ame pose, naked, while clinging to his bedpost.
“Impressive,” he managed to say, and kicked the wandering part of his brain back into line. Yes, he could take some comfort from the fact that her “regular routine” was pretty physical, but still. This added uncertainty, and he hated uncertainty. “But forgive me if I don’t rely on the Quinn Sheridan School of Health Management. Come here.” He walked to the weight bench she’d almost tripped over earlier. “Take a seat.” Once she settled herself on the padded bench, he knelt in front of her and gently palpated around her kneecap with this thumbs, using his fingers to feel along the back of her joint where the medial collateral ligament attached. “Any pain?” He watched her face as he asked.
“None. I told you, I’m fine.”
Her expression backed up her words. He saw no twinges of discomfort. He straightened her leg, then took hold of her shin just above her ankle and spanned his other hand across her thigh. The muscles there jumped at his touch. He froze. “Does that hurt?”
“No.” The word came out softly, a little breathlessly, and made him instantly aware of the warm, smooth skin beneath his palm. His hand looked huge, tan and rugged against the pale silk of her thigh. His fingers had only a short journey to reach softer, warmer flesh protected by a flimsy layer of Lycra. She released a shuddery breath and relaxed her body. Her legs splayed open slightly in what his dick wanted to read as an invitation.
One you can’t accept.
He cleared his throat and yanked his mind out of her panties. “Resist me.” He applied careful pressure, slowly pushing her leg down against the opposition of her quads. The joint held. Encouraged, he slid his hand a few inches higher on her shin and loosened his arm a degree. “Extend.” This time he provided the resistance while she flexed her knee until her leg was once again parallel to the floor. “No pain?”
“No pain.”
“Okay.” He guided her leg back to its natural position. “Your quads aren’t protesting. That’s a good sign.”
“It’s the sign of a perfectly healthy knee.” She crossed her arms as she spoke, unintentionally—or hell, maybe intentionally—taunting him with the sight of her breasts all but spilling out of her top.
He swallowed the urge to sink his teeth into the opulent flesh. Bite her like a ripe peach, and then smooth the mark away with his tongue. She could have a real problem here, for Christ’s sake. “If your knee is perfectly healthy, why are you babying it?”
Her eyebrows shot up. The question clearly caught her by surprise. “I’m not.”
“You favor your other leg when you run. It could be psychological or physiological. You had an injury, and your body learned to compensate by taking more weight on the left leg. But at this point, I don’t know if it’s a habit, or a sign that your knee isn’t one hundred percent. Flip over and lie flat on the bench. I want to test your range of motion.”
And stop staring at your tits like a sweaty-palmed pervert.
“My range of motion is normal.”
“Prove it.”
She shot him an indignant look. He returned it unflinchingly. Over the next six weeks, he was going to push her right to her breaking point mentally and physically, but he didn’t want to hurt her. He needed to be sure nothing he had in store for her would come close.
Apparently he convinced her he wasn’t going to back down on this, because she swiveled and brought her legs up onto the bench. Then, agile as a cat, she flipped onto her stomach, and stretched, wiggling her hips a little as if to find a comfortable position. Finally, she stilled. With her arms folded and supporting her chin, she managed to come across like a spa patron about to be serviced.
He leaned over her, wrapped one hand around her ankle, and prepared to brace the other at the base of her spine. And that’s when he realized facing down her cleavage was the lesser of two evils. Her ass embodied everything about her that worked his shit in two proud, irresistible handfuls—a seductive, defiant challenge just begging for some proper attention.
If he had the right to touch her intimately for pleasure, this is where he’d leave his mark. Each time she allowed him the privilege, in some new way, until she presented to him eagerly just to see what he did next. She shifted on the bench, inching her body up in a move that lifted her hips invitingly, and saliva filled the back of his mouth. He swallowed, and brought his molars together with an audible click.
“I’m ready.” Her husky voice feathered along his nerve endings.
Still gritting his teeth, he placed his hand along the top of her panties and bent her leg to a ninety-degree angle. “Tell me immediately if this starts to hurt.”
“You’re not hurting me.”
“And I don’t want to”—he inched her leg to a deeper angle—“so speak up if I reach your limit.”
“Keep going. I think you’ll find my limits are very flexible.”
The inflection in her voice told him she knew exactly where his mind was going with that response. So be it. The rest of him couldn’t tag along. He folded her leg back…and back…and back until he pressed her heel against the bottom half of one smooth, pale cheek. At that point hormones gave over to awe. “Jesus, you’re limber.”
“I’ve danced since I was a kid.”
It was not the response of someone in agony. Still, he asked, “Any discomfort?”
“Not in my knee.”
When he glanced up, she had her head resting on her shoulder, so her sardonic smile greeted him.