Eventually he allows me to pull my hand free. I spin around, calling over my shoulder, “You can follow me.”
Oh yes, this is going to be an unpleasant hour for sure.
My palms are sweaty as I lead him down the hall. After we left the bar that night, it was almost like I didn’t exist. It had felt a lot like high school, except with more R-rated activities. God, this is humiliating. Hookerslaw. My face is hot, which means it’s definitely red. Mortification is hard to hide as a freckly redhead.
I inhale deeply as I open the door to my therapy room—a bad idea because Lance smells delicious—and motion him inside. He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. He glances at me, and then at the massage table.
“You can go in. I promise it’s not a torture chamber.”
He makes a sucking sound with his teeth and looks me up and down—not in a sexual way, but in an assessing-whether-I’m-serious way. He seems a little edgy.
Eventually he steps inside, but he doesn’t go very far. I have to slip in behind him because he takes up so much space. My arm grazes his, and he jerks out of the way, muttering an apology. Jeez, he’s as tense as I am.
I close the door and pat the massage table. “You can have a seat. I’d like to go through your profile and discuss the purpose of your treatment today.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.” He hops up on the table with a grimace.
Based on his beat-up face, I assume the purpose is to work out whatever knots or aches the fight he was in has left behind. Hockey season hasn’t even started, so I’m curious what happened.
I review his medical history, which is vague. He gives short responses while his knee bounces.
“Are there any particular areas you’d like me to work on?” God, I’m nervous. Maybe because he seems nervous, which makes no sense. People have their hands all over him all the time. Bunnies to be exact. And my former friend Kristi.
“Um, I don’t know?”
“Are there any areas that are particularly tense? Neck, back, shoulders, arms, or legs?” I prompt.
“Sure?”
“So all of them?”
“Yeah.” His knee stops bouncing, and he replaces it with finger tapping while I check them all off.
“Are there any areas you’d like me to avoid?”
“Avoid?” Now he looks confused.
It’s almost like he’s never had a massage before. Which is unlikely. These guys must have regular massages all the time because their job is so physically intense. If anything, they need the treatment.
“Any areas that are uncomfortable as a result of your injuries?” I motion to his face. “Or areas you prefer me not to work on? Some people would rather I avoid their feet.”
“Oh aye, my sneakers probably stink, so you should steer clear.” A hint of Scot creeps in.
“Okay, then. No feet.” I smile at his look of revulsion. “Anything else?”
He taps his lip with his fingers before dropping them to his lap. “Uh, nope.”
I give it a few more seconds, because it looks like he wants to say something, but then he just stares at me, so I point to the chair beside him. “You can leave your clothes there and then lie face down on the table.”
“Like, all of them?”
Please don’t blush, please don’t blush, please don’t blush. Or imagine him naked. “You can leave your underwear on if you prefer.”
“Uh, I’m not wearing any.”
“That’s fine.” The memory of Lance stripping off his shirt on his way outside to the hot tub at his place punches me in the proverbial face.
And then he pulls his shirt over his head and the memory becomes a reality. Except this time I’m not just looking at fantastically chiseled muscles and the massive cross tattooed on his back that reads Forgive me my sins.
“Oh my God.” I cover my mouth with my hand, because that’s not an appropriate response, even as shocked as I am. “Are you okay? Have you seen a doctor?”
Lance runs a hand over his ripped stomach. “It’s not that bad. Just a few bruises.”
It looks like way more than a few bruises. I’m instantly angry at the person who did this to him. The purple on his ribs indicates the hits were aimed at the kidneys, with the intention of causing pain. He kicks off his shoes and hooks his fingers into the waistband of his sweats. Oh my God. Is he going to drop his pants with me in the room? They slide down over his hips, and I get a front-row view of the magic V.
Yes. Yes he is. I rush to the door. Just because I’ve seen him half-naked before doesn’t mean I need the reminder right before I’m about to touch him for an hour.
“I’ll give you some privacy. Lie on your stomach when you’re ready. I’ll be back in a minute.” I catch a glimpse of his bare ass before I can close the door.
“Get it together, Poppy,” I mumble as I hurry down the hall. I step into the bathroom and wash my hands, checking my reflection in the mirror. My face is a terribly bright shade of red.
“It’ll be fine. This will be fine,” I tell my reflection. “He’s going to be face down for the next hour. He doesn’t remember you. Dammit.” I splash a little cold water on my face, then heat it back up and run my hands under the hot stream.
I don’t think my pep talk has done much, but honestly, it’s just an hour. I should be able to handle it.
Once my hands are warm, I return to my room, knocking before I enter. “Ready?”
“Aye,” comes the reply.
I open the door to find Lance lying face down on the table, as instructed. Except he’s not lying under the sheet; he’s lying on top of it in all his naked, hockey-playing hotness. The huge cross spanning the width of his shoulders shifts with his breathing. Instead of putting his face in the cradle, his head is turned to the side, so he’s looking right at me, rather than at the floor.
I avoid making eye contact and head straight for my supply of sheets, draping one over his body—his incredibly amazing body that’s covered in bruises. I might get a good look at his ass before it’s covered by the sheet. It’s unreal. Like beyond fantastic.
But it’s just a body. I’ve had plenty of naked, attractive men on my table. And plenty of unattractive ones. Most of the time I can compartmentalize those thoughts. Usually I don’t get to see quite so much of them all at once, though. I need to keep it professional so I can get through this. It’s one hour. One favor. Then he’ll go back to seeing his regular massage therapist, and I don’t ever have to see him again.
“Can I get you to move up so your face is here?” I tap the cradle.
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He mumbles something else, but I don’t catch it. The tips of his ears go red, as if he’s embarrassed. He shifts around, and his shoulders tense as he gets into position.
His split eyebrow and black eye might not feel too good like that. “If it’s too uncomfortable—”
“It’s fine. Let’s just do this thing.”
“Let me know if any area I’m working on is too painful, or if I’m using too much pressure, or not enough.”
“Okay.”
I prepare myself to put my hands on him in a way that is nothing like what Kristi did all night in the privacy of his locked bedroom a year ago. Because like the pushover I can sometimes be, I backed down the second she made it clear what she wanted. It’s also not the way I put my hands on him more than ten years ago when Lance came crashing into my world and turned it upside down.
He tenses as soon as I touch him, even through the cover of the sheet. I can’t decide if it’s the situation that has him so on edge, or me. Or both. So far I’m managing to keep my swoon in check, but then my hands aren’t on his skin, yet.
“I’m checking alignment before I get started.”
“’Kay.”
Telling him what I’m doing doesn’t seem to have the desired effect. His muscles are all bunched up. I have a feeling his hands are balled into fists. Maybe once I start the actual massage he’ll ease up.