by Hill, Sierra
Mitch looked like he was about to say something else, but instead just replied with a “sounds good.”
Over the next forty-five minutes, Rylie had Mitch on the floor doing a series of range and motion leg exercises, some weight bearing and others not.
“This is to keep the blood circulating properly and to restore muscle mobility,” she had explained as she instructed Mitch through each exercise. She then had him using an elastic band, which he wrapped around the ball of his foot, to pull his knee up slowly toward his face, to increase his range and motion.
All throughout the exercise regimen, Rylie continued to provide educational insight to Mitch as to the purpose of each exercise, helping him learn the proper procedures and precautions so that he didn’t further injure his knee. She also instructed him on the daily exercises he was required to complete in between their three weekly appointments.
Once over the initial reminder of the kiss they shared and the briefest of touch’s earlier, Rylie felt comfortable in their conversation, which seemed to flow easily between them. She’d been curious as to how Mitch injured his knee, so he shared the story of his ski accident and his love for adventure and sporting activities.
As he was in the midst of a rep of leg lifts, he asked Rylie what prompted her to become a therapist. She used her stock answer, avoiding the true depth and meaning behind her career and profession.
“I wanted to help people recover from traumatic experiences and injuries. I found it helped me when I recovered from my…accident, and I appreciated the process of therapy.”
Eying her speculatively, he looked for her to continue. When she didn’t, he asked. “Accident, huh? What happened?”
“Uh…I fell.” Quickly looking away, her eyes left his face and landed on a spot on the floor.
“I see – so you’re a klutz,” he chuckled, getting a small smile from her. “I better keep all sharp objects out of your way, then.” He joked, but didn’t pursue it further.
Feeling uncomfortable with the topic and where the conversation had headed, Rylie had him finish the exercise before deciding that a break was in order. Knowing that she had worked him hard and pushed him to his limit for the day, which she could see written all over his face, she decided to do some isometrics and massage work.
Holding out her hands to help pull him up to a standing position, she motioned him into the massage room. “Let’s put that massage table to some good use.” His face lit up with her recommendation.
“It’s not what you’re thinking.”
“How could you possibly know what I’m thinking?” He teased. “Get your mind out of the gutter, young lady.” Making a tsking sound, Mitch wagged his finger at her. “But I was hoping you’d get me on the table - sooner rather than later.”
“Ugh. You better be careful, otherwise I might just recommend that icy cold bath again. That’s what I do to all my bad patients.” She snickered, seeing his face tense up into a worried plea.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll try to be good. But I can’t promise for how long.” He raised his hands in surrender and winked.
Rylie assisted Mitch up on the massage table and had him lie down on his back. Rolling up a small towel she found under the table, she placed it under his knee.
“I’m going to be doing some light massage work around the tissue, to keep the muscle warm and pliable. Let me know if any of it hurts or it’s uncomfortable.”
Reaching out with both hands, Rylie placed her hands on his quad muscle, just above his knee and the incision site, and began to knead it gently. His breath caught and he jerked slightly, then settled his head back down against the pillow. She had him start out just doing modified leg raises and then used some massage techniques in between reps.
Rylie had done this hundreds of times with a variety of patients, young and old, male and female. It was routine – an ordinary hands-on therapy technique. But it had never felt like this. His quadriceps muscles were firm and large, her hands looking small and dwarfed against them. Rylie’s fingers moved in a circular motion around the kneecap, plunging into the tissue and muscle. Her fingers were on fire from the heat projecting from his skin, an electric current shooting through her nerve endings. She bit down on her lip, which began to quiver, just as the rest of her body similarly responded. She had to look at the wall to keep her eyes off of his gorgeous body and the hard shape of his erection against his shorts. She tried to think of something - anything other than how he felt under her fingers.
His voice was deep and gravely, as he looked down the length of his body and up to her eyes, meeting her stare.
“I think I might need that ice bath, after all,” he said, grabbing her wrist and pulling himself up onto his elbows.
“Rylie…” His voice shook in uncertainty and was laced with a vulnerable plea. She stopped the movement of her hands but stayed where they were. Their eyes locked.
“This is…you are…God – you are driving me crazy.”
He let out a breath and at the same time let go of her wrist. His legs swung around the edge of the table and she staggered back and out of the way to make room for him. He paused there momentarily in thought before reaching out to grab her arms and pull her in between his opened legs, until she was just inches from his mouth.
His eyes roamed her lips, as she licked them and they parted in anticipation. “I can’t be good any longer. Tell me to stop right this second and I will. Otherwise...I’m going to kiss you.”
He was giving her an out and she knew it. She saw it in his eyes, the desire and the need. The same way she felt. Her body was an incendiary device, ready to detonate at any moment. She understood that there were lines that she couldn’t cross – her personal life could not bleed over into her professional. She took an oath when she became a therapist that her conduct would always remain professional and would not obstruct the patient/therapist relationship.
But that was before she ever felt anything quite like this. She stood there, trapped between his legs, frozen in the strong hands that were gripping her arms. Her mind warred with her body on how bad of a decision this would be and all she could mutter was “Yes.”
“Yes, what?” he demanded.
“Yes, I want you to kiss me…but - ”
Before she could finish her thought, Mitch wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her body flush against his. His lips found her mouth and willed it to open for him. His tongue darted in, probing deeply, exploring the depths of her sensuality. Rylie’s body shifted closer and she tentatively nudged her hips against him, bringing out a heavy groan of desire from deep within Mitch’s chest. Her warm mocha colored eyes darkened with pleasure at the greedy sound, giving her the confidence to continue feasting on his mouth, devouring his taste and the feel of his lips on hers.
Reaching up to his face, her hands cupped his cheeks, the feel of his beard stubble stinging her palms. Snaking them back behind his head, her fingers threaded through his hair, encouraging him even further.
His hands suddenly moved under her to cradle her butt and with a powerful motion, he hoisted her up to straddle his lap. Her legs bent on each side of him, where she nestled against his arousal, which was pressing hard against her own most sensitive spot, burning through the fabric of her jeans.
“You feel so damn good,” he growled, releasing her mouth and trailing his wet lips across her jaw and down her neck. Rylie arched her neck and angled her head back, giving him more access, as he continued to plant searing kisses down to the delicate part of her throat, just above the collar of her buttoned shirt. He was ravenous, unyielding and so damn appealing.
Rylie began to feel the tight knot begin to burn down from her belly into her core. A tingling sensation unlike anything else, screaming for release from the exquisite tension. Mitch’s hand moved out from underneath her cradled ass, to work its way slowly up her waist and side, until it reached the pinnacle of its destination. His thumb grazed her nipple, which upon its command tightened into a hard peak. She
let out a lusty moan as he continued to circle and court the hardened flesh with his fingers. Her breasts swelled in needy response.
She was wild and hungry, wanting him to touch more of her, waiting for the moment when she’d feel his hands run across her naked breasts and he’d take them between his lips and suckle them until she was mindless and bucking against him. It had been so long since she had felt this way or had a man touch her in this manner. She felt a spark had ignited a long, dormant flame and she was ready to burst.
A bark in the not-so-far-off distance and a loud ringing sound from the front door had Mitch reluctantly dropping his hand from Rylie’s breast and mutter a curse to whomever had interrupted them. Momentarily disoriented, Rylie was confused as to why there was the sudden departure of his hands and lips from her body.
Shifting her off his lap and on to the table beside him, he reached over to grab his crutch. “It appears I need that cold shower after all,” he grimaced, as he pushed himself off the table, landing his feet in a soft thud on the floor.
“What? Where are you going?” she asked breathlessly, her swollen lips aching to be touched and tormented again. She felt the acute loss of his body and shame washed over her, dousing her with the realization of what they had been doing.
Mitch sauntered to the open doorway when he stopped to turn around and look at Rylie, who was now readjusting her blouse and angrily folding the towel.
“I was hoping I’d get to find out how wet I made you,” he shrugged, a slow, sexy smile drawing across his face. “But business calls. I’ll have to wait until next time to find out. Until then, you can let yourself out the back door here, the path will lead around to the driveway. Have a good weekend, IQ.”
A rush of embarrassment flooded her face. Shame and guilt penetrated her thoughts. Rylie felt a rage and anger - mostly at herself for her own uncontrolled actions and reaction to his touch - come boiling up to the surface. He had dismissed her so casually, after what they had just done and the intimacy of it all. She had let her guard down and opened up to his touch and he was walking away like he wasn’t affected at all by what happened.
All her frustration came barreling out in an angry squeal. “You ass! There won’t be a next time, I can promise you that.”
Rylie stood up to follow after him, but he’d already made his way out of the room and up the stairs. She heard a boom of loud laughter echo down the stairwell and his smug response.
“We’ll see about that.”
CHAPTER seven
“I don’t give a good goddamn about your delayed shipments, Joe. This delay is unacceptable and creating a logjam for everything else we have planned.” Mitch expelled a loud exhale in his response, leaning back in his leather desk chair. “Get it the fuck together or I’ll find another vendor. You got it?” He hung up the phone and cursed again.
From the hallway, a low whistle came from Jackson who leaned against the doorframe wearing an amused smirk. Stepping into his office, he closed the door behind him before sitting down in the chair directly across from Mitch.
Jackson crossed his leg over his knee and his hand came to his pant leg, brushing a speck of lint from his tailored suit pants. He lifted an eyebrow. “Problems?”
“You could say that. The shipment is stuck somewhere out west and was supposed to be delivered to the site tomorrow. Joe doesn’t think we’ll see it until mid-next week, but can’t even fucking guarantee that.” Mitch swiveled around in his chair to face the window and jammed his hand roughly through his hair. “Have they ever heard of contractual commitments? Hey, wait, you’re a lawyer,” he said with a sarcastic snarl, turning back around to face his partner. “Why don’t you do something about this and earn your wages for the day.”
Jackson leaned back comfortably in his chair, shrugging his shoulders. “As your legal counsel, I will gladly advise you on any business and legal matter and can review the contract again for any penalties associated with delayed shipments,” he said thoughtfully. “But I don’t think your little outburst has much to do with Joe Simpson and the shipment.” He paused for emphasis, gaining his partner’s attention. Mitch glared at him over his desk.
“Oh yeah? And what exactly do you think has gotten me riled up then, oh wise one?”
Jackson casually examined his friend, giving a discerning assessment. “I think your bitchy mood has a helluva lot more to do with a certain therapist you may have seen today.” He brought his hands up behind his head and clasped them together. “But hey, that’s just my attorney’s best guess. I’m no fucking mind reader or shrink, for that matter.”
Mitch glared at his partner and flipped him off before turning back around to look out the thirtieth floor window of the Prudential Tower, overlooking Boylston Street below. His friend knew him too well and it pissed him off. These types of hassles, like the delayed shipment, typically didn’t faze Mitch or get him this agitated. The truth of the matter was he was frustrated and keyed up. He wanted something, or someone, he couldn’t have. He was not a patient man and when he wanted something within his reach, he found a way to get it. His current physical condition, notwithstanding, didn’t help matters much, either.
He felt limited. Held back. He hated feeling weak and lacking control over any situation.
Mitch experienced the same feeling earlier in the year, looking down at the throngs of people on the street, both runners and spectators alike. The Boston Marathon was an event unlike any other in the city that brought an energy and vitality to the normally dry financial district. It brought together a connection and a bond, not just of those Bostonians, but anyone who shared the living, breathing kinetic spirit of the marathon. But that essence turned into something much darker and sinister when the bombings occurred.
As usual, Mitch was at his desk working and on the phone that morning when he looked down at the street, the blast sounds registering in his ears, rocking the building and bringing a plume of dust and smoke up the building’s exterior. Unable to comprehend what had just taken place, Mitch took immediate action and made his way down to the scene to seek out and assist anyone who needed help.
What he found when he made it to street level was mass chaos and sheer terror. Hundreds of bodies lay injured up and down the block, where minutes before two pressure cooker bombs had detonated in an act of senseless terrorism. A young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, had been knocked back against the building rubble, his arm partially mutilated from the blast. Mitch saw him the moment he came running out of the building’s front door, his disheveled body covered in soot, dirt and blood. He hovered over the boy, who was silent. No sounds, or screams or even cries coming from his catatonic body. He just lay there in a traumatized state, rocking back and forth.
Mitch began to triage and comfort the only way he knew how and waited for aid. He ripped off his suit jacket and tie and wrapped it securely around the boy’s arm to stop the bleeding and shield him from seeing the extent of his injury. He pulled the boy into his arms and held him around his small shoulders, as silent sobs came pouring out of the thin body. He wasn’t sure how long they sat there like that before paramedics rushed in and whisked him away, but in that time, he lost his faith in humanity. He had been brought down to the lower depths of hell, when a young boy could be torn apart through such an evil act of hatred. Mitch’s view of the world became even more tainted and torn. If he had been devastated by the loss of his brother before, his soul was completely lost and shattered now as a result of this act of terrorism.
Now, even seven months later, the day’s events were still etched deeply in his memory, the anger still festering under the surface, especially in his current state of frustration. His guilt and hatred over the deaths and injuries of so many innocent victims. The loss of his younger brother, who went off to fight a war and never came home. A brother whom he should have been able to protect. He had failed him, just as he’d failed that young boy.
His mood darkened even further, the tight lid that had kept his feelings about
his brother’s death from creeping open, inch by inch, as they threatened to slay his heart again.
His brother was two years younger and had been his best friend through childhood. Matthew was impish, and a bit of a dare devil, creating chaos and mischief at every turn, making Mitch’s work as his older brother all that much more difficult. It was during Mitch’s sophomore year in college when Matthew informed him of his plans to join the military, throwing Mitch and his parents in a tailspin over his brother’s decision. It weighed heavily on him, Mitch’s grades plummeting that first semester after Matthew’s deployment to Afghanistan, his ability to concentrate on schoolwork completely thwarted by his powerlessness to protect his brother from such a distance.
“It appears you might need a drink,” Jax said, interrupting Mitch’s tormented thoughts. “Let’s say we call it a day and start the weekend early. I’ve got tickets behind the Sox dugout for tonight’s playoff game, so let’s head down to Fenway early and have a few beers.”
Mitch appreciated his friend’s positive spin on life. Even when he was in one of his darkest moods, Jackson could always find a way to lift his spirits and be the glass half-full kind of guy. The Yin to his Yang, the Dumb to his Dumber. Jackson had been there for him when he and his parents had learned of their family’s devastating loss and never failed to provide an outlet. A distraction. A deep trust and comfort that he had lost with the death of his brother.
“The dugout, huh? How’d you score those gold-plated treasures?”
“Remember Jenni Schmidt?”
Mitch had to sort through the number of women he met on a monthly basis that seemed to flock to his handsome and charming friend. He was drawing a blank on this one.
“Remind me again?”