Chapter Two #2
I gesture to the couch and lower myself onto the arm of it, leaving her the cushion. She perches on the edge and flips her notebook open to a clean page. The greyhound lies down at her feet, chin on her paws, eyes still on me.
“I have your file from your surgical team, but I’d rather hear it from you directly. Can you walk me through what happened?”
“You’ll have to ask my surgeon for that one. The injury isn’t a story I tell.”
She blinks, recovers fast. “Okay. Then can you tell me what surgeries you’ve had and what areas of your body were injured?”
“Left shoulder—reconstruction. Left knee—same. Some shrapnel pulled out of the side. The rest healed on its own.”
She scribbles fast, her brows knit together in concentration. “How long since the surgeries?”
“Shoulder was four months ago. Knee a month after that.”
“And your current pain level on a scale of one to ten, both at rest and with movement?”
“Three at rest. Six or seven if I push it.”
She nods, scribbling. “Alright. I’m going to do a hands-on assessment now—range of motion, strength, and sensitivity around the surgical sites.
I’ll need you to take off your shirt for the shoulder, but you can leave your sweats on for now.
We’ll do the knee through the fabric for this first session. ”
I shrug out of my T-shirt—slower than I would have a year ago, careful with the left shoulder.
Those pretty eyes light up with surprise, and I can’t tell what shocks her most: the muscles or the scars across the left side of my torso, the worst of them where the shrapnel went in.
She collects herself just enough and stands, producing a goniometer from her bag and setting it on the coffee table within reach.
She clears her throat and steps close, and a soft scent reaches me—something like flowers in spring, delicate and warm. It sends my nose flaring and my body tensing. I haven’t touched a woman in years, and her closeness reminds me of that.
“I’m going to start with palpation around the shoulder—feeling for tightness, knots, anything tender. Tell me where it hurts and by how much, on a one-to-ten scale. Sorry, my hands might be cold.”
I thought I was prepared for her touch, but the second those long, delicate fingers touch my skin, all my blood rushes south.
My cock hardens to steel behind my sweatpants.
I shift my hips back, trying to give us both a little space.
She doesn’t immediately notice as she gently starts palpating my muscles, tracing her fingertips over my left shoulder and down to where the surgical scar runs along the joint.
“Does this hurt?” she asks, pressing lightly. “Two? Five?”
“Two. Maybe three at the scar itself.” I miss her touch when she moves to scribble in her notebook, but it’s not gone for long.
She moves methodically—shoulder, deltoid, the crease where the joint meets the chest. She asks about each spot.
I answer. She makes notes. Then she picks up the goniometer and walks me through a series of arm-lift tests, measuring the angles, recording the numbers.
The motions ache more than I want to admit. I don’t tell her that.
“Your shoulder mobility is more limited than it should be at this stage post-op,” she says, frowning at her numbers. “We can work on that. Can I check the strength now? I’m going to ask you to push against my hand.”
“Sure.”
She positions her palm against my forearm and asks me to resist as she presses. The motion is small. The pain isn’t.
Her hand stays where it is when the test ends.
She doesn’t move it for half a second longer than the test requires—long enough for me to notice.
Long enough, I think, for her to notice she’s noticed.
She lifts her hand away with the careful slowness of someone who realizes she’s been caught doing something she didn’t mean to do.
Her cheeks have gone pink. I file it away.
“What’s your level now?”
I’m hard as a rock, body tensed with need. “How much do you value honesty, Doc?”
“I’m not a doctor—just call me Ashley.” Those pretty green eyes lift to mine. “And honesty is the most important step in getting better.”
I almost smirk at that, but stop myself. “Then I’ll be honest and tell you that whatever reading you get from this side right now isn’t going to be accurate.”
Her pretty brows furrow in confusion. “Uh, why?”
My eyes drop to her hand on my ribs, absently running circles on my skin and fueling the fire she already started. Her eyes follow mine and then drop lower to the bulge pushing against my sweatpants. Her breath hitches, and she pulls her hand away like she’s been burned. Heat floods her cheeks.
Goddamn it. I should have warned her sooner.
“I… you…” Her eyes shoot to mine and back to my erection, then away. She looks out of sorts, clearly embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it. “Not exactly the first impression I wanted to make. Well, I guess second.”
She lets out a startled laugh—small, breathless—and the tension cracks just enough to breathe.
“Right. Um. That happens sometimes. The body responds. It’s—it’s not unusual.
” She’s pink to the tips of her ears, but she squares her shoulders again, reaching for her notebook.
“I’ll, um. I have enough for today on the shoulder.
Why don’t we start the knee assessment tomorrow, when we both have a fresh start.
I’ll write up your initial treatment plan tonight. ”
She gathers her things, retrieves her dropped pen from under the couch, and walks out—not running, but with a quickness that tells me she’s still rattled. The greyhound rises in one graceful motion and follows her without being called.
I walk to the window and watch her hurriedly climb into her car and then pull away. My dick is hard, throbbing fiercely, but I pay it no mind as I watch my new physical therapist drive off.
I’m not so sure she’ll be back tomorrow. With a sigh, I back away from the window. Michael asked me to play nice. I’m not sure I managed it, but at least I didn’t run her off.
Not intentionally anyway.