wicked smile.
And just like that, we’re frozen—between reps, between jokes, between whatever this thing is turning into—and my heart starts thudding like it forgot how to do subtle.
I don’t kiss her.
Not yet.
Because maybe she’s right.
Or maybe that kiss is coming later, but definitely not going to happen in the middle of a fucking lunge.
Instead, I give her a crooked smile, step back, and say, “Let’s finish the set. You can ruin me later.”
She’s talking about alignment.
I’m thinking about how close her hand is to a very particular pressure point.
“You’re overcompensating again,” she mutters. “You’re shifting into your left side to protect the right knee.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I grunt.
She steps around me, crouches slightly, and adjusts my foot placement. Her hands brush my ankle and the inside of my thigh—casual and clinical if she were anyone else.
But she’s not.
She’s Scottie.
And her fingers don’t feel like treatment—they feel like foreplay.
“Focus,” she says, lifting her head. Her face is inches from mine now. “Breath. Stability. Mind-muscle connection.”
“I’ve got a connection,” I breathe. “Just not sure it’s the one you’re talking about.”
She exhales, but it’s not annoying. It’s strained. Like she’s pretending my bullshit doesn’t get to her—and failing.
Her eyes drop—quick, subtle—to my mouth. I see it. I feel it.
I grin.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she straightens, puts a foot between mine, and presses lightly against my hip to deepen the stretch.
Except her thigh brushes mine, her breath fans my neck, and I swear the air turns electric.
“Is this still part of the rehab?” I ask, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
“If you keep talking, I’ll add wall squats,” she says, too fast.
She’s flustered.
I fucking love it.
“You trying to punish me?” I step out of the stretch slowly, deliberately, knowing the way my abs flex when I rise. “Or is this your way of getting me to beg?”
Her eyes snap to mine.
And there it is again.
The flicker.
The moment.
The almost.
She shoves the clipboard into my hands. “Next stretch. Adductor series.”
Ah, yes. The spread-your-legs-on-the-floor-and-try-not-to-make-it-sexual stretch.
Cruel woman.
I sit, legs apart, and lean forward, reaching for my toes. My hamstrings curse me—my dick pouts. My pride hangs in the balance.
Scottie crouches in front of me again. She presses against my knee, gently coaxing it down, helping with the stretch.
I hiss—half pain, half fuck-her-hand-is-on-my-inner-thigh-again.
“Relax,” she says.
“Impossible.”
She tilts her head. “Why?”
“Because you smell like sex and citrus, and your hand is way too close to things. I don’t trust myself to keep quiet.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.
Instead, her thumb grazes up—just a little.
Just enough.
My hips twitch.
Her gaze snaps up.
We lock eyes.
Neither of us speaks.
Then, because I’m an idiot—or maybe because I can’t not—I say, “You keep touching me like that, and I’m gonna embarrass myself in a very real, very physical way.”
She leans in just enough to drop her voice. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
Holy. Shit.
Scottie Crawford just flirted back.
Really flirted. Not the dismissive barbs she usually throws like dodgeballs. Not the professional shutdowns.
This one had teeth. And tongue.
And I think I stopped breathing.
“You really wanna know?” I ask, low and level.
Her lashes flutter. “Try me.”
I exhale, slow and uneven. “I’d press you against that wall right now if you let me. Wrap your legs around me and make you forget this is a PT session. I’d kiss you until that attitude melts off your mouth, and you beg me to ruin you.”
Her breath catches, and her pupils blow wide. She opens her mouth . . . then someone knocks on the door.
We both jolt like teenagers caught dry-humping on a church pew.
Scottie straightens, practically bolts to the tablet, clicks the screen like it did something wrong.
“Come in,” she chirps, too bright.
A tech peeks in. “Hey, just grabbing the GSR monitor for Room C.”
Scottie waves him toward the shelf. I drop back onto the mat, trying not to look like I’m two seconds from spontaneous combustion.
The tech grabs the device and leaves.
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
Then she turns around—composed again. Mask back on. Like she didn’t just flirt with me like we’re two seconds from fucking on the floor.
“Let’s wrap for today,” she says, clipped.
I push up slowly, brace squeaking in protest. “You gonna pretend that didn’t happen?”
“I’m going to pretend this was a productive session.”
“So we’re lying now.”
She gives me a look that could cut glass. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I limp to my bag, every step a reminder that I’m hard and ruined and starving for someone who refuses to let go of the line she drew between us.
But here’s the thing about lines: they’re meant to be crossed, and I’m not done testing how far she’ll let me go.