I hate seeing the tour doctor on the best of days, but after The Summer Treatment, I will definitely dread his thick, rough hands when I could have her careful, soft ones instead.
My cock throbs between my legs, and I’m momentarily grateful for my loose sweatpants.
At least she’ll never know.
She spreads the muscle balm over my shoulders, covering areas she’s already soothed. And for a moment, I let myself imagine that she really likes this. Doting on me. Caring for me. Putting her hands on me. That it’s not just a job. That she isn’t just trying to prove herself in what I’m assuming is a brutally cutthroat industry.
When she pulls away, I bite my tongue to stop myself from asking her to keep going.
She swallows audibly before she crawls off the bed and straightens herself beside me. “Just make sure you cover that cream up with a shirt, so it gets nice and hot.”
“Okay. Yeah.” My eyes shift over to my luggage, wondering if I’ll be able to lift my arms comfortably enough to pull a shirt on.
Summer must catch the look on my face because she sighs deeply and moves over to my open bag while shaking her head. “Is this t-shirt okay?” She turns, holding up a well-worn gray shirt.
“Yeah.” I scrub at my beard, feeling a little embarrassed by her involvement here, but also relieved. Because I’m tired. Tired of hurting. Tired of knowing my body isn’t keeping up but pretending it’s fine. It’s nice not having to pretend in front of someone.
She saunters back toward me, gathering the body of the shirt up and holding the right side arm hole out to me first as she comes to stand between my knees. I silently put my arm through, lifting it as little as possible, and inhale her scent. She even smells like cherries. Once both arms are through, she steps even closer, legs brushing against my inner thigh as she lifts the neck hole over my head and pulls it down.
All I can hear is the brush of fabric over my ears and the sound of us breathing the same air.
The t-shirt falls over my body, and she gives me a forced closed-lip smile. She brushes my shoulder, as though there’s something there, and then quickly turns away. Almost like she can’t get away from me fast enough.
And who could blame her? I’m sure dressing a grown-ass man wasn’t what she imagined for herself when she went through law school.
“Thank you, Summer.” My voice comes out gravelly in my dry throat.
“Of course. Just doing my job,” she replies, pulling her boots up over toned calves. “You were incredible tonight. You should be very proud of yourself.”
She says it as she walks out, not looking me in the eye. Which is fine, because she’d see how much it bothers me that she’s just doing her job.
Because it does bother me, and I can’t put my finger on why.
The worst part is, it doesn’t bother me enough to stop me from limping over to the bathroom and fucking my hand while thinking about her cherry lips the minute she shuts the door.