Feels So Right. Isabel Sharpe
it and even fewer knew how to ask for it.
Her fingers relaxed into the slow pace of the music. She dipped them again in the peppermint-scented oil and moved up into his neck, appalled at the tension. This guy was suffering.
Back and neck warmed up, she moved downward to his gluteal muscles, blocking out the fact that he wasn’t wearing anything but skin under the sheet, blocking out any picture in her brain but those suitable for an anatomy class, because otherwise her thoughts would go down an entirely different path.
They did anyway. Colin let out a groan of pleasure, and Demi had the absurd urge to lean down and press her lips to the small of his back, let her hair sweep over his—
For heaven’s sake.
Gluteus maximus. Largest of the butt muscles, supporting the pelvis, vital in maintaining an erect—
Torso, Demi. Torso.
Moving on, probably sooner than she should have, she swept over the long muscles in the backs of his thighs, the biceps femoris. He seemed to be lying easier now, already more relaxed.
“Better?” She moved up toward his back again. “I’m going to go deeper now, put strong pressure on the spasming muscles. It won’t feel good while I’m doing it, but you’ll heal faster in the long run.”
“I can take it.”
Demi rolled her eyes. Of course he could. She could drop an anvil on his head and he’d insist it was a mild bruise. Guys like him reminded her of the scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, one of Wesley’s favorite movies, in which a battling knight with amputated limbs insisted he was suffering only a flesh wound.
The next part would be a lot easier on her nerves. Neuromuscular therapy was substantially less sensual than the stroking involved in Swedish, and she had hard work to do, going for the most problematic muscles with fingers, fist or elbow, holding strong pressure until they relaxed and gave. Slowly, carefully, she worked on him, finding the process deeply satisfying. Time flew, and she managed to keep her thoughts strictly G-rated.
Well … maybe PG. One PG-13 when she was working on his butt the second time.
“Okay.” She trailed light fingers over his back, then laid a firm hand between his shoulder blades before she lifted it off. Done. It was over. She’d survived. “You’ll be sore tomorrow, maybe the next day, but after that you should start feeling looser.”
He lifted his head, turned it experimentally, pushed cautiously up onto his elbows. She covered his body immediately with the sheet and blanket. “Feels better already.”
“Good.” Ooh, he’d said nearly a whole sentence. “We’ll do this again, then get you to where you can start on some exercises.”
“Gee, really?” He rolled cautiously onto his side. “Ten whole minutes on a stationary bike? Two or three sets of leg lifts?”
Grrr. “Gotta start somewhere, Colin.”
“I know, I know.” He lowered his head back down to the table. “Sorry.”
The word came out as if it hurt worse than his back, but it did come out, and made him human enough for Demi to experience a quick pang of empathy. “In the shape you’re in, you’ll come back fast, Colin. Sprint triathlons are a sure thing, I’m betting within the year.”
He grunted and managed to sit up, keeping the sheet safely tucked around his lower half.
Unfortunately, this gave her a superb view of his impressive chest. She spun around and busied herself arranging the scent bottles on her counter, which were already neatly arranged. Sprint triathlons were a hell of a comedown for someone hoping to qualify for the Ironman World Championship. A quarter-mile swim, twelve-to-fifteen-mile bike ride and three-mile run. He could do that in his sleep.
“I know. Doesn’t seem much of a challenge. But it’s better than being out of the circuit entirely.”
“Whatever.”
Demi should have known better. Colin was still grieving hard over his loss; he wasn’t ready to see any of the positives yet.
“You should be able to whip a couple of old ladies your first time out.” She held up a hand. “I know, I know. You think I’m just trying to build your hopes up, but I’m not kidding.”
Astoundingly, she heard the beginning of a chuckle. “Don’t even talk to me.”
Demi handed him a bottle of cold water, grinning. “Come into my office when you’re dressed.”
“Right.”
She left the room and strode into her office, congratulating herself. Excellent job, Demi Anderson. A whole hour and she hadn’t once sexually harassed him. A fine day’s work. She should call Wesley or her friend Julie and go out for a celebratory drink. Guess what? I had Colin Russo in my office and didn’t grab his crotch! Yay!
She giggled, imagining their faces, and wrote some notes on Colin’s chart, not that she was liable to forget their session by the next appointment—if he came back.
In pain. Uncommunicative. Hotter than a blast furnace. Identifies self strongly as triathlete. Must work on emotional acceptance of injury and its fallout as well as standard treatment for L4-L5 disc rupture.
Okay, she didn’t really write the part about the blast furnace.
“I’m here.”
She looked up, still refusing to blush, and gestured Colin into the chair set in front of her desk, wishing she’d thought to move it back several feet. But at least being behind the desk gave her a feeling of safety and authority. “You’re moving easier.”
“I feel better.” He sat without as much effort as he’d used to stand, and rested his hands easily on his thighs. Demi felt as if the walls of her office had closed in a foot at least.
“You’ll want to be on anti-inflammatories the next couple of days.”
“Okay.” He held her gaze steadily, as if he expected something from her. Demi opened his file, picked up a pen, took off the cap, wrote, What the heck is he thinking? in her most professional scrawl, then put the pen down.
“Colin, maybe we should talk about why you left. Why you came back. What you want from me and this treatment and how you feel about both.”
“My feelings?” He looked disgusted. “This is physical therapy, right?”
Grrr. Demi needed to set boundaries right now or this would never end. Taking her sweet time responding, she leaned back in her chair and pretended to study his file. “You probably didn’t know this, but I’m a betting woman.”
“And …”
“And I bet I can tell you exactly how much your parents enjoyed your teenage years.”
His silence made her wonder if she’d pushed too far, if they were about to embark on Colin Russo Tantrum, Part II. But when she glanced up again, he was looking amused for the first time. The expression changed his whole demeanor, got rid of the grouchy-brows and downturned mouth, relaxed his forehead and eyes. And made him even better looking, less sulky and more vibrantly male. She could only begin to imagine his magnetism when he was operating at one hundred percent. “I was hell on wheels.”
“Not surprised.”
“I still am, I know that. This is not easy.”
“I am not suggesting it is, or that it should be.”
“But I don’t need to beat you up with it?”
She shrugged. “I think I could do you more good without that, yes.”
“Okay.”
Demi raised her eyebrows. “It’s that easy? I say ‘please play nice’ and you do?”
“I