Play Along(60)

“I don’t fit on the couch.”

“Well then . . .” Her eyes roam my apartment. “Your bed.”

My brows shoot up. “Are you sure about that, Doc?”

She rolls her eyes. “Live, laugh, love, Isaiah. Get your ass on the bed so I can check your injury.”

Chuckling, I hobble to my door and open it for her to enter first. I watch the way her eyes scan my bedroom, the same way they did when she first entered my apartment. I track her movements, noting the smile that ticks on her lips when she finds the framed picture of Max on my dresser and the silent laugh she heaves when she lands on the painted canvas of a hot pink unicorn hanging over my bed. The words I’m Magical are even spelled out in sparkly silver and the chosen location was thanks to Travis.

“I’m magical? That may as well say ‘I’m good at sex,’ hanging over your bed like that.”

I shrug. “You said it, not me.”

Laying on my bed, I keep myself close to the edge where she stands, stretching out my long legs, hands folded behind my head. I’m fully undressed minus the pair of cotton sweatpants that hang low on my hips.

Even though this is work, nothing about this moment feels all that professional. We’re in my bedroom, I’m nearly naked, and I’ve been dying for this woman’s hands to be on me in a non-medical way.

“This hip right here?” she asks, referring to my right one, closest to her.

“Yeah. I don’t know if it happened when I exploded into a sprint or when I slid into the bag.”

Her hands find me, pads of her fingers exploring, smoothing over my entire hip flexor, warming the area and looking for injury.

“Has the pain gotten worse since the game ended or remained about the same?”

“It’s stayed about the same.”

“Hmm,” she hums, that bottom lip tucking between her teeth with her concentration.

Then her fingers dip into the crevice where my leg and abdomen connect, and my body is begging to concave in on itself. Partly from the shock of her hand on me in an area I’ve always wanted it to be, and partly because of the amount of blood that’s rushing to my cock right now is a bit alarming.

“That hurt?”

I shake my head to tell her no and her eyes narrow in suspicion.

Gently, she takes my knee in one hand, other fingers still pressed into my groin, literal inches from my dick. “Tell me when it hurts.”

Oh, it hurts all right. It fucking aches.

Sure, I’ve given Kennedy shit for years while I’m on her training table, but I’ve never actually gotten hard from the woman touching me at work. She’s a medical professional and I’m an athlete, but I’m having a real hard time seeing that boundary while I’m sprawled out on my bed, and she’s fingers deep into my hip.

She stretches my leg out to the side, fitting herself between it and the mattress before pressing into my groin, examining and circling her fingers over my sweatpants.

This is torture. Fucking torture.

It’s like her hands are where I want them, but they’re not doing what I need them to do. Similar to the way I’m married to her, but not in the way I wish I could be.

I lift my eyes to the wall above my head, attempting to focus on the fucking unicorn and not on the only woman I think of when I fuck my hand in the shower.

I exhale deep from my lungs.

“Still okay?” Kennedy asks.

“Yep.” The word is strained, thrown out through gritted teeth.

My eyes find her again, completely focused on the task at hand as she rotates my joint and presses into my ligaments. “Is the area hot?” she asks.

Is the area hot? Fucking please. My entire body is on fire right now.

“Not sure.”

“Can I check?” She doesn’t look up at me, thank God, her focus remaining on the way my joint reacts when she moves my hip.

“Mm-hmm.”

Her small hand slips under the elastic waistband of my sweatpants, fingers sliding along my ligaments.

“Yeah, it’s warm.”

No shit. All my blood is headed straight in that direction.

Brows furrowed, she gently presses into my flesh. “I think it’s just a sprain. Doesn’t feel like a tear to me, so that’s good. But you need to be on a regular icing regimen to keep the swelling down.”

“Yep. Good.”

Her hand smooths over the joint, the same time her pinky dusts along my pubic bone, and it’s as if that alone causes her to jolt back into reality where her hand is down my pants and I’m practically dying over it.

Her eyes shoot to me in horror. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to.”

She pulls her hand out from under the fabric, but I snatch her wrist before she can get too far.

My breaths are labored, my eyes boring into hers.

“I wasn’t—”

“But you could,” I finish for her.

“Isaiah.”

“You’ve diagnosed me. I’ve got a sprain in my hip flexor. Work is officially over. You were professional and all that shit I don’t care about.” Gently pulling her by the wrist, I bring her palm to my lower abdomen. “But you don’t have to be professional now, if you don’t want to be.” I cover her hand with mine. “I don’t want you to be.”