Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Jason
The One Where She Accidentally Touched My Soul—and My Thigh
The clinic at night is quieter. Cleaner. But it still hums—with something sharp and electric. Something that smells like citrus and walks like temptation in joggers.
I lean against the treatment table, arms crossed, watching the door like I’ve got even a fraction of control over when Scottie walks in.
Obviously, I don’t. I’ve never had control when it comes to her.
Especially not after she’s been actively, strategically, and professionally avoiding me for two fucking days.
Sure, on paper, I didn’t have an official session scheduled until today. But she could’ve seen me Monday. Or Tuesday. I swung by to pick up resistance bands—ones I absolutely didn’t need—and her receptionist told me she was in. No clients. No emergencies. Just . . . unavailable.
Apparently, unavailable now means ‘don’t let the horny, mouthy patient in because I might jump him in front of the filing cabinet.’
I’d find it flattering if I weren’t half-mad about it.
The door finally swings open, and she walks—like a storm disguised in joggers and a hoodie. Hair piled up like she shoved it into the twist with her car keys. Mouth drawn. Eyes hard. She’s here for business.
But I see it.
The tension riding her shoulders. The grip on her bag. The way her gaze snags on me for just a second too long before she looks away.
She’s here, but she’s not calm, and, fuck, I like her like this.
I nod toward the mat. “So this your idea of foreplay now? Ghosting me for forty-eight hours?”
Scottie drops her bag on the chair, calm as ever. “You were scheduled for earlier today, not sure why you changed the time.”
So, she decided to listen to just part of what I said, and I let it go . . . for now.
“I’m here,” she adds, arms folded now, stance like she’s ready to throw me across the room. “So. We doing this or not?”
“We doing what exactly?” I push off the table, stepping closer, watching the tension ripple through her frame. “Stretching my hamstring or testing how far you can push me before I stop pretending this is just rehab?”
“Whichever gets you out of that god complex and back into shape.”
I smirk. Let my eyes drag down her body. “You sure you want me in shape? Thought you liked me better in pieces.”
She steps forward, too. “I like you better when you shut up and follow instructions.”
I drop my voice. “I follow better when your hands are on me.”
Her nostrils flare, her jaw twitches.
“Get on the mat,” she snaps.
I do. Because I’m not dumb. And because she looks like she wants to either straddle me or slap me. Either way—I’m winning.
She kneels beside me, all business. Tablet set to the side. Her fingers wrap around my ankle, adjust my position, then drag slowly—too slowly—up my shin.
Professional. Efficient. Precise.
Still sends a bolt of heat straight to my spine.
We work through the warm-up drills—basic stuff. Isometric holds. Lateral raises. Knee extensions. I count reps like I’m not imagining her sitting on my face. She taps my thigh to adjust alignment, and I pretend it doesn’t make my cock twitch.
We don’t speak.
But the tension?
It’s not quiet—it’s loud. Louder than my breathing, louder than the AC hum, and more than anything that’s ever happened on this mat, and that includes the time I popped my knee out during a single-leg lunge and almost blacked out.
“Okay,” she says finally, voice tight. “You’re moving better.”
“You say that like you’re surprised.”
Her fingers skim my thigh again. “I’m not surprised. You’re stubborn.”
“I’m also flexible.”
“That’s not on the chart.”
“It could be. Want me to show you? I practice yoga during the off-season.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s biting her lip, and that ruins me a little.
“Turn,” she says. “Lie flat. I’m going to check the tension in the IT band.”
I roll over, cheek pressed to the mat, breath slowing. Trying like hell to keep my lower half from reacting to the feel of her fingers sliding under the hem of my shorts.
She starts at my quad, palm working firm circles, then drags along my outer thigh with practiced pressure.
I groan.
Loud.
She pauses. “Pain?”
“No,” I breathe. “Just trying not to come in my gym shorts.”
She snorts. “Fuck, Jason, don’t start.”
“I warned you,” I mutter, eyes closed. “Your hands are a menace.”
“Your self-control is a menace.”
She digs into a knot behind my knee, and I hiss. Her fingers ease up, rubbing the tension out. Her touch is slower now.
Softer.
“Still with me?” she asks, voice low.
“Barely.”
She moves closer. I can feel her thigh brush mine, her breath at my back. Every part of me goes still as her hands trail higher. Over my glutes. Back to my waist. Not sexual—not exactly—but fuck, it’s close.
My cock is already hard. There’s no hiding it. Not like this.
“Jason,” she says, not moving. “You good?”
I lift my head. Turn just enough to catch her expression. Serious, flushed, but not exactly unreadable. She knows what she’s doing to me.
“I’m not good,” I say. “I’m fucking wrecked.”
There’s apause, a long one. She doesn’t pull away—and that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
When she adjusts my form, her body leans over mine. Her hoodie rides up. My thigh brushes hers. Our breath tangles in the air between us. And it’s all I can do not to reach up and cup the back of her neck and pull her mouth down to mine.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
I just lie there, muscles tense, cock hard, heart thumping like I’m gearing up for game seven. I know I’m gonna lose. Her palm is resting at my waist now—not quite gripping, not quite pulling away—just there. Warm. Dangerous. Inches from everything I want her to touch.
I could lift my hips. Just a little. Give her a reason to close the distance. It wouldn’t take much. One shift and her hand would be right where I need her. One shift and this professional line we’ve been pretending to balance would immediately go up in fucking flames.
Her hand twitches.
Not like she’s startled. Like she’s thinking about it. Maybe she’s wondering what it’d feel like to wrap those fingers around me and end this pretense we’ve both been barely surviving.
The air between us stretches—tightens—and cracks.
Then she pulls back.
Of course, she does.
Her touch leaves like it regrets it, slow and uncertain, but the loss hits anyway. I feel her fingers’ absence like a hot and lingering bruise. And then she’s standing, rising to her full height like that didn’t just mean something.
As if she didn’t just get closer than anyone has in a long fucking time.
I shift onto my side, propping myself up on one elbow, watching her walk away like I haven’t already memorized the sway of her hips in those joggers.
She doesn’t look back. Just grabs her tablet like a shield, like maybe she can program professionalism back into her hands after they almost betrayed her.
“You’re always running away from me, Scottie.” My voice is rough. It lands harder than I expect. “Maybe one day you should find out what happens when you stay.”
She freezes. I see the pause. One interrupted step, one held breath, she’s probably not even breathing at this point. Her spine stiffens, and I bet she’s holding onto her table like it’s the only thing saving her from me.
However, she doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. I sit up fully, my legs stretched in front of me, and the ache in my knee flares like it’s reminding me that this whole thing started because I needed fixing.
Spoiler alert: the injury’s not the part of me that’s broken anymore.
“I’m not trying to fuck this up,” I say quietly, voice low, just for her. “But you keep pretending this isn’t happening, that you don’t want it. And you know what? I’m fucking tired of pretending.”
She still doesn’t face me, but her shoulders drop. It’s just a fraction. That’s when I know I got through. Not all the way. Not yet.
But something cracked open.
Just enough for hope to wedge in.