Feels So Right

Then he was pushing into her, filling, stretching, setting her nerve endings on fire. She clasped him around the back, lifted her knees high and wide to bring him in deeper.

He said her name over and over, increasing the pressure and pace until she was gasping, reaching for her climax, reaching, reaching, feeling it start to grow, to burn through—

“Demi, I love you.”

Say what?

Demi Woke With a jerk, staring with wide eyes up at the ceiling, breath coming fast, body still hot with arousal. Instinctively, her hand went between her legs, and then she stopped herself.

No.

There was no way she could get herself off right now. Because if she did, she’d be imagining Colin making her completely crazy with lust, and when he showed up for real in—she blinked at the clock—six hours, there would be no way she could look him in the eye. And no way she could put her hands on his back and think of anything but the way she’d clasped that same back while he was hot and hard inside her.

Bad, bad clown.

COLIN WOKE WITH a jerk, staring with wide eyes up at his ceiling, breath coming fast.

A dream. Damn it all to hell. He’d been on the last leg of the Ironman World Championship triathlon in Hawaii. He’d already sailed through the two-point-four-mile swim, powered through the one-hundred-twelve-mile bike ride and was approaching the finish line after the twenty-six-mile marathon barely out of breath, legs still strong, in first place by a hundred feet.

What a high. What a feeling. His body ultrafit, lean and strong. All those hours, all those years of training, coming down to this one explosive sprint to victory that would make him world champion. Just him, on top of the field, the dense crowd at the finish line already cheering for him. Stephanie was there, too, long blond hair swept back in a ponytail, blue eyes glowing, beaming with pride. Her man was number one and she was crazy about him.

Then he’d woken up, not on a triumphant path to victory, but in bed, back muscles contorting in agony, pain shooting down his right leg.

From king of fitness to short-term disability after falling off his bike like a six-year-old just learning to ride.

They said he was done. They said his back was too messed up ever to be able to ride long hours bent over his handlebars. They said disc injuries like his could be controlled but not healed.

Bull. Maybe some people could hear “no” and accept it, but Colin wasn’t one of them. “No” just meant he’d have to work harder, train harder. Fine by him. He was no stranger to hard work.

But he shouldn’t have tried to get back to training so soon. Demi had been right, damn it. He’d left her in exasperation last summer, disgusted that an athlete of his caliber should be doing exercises a couch potato could do without effort. Infuriated by her insistence he’d have to cut his recovery expectations to a more “realistic” level. Frustrated that she didn’t understand why his level of fitness couldn’t be compromised, not now, not this year, not when he had so much to accomplish. So he’d left. Tried another therapist, then another, both of whom had babied him even worse than Demi had. Finally he’d decided he could manage his own damn recovery. Who knew his body better than he did?

Pain shot through him, and he tried like hell to breathe through it, not to tense into the spasms, which made them worse.

Yeah, guess what, managing his own recovery had been a bad idea. Everything sounded like a bad idea these days. Including going back to see Demi.

Because there was another reason he’d left her. By the last of—what was it, three, four appointments? maybe five?—he’d spent the entire session desperately trying to keep from having an erection. He had no idea what she did to him, but it was hell. Demi couldn’t hold a candle to his ex-girlfriend Stephanie’s fresh California-girl beauty. Demi was dark; he preferred blondes. And she was withdrawn, where he liked a woman with spirit. She was decently attractive, but not beautiful, with wide eyes and a faint cleft in her chin. She had style and grace to burn, and she exuded peace that both stirred and soothed him.

And her hands …

Not going to think about that. The only thing on his mind in her studio today would be multiplication tables and baseball statistics. Unless the crazy attraction had run its course and he’d react more normally this time. That would be good.

He waited for the attack of pain to subside, then drew one knee up slowly toward his chest to stretch, barely able to get it halfway. His flexibility was crap. He couldn’t work. Couldn’t train.

This sucked.

Yeah, he was being a big poor-me baby, so sue him. He had good reason.

His cell rang. The act of twisting his head to locate his phone on the bedside table caused another spasm, this time in his neck and upper back.

Thirty-four years old and he was falling apart.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he picked up the phone. Nick. His erstwhile training partner, and the other half of the collision that had pitched Colin off his bike. Nick had skinned his knees. Not that Colin would ever wish this injury on anyone else, but sometimes life was damn unfair.

He took a deep breath, willing his voice to sound normal. “Hey, man.”

“How’s it going?”

“Not bad.” He didn’t dare use long sentences in case he had to break off and groan in agony.

“John and I are going to run some hills. Wondered if you’d like to meet up for lunch after.”

Yeah, he’d love to. Sit there, the sad cripple, while they exulted in how well their training was going.

“Can’t today. Got an appointment.”

“Yeah? You back at work?”

“Nah. Physical therapy.”

“Dude, you’re doing that again?”

“Yup.” He didn’t feel like explaining.

“Okay. So, uh …” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You heard from Stephanie lately?”

“Nope.” This conversation was not making him feel any better. His girlfriend of four years had gotten sick of his bad attitude and his misery and dumped him on his ass, ironically just as he was seriously considering giving her what she wanted: a proposal.

Stephanie was a marathoner and they’d done a lot of training together. Colin should have noticed how hard it was on her that he was suffering, but he’d been a selfish jerk for quite a few months now. He figured it was only a matter of time before Stephanie came back to him. No doubt in his mind that he could make things right when she cooled off. She loved him. He loved her. They liked the same things, shared friends—at least they had before the breakup. What more did they need? Maybe the relationship had gotten a little stale, but the initial excitement never lasted. He needed to settle down if he wanted kids, which he did, and Stephanie would make a good mom and a solid partner.

One thing at a time. “Have a good lunch, Nick. Maybe I’ll be up for it next time.”

“Sure. Sure.” His tone made it clear he wasn’t holding his breath. “Nice talking to you.”

“Same.” No, it hadn’t been nice for Nick. It wasn’t nice for anyone to talk to Colin lately. His mom had told him he needed to see a shrink. Dad, predictably, told him to suck it up and be a man.

Yeah, well, he’d never been the kind of man Dad wanted him to be, so why start now?

He closed his eyes, smiling grimly. His level of cranky misery was even disgusting him.

After a few more careful stretches he’d loosened his muscles to the point where he could just manage to get out of bed. A stunning victory, one that lifted his spirits at least a little. The visit to Demi, if she could help him, would do more of the same.

For the past decade Colin’s pursuit of physical power and endurance had dominated his life. He’d been something of a missionary about the miracle of fitness, becoming a personal trainer to help others find the same high of good health and solid self-esteem he’d been able to achieve through working his body.

Now what he could reclaim of his old life rested in the talented hands of a woman he’d sworn never to cross paths with again.

2

DEMI GLANCED AT the clock on the wall of her office, embarrassed to be so jittery. Two more minutes until Colin arrived. Stay cool, girlfriend. He was just another client, a man in pain, one of the many she’d treated, one she’d be able to help. For today she’d ignore her whole-client philosophy and concentrate on seeing his body as a collection of muscles, tendons and bones. There would be time for worrying about his brain later—if he stuck with the therapy.

Mysterious, this upset to her system. Demi knew what kind of guy attracted her, and the überjock was definitely not it. Besides, Colin had a serious girlfriend. Sharon or Tiffany or something. A marathoner. Not that he’d look at a woman like Demi twice anyway, especially after she’d pissed him off so badly last time by gently trying to get him to face the truth about his recovery—or lack thereof.

Another glance at the clock. One more minute. Would he be out in her waiting area already? Her studio space, originally a two-bedroom apartment, had been renovated into a waiting room, office, one small room for examination and massage and a larger one for exercising, with a gym mat, treadmill, stationary bike, and the free weights, balls and other tools of her trade.

The minute hand of the clock joined the hour hand at twelve. She gave up her rather lame attempt at updating her previous client’s file and stood. Ready, set, go. Reminding herself of Colin’s anger and poorly hidden contempt at their last meeting, she lifted her chin and opened the door to the waiting room.

Her body went on an immediate adrenaline fizz.

Yeah, he was there. And he was still gorgeous.

At least she’d prepared herself. The first time she’d opened this same door to him back in August, she’d been so flustered by the intensity of his brown eyes and the sheer beautiful size and shape of him, she’d blushed, dropped her gaze and mumbled like a complete geekazoid.

“Colin, hi, come on in.” She smiled and gestured toward her massage room, this time blushless, in control and professional.

He nodded and stood slowly, hitches in the motion indicating muscles lashing out at him.

“Uh-oh.” Demi’s smile faded when she saw what the movement cost him. “You don’t look so good. Bad pain?”

“It’s—” His response was cut short by what must have been a killer spasm. “Not the greatest.”

Translation for a normal human: nearly unbearable. When it came to pain, elite athletes spoke a different language.

“I’ll work on that today—should be able to give you some relief.” She followed him into the small room where she did her massages. Decorwise, she’d worked to achieve a balance between clinical and luxurious. Half examining room, half spa, with softer lighting than one would expect from a medical office, and nice touches like fresh flowers courtesy of Bonnie Blooms, a CD player for music and a light scent she sprayed on the bedding, floral for women, spice for men. “You know the routine. As many clothes off as you’re comfortable with, under the sheet on your stomach. If you need help getting on the table, yell and I’ll come in.”

“Right.”

She smiled and left the room, waiting outside the door, knowing he wouldn’t call even if he was in agony. Honestly. What an ego. Risking serious injury to avoid asking for help? Crazy. But he wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. She’d gotten used to people’s peculiarities. Women who hated being touched, men who liked it way too much …

“Ready,” he called. Sooner than she’d expected.

She waited three beats and went in. Colin lay with the sheet down to his waist, shoulders as broad as the table, looking like a sexual invitation—or he would if his body wasn’t stiff with pain. She eased a cushion under his hips to relieve pressure on his back, opened her heated cabinet and took out a blanket, pulled the sheet up to his neck and draped the warm cover over him. She was glad to hide him from view while she collected herself, cranky that this difficult man provoked such a strong reaction and that she couldn’t seem to control it.

Heading for the hand sanitizer she abruptly rechanneled her brain when she found herself wondering how much Colin was still wearing under the sheet. “How have you been?”

“Fabulous,” he growled.

Ah. Still Mr. Sunshine. Okay, then. She’d stick with his physical problems today, give him some relief and worry about the rest of him another time if he gave her that chance. “Can you describe your pain? Any particular location?”

“Down my right leg. Neck. Shoulders. Back.”

“Doesn’t leave much, does it.” She suppressed a very tempting told-you-so and turned on her CD player, which filled the room with a bland but relaxing tune she’d heard so many times it barely registered. “The leg pain is from nerves pinched by the disc bulging in your spine. The rest is sympathetic reaction from other muscles, which—”

“I know where the pain comes from.”

Grrr. Demi sent him a poisoned glance he couldn’t see. Lovely, lovely man. Just as well. If he had an appealing personality to go with those looks and that body, he’d be much too dangerous to have around. Not fair for one person to have that much going for him, anyway. “I’ll see what I can do today about loosening you up.”

“That would be good.” His voice was softer.

Well. Not exactly charming, but better. Demi pulled her bottle of peppermint-scented oil from its warming stand and poured some onto her hands, concentrating on the familiar routine. “I’ll start with a light massage, then we’ll go deeper. You let me know when it’s too much.”

As if he would. She could probably light matches and stick them under his fingernails and he’d pretend not to notice.

“Okay.” His voice was strained now.

Hands oiled, she had no further excuse to avoid touching him.

So.

This was about his back. Just a back. She’d seen many beautiful backs before, athletic and otherwise. This was nothing different.

Demi laid her hands on him gently, started light sweeping motions following the muscles, encouraging blood flow and warmth, forcing her mind to register only the muscular system beneath her fingers. Trapezius. Latissimus dorsi. Deltoid. Teres major and minor.

So far so good, but she was keeping her movements brisk and mechanical, something she generally avoided. Slow stroking did a lot to bring comfort and pleasure to people in pain. Colin was a client like any other, and Demi wanted to bring him that pleasure.

Uh. She should not have phrased it that way.

Lips determinedly tight, she slowed her movements, traced his muscles more sensually. Colin needed as much TLC as anyone, maybe more, since the macho guys seldom knew they needed it and even fewer knew how to ask for it.

Her fingers relaxed into the slow pace of the music. She dipped them again in the peppermint-scented oil and moved up into his neck, appalled at the tension. This guy was suffering.

Back and neck warmed up, she moved downward to his gluteal muscles, blocking out the fact that he wasn’t wearing anything but skin under the sheet, blocking out any picture in her brain but those suitable for an anatomy class, because otherwise her thoughts would go down an entirely different path.

They did anyway. Colin let out a groan of pleasure, and Demi had the absurd urge to lean down and press her lips to the small of his back, let her hair sweep over his—

For heaven’s sake.

Gluteus maximus. Largest of the butt muscles, supporting the pelvis, vital in maintaining an erect—

Torso, Demi. Torso.

Moving on, probably sooner than she should have, she swept over the long muscles in the backs of his thighs, the biceps femoris. He seemed to be lying easier now, already more relaxed.

“Better?” She moved up toward his back again. “I’m going to go deeper now, put strong pressure on the spasming muscles. It won’t feel good while I’m doing it, but you’ll heal faster in the long run.”

“I can take it.”

Demi rolled her eyes. Of course he could. She could drop an anvil on his head and he’d insist it was a mild bruise. Guys like him reminded her of the scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, one of Wesley’s favorite movies, in which a battling knight with amputated limbs insisted he was suffering only a flesh wound.

The next part would be a lot easier on her nerves. Neuromuscular therapy was substantially less sensual than the stroking involved in Swedish, and she had hard work to do, going for the most problematic muscles with fingers, fist or elbow, holding strong pressure until they relaxed and gave. Slowly, carefully, she worked on him, finding the process deeply satisfying. Time flew, and she managed to keep her thoughts strictly G-rated.

Well … maybe PG. One PG-13 when she was working on his butt the second time.

“Okay.” She trailed light fingers over his back, then laid a firm hand between his shoulder blades before she lifted it off. Done. It was over. She’d survived. “You’ll be sore tomorrow, maybe the next day, but after that you should start feeling looser.”

He lifted his head, turned it experimentally, pushed cautiously up onto his elbows. She covered his body immediately with the sheet and blanket. “Feels better already.”

“Good.” Ooh, he’d said nearly a whole sentence. “We’ll do this again, then get you to where you can start on some exercises.”

“Gee, really?” He rolled cautiously onto his side. “Ten whole minutes on a stationary bike? Two or three sets of leg lifts?”

Grrr. “Gotta start somewhere, Colin.”

“I know, I know.” He lowered his head back down to the table. “Sorry.”

The word came out as if it hurt worse than his back, but it did come out, and made him human enough for Demi to experience a quick pang of empathy. “In the shape you’re in, you’ll come back fast, Colin. Sprint triathlons are a sure thing, I’m betting within the year.”

He grunted and managed to sit up, keeping the sheet safely tucked around his lower half.

Unfortunately, this gave her a superb view of his impressive chest. She spun around and busied herself arranging the scent bottles on her counter, which were already neatly arranged. Sprint triathlons were a hell of a comedown for someone hoping to qualify for the Ironman World Championship. A quarter-mile swim, twelve-to-fifteen-mile bike ride and three-mile run. He could do that in his sleep.

“I know. Doesn’t seem much of a challenge. But it’s better than being out of the circuit entirely.”

“Whatever.”

Demi should have known better. Colin was still grieving hard over his loss; he wasn’t ready to see any of the positives yet.

“You should be able to whip a couple of old ladies your first time out.” She held up a hand. “I know, I know. You think I’m just trying to build your hopes up, but I’m not kidding.”

Astoundingly, she heard the beginning of a chuckle. “Don’t even talk to me.”

Demi handed him a bottle of cold water, grinning. “Come into my office when you’re dressed.”

“Right.”

She left the room and strode into her office, congratulating herself. Excellent job, Demi Anderson. A whole hour and she hadn’t once sexually harassed him. A fine day’s work. She should call Wesley or her friend Julie and go out for a celebratory drink. Guess what? I had Colin Russo in my office and didn’t grab his crotch! Yay!

She giggled, imagining their faces, and wrote some notes on Colin’s chart, not that she was liable to forget their session by the next appointment—if he came back.

In pain. Uncommunicative. Hotter than a blast furnace. Identifies self strongly as triathlete. Must work on emotional acceptance of injury and its fallout as well as standard treatment for L4-L5 disc rupture.

Okay, she didn’t really write the part about the blast furnace.

“I’m here.”

She looked up, still refusing to blush, and gestured Colin into the chair set in front of her desk, wishing she’d thought to move it back several feet. But at least being behind the desk gave her a feeling of safety and authority. “You’re moving easier.”

“I feel better.” He sat without as much effort as he’d used to stand, and rested his hands easily on his thighs. Demi felt as if the walls of her office had closed in a foot at least.

“You’ll want to be on anti-inflammatories the next couple of days.”

“Okay.” He held her gaze steadily, as if he expected something from her. Demi opened his file, picked up a pen, took off the cap, wrote, What the heck is he thinking? in her most professional scrawl, then put the pen down.

“Colin, maybe we should talk about why you left. Why you came back. What you want from me and this treatment and how you feel about both.”

“My feelings?” He looked disgusted. “This is physical therapy, right?”

Grrr. Demi needed to set boundaries right now or this would never end. Taking her sweet time responding, she leaned back in her chair and pretended to study his file. “You probably didn’t know this, but I’m a betting woman.”

“And …”

“And I bet I can tell you exactly how much your parents enjoyed your teenage years.”

His silence made her wonder if she’d pushed too far, if they were about to embark on Colin Russo Tantrum, Part II. But when she glanced up again, he was looking amused for the first time. The expression changed his whole demeanor, got rid of the grouchy-brows and downturned mouth, relaxed his forehead and eyes. And made him even better looking, less sulky and more vibrantly male. She could only begin to imagine his magnetism when he was operating at one hundred percent. “I was hell on wheels.”

“Not surprised.”

“I still am, I know that. This is not easy.”

“I am not suggesting it is, or that it should be.”

“But I don’t need to beat you up with it?”

She shrugged. “I think I could do you more good without that, yes.”

“Okay.”

Demi raised her eyebrows. “It’s that easy? I say ‘please play nice’ and you do?”

“I tried doing this my way, and figured out when I could barely get out of bed this morning for the fifth time this month that my way doesn’t work. My body isn’t behaving the way it has for the past thirty-four years. The rules have changed. I have to get to know a new person but it’s still me.”

“It won’t always be this bad. But yes, it’s tough for athletes. You have such intimate knowledge of bodies—your bodies.” Oh, geez. Did she have to phrase it that way? He looked mildly surprised, still amused, his deep brown eyes intently focused on her. Demi was so flustered she had to look back down at his file. “Now that has changed, you’ll have to form a different kind of intimate … relationship.”

Stop. Just stop right now. Except he wasn’t saying anything and she couldn’t stand silence.

“I know you can do it.” She closed his file, folded her hands on top of it and determinedly met his eyes again—then wished she hadn’t when she found them full of mischief. Her brain mushed on her. “Your discipline is already there. It’s just a change. You won’t be able to stay training … to keep so hard anymore. Hard on yourself.”

Okay, her face was officially on fire. All pretense at cool was gone.

“I give up.” She lifted her hands, let them smack down on her desk. “You’re hurting but it will get better. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

He was chuckling for real now, his face relaxing further. “I think it was funnier when you were telling me I’d have trouble staying hard again.”

“No, no.” She shook her head, hands up and out. “That is not my expertise. If you’d like me to help with your pain and the management of your injury, I can. But only if you are realistic about what we can accomplish and how far you can come back. That’s going to be much more difficult than the rest of it.”