Page 6 of Take Me Big Boy
Ashley first, then the greyhound walking at her left heel with a perfectly slack leash, then Michael behind them.
I straighten despite myself, hating that her presence is something I’ve been bracing for since I heard her car pull up. My eyes go to her first, then drop—automatically, the way they always have—to the dog.
She’s looking at me again. Same calm, same lack of reaction, like she didn’t get her measure of me at the door and is just confirming the read. Long, narrow face. Copper coat. Watchful brown eyes that don’t flinch when they meet mine. She doesn’t pull toward me, doesn’t shy away, doesn’t react at all—just stands at Ashley’s heel and takes the measure of the room the way a dog with a job knows how to do.
At the door, it was a flicker. Here, with my brother in the kitchen and a notebook coming out of her bag, the flicker turns into something I can’t shake off. It’s been months since I stood in the same room as a working dog. The recognition hits like a punch.
Ashley’s young. Heart-shaped face, long dark hair she keeps tucking behind her ear, green eyes that flick to mine and then away again. She’s nervous—hands clasped tight in front of her like she’s holding herself together.
“Ms. Cork comes highly recommended and has agreed to give us a second chance.”
“Um, yeah,” she says, tossing a nervous look at Michael before turning those green eyes back to me. “I…I’ve read the medical report about your injury and surgery, but I prefer to see for myself and hear about it from the horse’s mouth.” Her eyes light up with alarm, and a pretty flush heats up her cheeks. “Not that you’re a horse or anything. It’s just a saying.”
“He knows,” Michael says, his eyes narrowing on mine with warning before I can speak. “Would you like anything to drink while you get to know each other?”
“No, I’m fine,” she says, lifting a hand to tug at her hair but catches herself and stops. “I prefer to get straight to work, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. I’ll leave you to it.”
With another look that no doubt carries the threat of retribution if I mess this up, Michael walks out. I hear the sound of his engine as the truck starts and drives away from my house. Then I turn to the woman in my living room, watching her square her shoulders like she’s preparing for a fight. The greyhound settles onto her haunches beside Ashley’s leg, watching me with the same calm attention as her owner.
She’s not afraid. That’s the first thing I notice properly. She’s nervous, sure, but it’s the nervousness of someone walking into a hard job, not someone who thinks I’m going to hurt her.
Maybe I should just send her home and tell her to play along. She’ll get paid either way, and I’ll get my brother off my back for a while. The thought sits there for a second before I dismiss it. She came here to do a job. Lying to her boss for my convenience would cost her something I have no right to ask for.
Before I can say anything, she beats me to it.
“Why don’t we sit down and start with your history? Then I’ll do the physical exam.”
I gesture to the couch and lower myself onto the arm of it, leaving her the cushion. She perches on the edge and flips her notebook open to a clean page. The greyhound lies down at her feet, chin on her paws, eyes still on me.
“I have your file from your surgical team, but I’d rather hear it from you directly. Can you walk me through what happened?”
“You’ll have to ask my surgeon for that one. The injury isn’t a story I tell.”
She blinks, recovers fast. “Okay. Then can you tell me what surgeries you’ve had and what areas of your body were injured?”
“Left shoulder—reconstruction. Left knee—same. Some shrapnel pulled out of the side. The rest healed on its own.”
She scribbles fast, her brows knit together in concentration. “How long since the surgeries?”
“Shoulder was four months ago. Knee a month after that.”
“And your current pain level on a scale of one to ten, both at rest and with movement?”
“Three at rest. Six or seven if I push it.”
She nods, scribbling. “Alright. I’m going to do a hands-on assessment now—range of motion, strength, and sensitivityaround the surgical sites. I’ll need you to take off your shirt for the shoulder, but you can leave your sweats on for now. We’ll do the knee through the fabric for this first session.”
I shrug out of my T-shirt—slower than I would have a year ago, careful with the left shoulder. Those pretty eyes light up with surprise, and I can’t tell what shocks her most: the muscles or the scars across the left side of my torso, the worst of them where the shrapnel went in. She collects herself just enough and stands, producing a goniometer from her bag and setting it on the coffee table within reach.
She clears her throat and steps close, and a soft scent reaches me—something like flowers in spring, delicate and warm. It sends my nose flaring and my body tensing. I haven’t touched a woman in years, and her closeness reminds me of that.
“I’m going to start with palpation around the shoulder—feeling for tightness, knots, anything tender. Tell me where it hurts and by how much, on a one-to-ten scale. Sorry, my hands might be cold.”
I thought I was prepared for her touch, but the second those long, delicate fingers touch my skin, all my blood rushes south. My cock hardens to steel behind my sweatpants. I shift my hips back, trying to give us both a little space. She doesn’t immediately notice as she gently starts palpating my muscles, tracing her fingertips over my left shoulder and down to where the surgical scar runs along the joint.
“Does this hurt?” she asks, pressing lightly. “Two? Five?”
