Swallowing the moisture in my mouth, I make my way uneasily down the plane aisle when he looks up, his eyes catching mine. I think I see them flare, but fail to read anything in his expression as he intently watches me approach.
His stare makes me so nervous I feel the tingle once again, right in my center.
He’s the strongest man I’ve ever seen, in my entire life, and I’m familiar enough with the subject to know that wired into my genes and DNA is a natural desire for healthy offspring, and with it comes a desperate urge to just full out mate with whoever I deem is the prime male of my species. I have never in my life met a man before who sparks up my crazy mating instincts like him. My sexuality burns with his nearness. It’s unreal. This reaction. This attraction. I’d never believe it if Melanie was explaining it to me and I wasn’t feeling it like a bubbling cauldron under my skin.
How am I going to get rid of this?
Lips curling slightly, as though amused at himself over a private joke, he pulls off his headphones as I stop an arm’s length from him. The rock music trails into the silence, and he abruptly clicks off the iPod. He signals to his right, and I take a seat, fiercely trying to block his effect on me.
Bigger than life, like seeing a movie star in person, his charisma is staggering. He has an aura of pure raw strength, every inch of him lean and muscled, which gives off the impression of being a man, but with a charming playfulness in his expression that makes him look young and vibrant.
It strikes me that we’re the youngest people in the plane, and I feel even younger than I am as I sit next to him, like I’ve just become a teenager again. His lips curl, and honestly I have never, ever, met a more self-assured man, lounging back almost sensually in his seat, his eyes missing nothing. “You’ve met the rest of the staff?” he inquires.
“Yes.” I smile.
He stares at me, his dimples showing, his eyes assessing. The sunlight hits his face in just the right angle to illuminate the flecks in his eyes, his lashes so black and thick, framing those blue pools that just suck me right in.
I want to start off professionally, since that is the only way I can see it working, so I loosely fasten the seatbelt around my waist and get to business.
“Did you hire me for a particular sports injury or more as prevention?” I query.
“Prevention.” His voice is rough and invites a surge of goose bumps on my arms, and I notice, by the skewed way his big body is turned toward me, that he doesn’t deem it necessary to wear a seatbelt on his plane.
Nodding, I let my eyes drift to his powerful chest and arms, then I realize I might be staring too blatantly.
“How are your shoulders? Your elbows? Do you want me to work on anything for Atlanta? Pete tells me it’s a several hour flight.”
Without answering me, he merely stretches out his hand to me, and it’s enormous, with recent scars on each of his knuckles. I stare at it until I realize he’s offering it to me, so I take it in both of mine. A frisson of awareness feathers from his hand and deeply into me. His eyes darken when I start rubbing his palm with both my thumbs, searching for knots and tightness. The skin to skin contact is staggeringly powerful, and I rush to fill in the silence that suddenly feels like deadweight around us.
“I’m not used to such big hands. My student’s hands are usually easier to rub down.”
His dimples are nowhere in sight. Somehow I’m not sure he hears me. He seems especially engrossed in watching my fingers on him. “You’re doing fine,” he says, his voice low.
I become entranced in the planes and dips of his palms, every one of his dozens of calluses. “How many hours do you condition a day?” I ask, softly, as the jet takes off so smoothly I barely realize we’re airborne.
He’s still watching my fingers, his eyes at half-mast. “We do eight. Four and four.”
“I’d love to stretch you when you’re done training. Is that what your specialists also do for you?” I ask.
He nods, still not looking at me. Then his eyes flick upward.
“And you? Who pats your injury down?” He signals to my knee brace, visible through my knee length skirt, which rose slightly when I sat.
“No one anymore. I’m done with rehab.” The idea of this man seeing my embarrassing video makes me queasy. “You Googled me too? Or did your guys tell you?”
He pulls his hand free from mine and signals down. “Let’s have a look at it.”
“There’s nothing to see.” But when he continues staring at my leg through those dark lashes, I still bend and lift my leg a couple of inches to show him my knee brace. He seizes it with one hand and opens the Velcro with the other to peer down at my skin, then he strokes his thumbs across the scar in my kneecap.
There’s something wholly different about him touching me.
His bare hand is on my knee, and I can feel his calluses on my skin. I. Can’t. Breathe. He probes a little, and I bite my lower lip and exhale what little air remains in my lungs.
“It still hurts?”
I nod, but still can only really think about his large, dry hand. Touching my knee. “I’ve been running without a brace, and I know I shouldn’t yet. I just don’t think I’ve ever really recovered.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Six years ago.” I hesitate, then add, “And two…the second time it happened.”
“Ahh, a double injury. So it’s sensitive?”
“Very.” I shrug. “I guess I’m glad that by my second, I’d already started my masters for rehab. Otherwise I don’t know what I would have done.”