I don’t like the sound of that. I came here for a quick fix, not a full-body overhaul. But his hands feel so fucking good on my back that I’m having trouble remembering why I was resistant.
“Fine,” I mumble into the face cradle. “Do what you need to do.”
“Okay,” he says, and I hear the snap of a bottle cap. “I’m going to use some oil. It’ll help me work deeper.”
The warm oil hits my skin, and I flinch slightly. Then his hands are spreading it across my back, and holy fuck, it feels amazing. The glide of his palms is smooth now, slick with oil as he works the length of my spine. He uses his thumbs to press into the muscles alongside my vertebrae, working his way methodically down and then back up.
His hands are strong. Stronger than I expected from a doctor. They’re not the soft, uncalloused hands I would have imagined.They know exactly where to go, how much pressure to apply, when to ease off. I find myself sinking deeper into the table, my breathing slowing.
Riley shifts position, moving to stand at the head of the table. His hands slide up to my neck and skull, fingers threading through my hair as he works the base of my skull where it meets my neck. I’ve never had anyone touch me there, and the sensation is so unexpectedly good that a sound escapes my throat—something between a groan and a sigh.
“That’s it,” he says, voice lower than before. “Let it out. The tension, the sounds, all of it. It helps the process.”
I’m not sure I believe him, but I’m beyond caring. His thumbs press into a spot behind my ears that makes my entire body feel like it’s melting, and I don’t bother suppressing the groan this time.
He works his way back to my shoulders, spending time on the left one even though it’s not injured. Then he moves to my right again, but this time his approach is different. Instead of direct pressure, he works around the injury site, loosening the surrounding muscles, easing the burden on the damaged area.
When he hits a particularly tight knot at the edge of my shoulder blade, pleasure bordering on pain shoots through me like a lightning bolt.
“Don’t stop,” I mumble, the words coming out before I can think about them. “Feels so good.”
Riley’s hands freeze for a second, and I wonder if I’ve said something wrong. But then they resume, slower now, more purposeful, like he’s paying extra attention to my reactions.
He works down my spine, strong hands kneading into muscles that I didn’t even know were tight until they release under his touch. It’s like he’s unwinding a spring that’s been coiled inside me for years. My breathing deepens, becoming heavier with each press of his fingers. I’m starting to feel heavy, loose-limbed, like I might just melt right through the table and onto the floor.
His hands move lower, to the small of my back, pressing into the muscles there with firm, circular motions. I can’t remember the last time someone has been this attentive to me, gentle and focused at the same time. Even the women I’ve been with were always more concerned with the main event than with learning the geography of my body like Riley seems to be doing.
When his hands move to my hips, working the tight muscles there, something shifts in the atmosphere of the room. Or maybe it’s just in me. His thumbs dig into the muscles just below my ass, and I feel a heat that has nothing to do with the room temperature.
He slides his hands under the towel to work my glutes, and I freeze. This is medical, I remind myself. It’s just muscles. But my body isn’t getting the memo, because I feel blood rushing to places it absolutely should not be going right now.
Fuck. No. This can’t be happening.
But it is. I’m getting hard against the table, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I hold my breath, hoping that if I stop breathing, maybe my dick will get the message that this is not the time or place. But Riley’s hands are still working my glutes, and every press sends sparks of pleasure straight to my groin.
I’m sweating at my temples now, my whole body running hot. Does he notice? Can he tell what’s happening? I’m not even surewhat’s happening. I’ve never gotten this hard from a massage before, and definitely not from a guy’s hands on me. But there’s no denying the heaviness between my legs, the throb of blood pulsing through my cock.
“I need you to turn over,” Riley says, and my heart stops.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
“Let me work on your front side,” he continues, oblivious to my internal panic.
I don’t move. I can’t. If I turn over, there’s no way he won’t see how I’ve reacted. The towel won’t hide shit.
“Jacob?” His voice comes closer, near my head. “Did you fall asleep?”
I almost laugh at that. Sleep is the furthest thing from my mind right now. I’m on high alert, every nerve ending firing, heart pounding like I’m about to step into the cage.
“No,” I manage, my voice strangled. “Just… give me a minute.”
“Take your time,” he says, stepping back. “But we need to work the front of your shoulder too if you want to be in any kind of shape for tomorrow.”
He’s right, and I know it. But turning over means exposing myself, not just physically, but whatever the fuck is happening to me right now. Why am I hard for a guy? I’ve never been into men, never even considered it. But my cock is throbbing, and I know with absolute certainty that it’s because of Riley’s hands on me.
“Okay,” I say finally, steeling myself.
I shift carefully, trying to adjust the towel to provide maximum coverage as I roll onto my back. It’s useless. The towel tents obscenely over my erection, which feels even harder now that it’s not pressed against the table.