Page 70 of Ice Cold Chemistry
“Deeper,” I say. “Let your hips drop toward the floor.”
He sinks lower, and I feel the muscles under my palm resist, then slowly release. He exhales, a controlled breath that sounds almost pained.
“Good. Hold that.”
I should step back. Give him space. Let him do the stretch on his own while I observe from a safe distance.
Instead, I stay close. My hand lingers on his hip, feeling the movement of his body as he breathes. He’s so big. So solid. All that hard muscle contained in one overwhelming package.
My mind starts to wander.
I try to stop it. I really do. But I’m kneeling next to him, my hands on his body, and suddenly all I can think about is what it would be like to be with a man like Banks.Physically.
Not the fake hand-holding. Not the performative touches for the team’s benefit. But actually be with him.
What would it feel like to straddle those thick thighs? To sink down onto him while his hands grip my hips, lifting me up and down like I weigh nothing? He’s so strong—he could probably hold me in the air indefinitely, use me however he wanted—
I feel my cheeks flush.
Stop it. Stop it right now.
But my brain won’t cooperate. It’s already moved on to other images. Banks flipping me over, pressing me into the mattress, his huge body covering mine. Taking me from behind with one hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise—
“Winnie?”
I blink. Banks is looking at me, a question in his eyes.
“Sorry. What?”
“You went quiet.”
“I’m fine.” My voice comes out higher than normal. “Just—thinking about the stretch. Switch legs.”
He switches. I move with him, repositioning my hands, trying desperately to focus on the task and not on the fantasies playing out in my head like an X-rated movie. I imagine running my hands over the muscles in his chest. His abs… lower.
What is wrong with me? I’ve done this stretch with dozens of athletes. Hundreds, probably. I’m a professional. I don’t get distracted by clients.
But Banks isn’t just a client. Banks is… something else. Something I haven’t let myself name yet.
“You’re tighter on this side,” I observe, pressing my thumb into the crease of his hip. “Have you injured this leg before?”
“Groin strain. Two seasons ago.”
Groin strain. Kill me.
“That explains it. Scar tissue can limit mobility.” Thankfully my voice sounds steady.
I work my thumb in deeper, finding the knots, applying pressure. His thigh tenses under my hand, rock-hard, and I have a sudden, vivid image of those thighs flexing as he thrusts into me—
Oh God.
I’m definitely pink now. I can feel the heat in my cheeks, spreading down my neck. Banks is watching me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm.
“You okay?” he asks. “You look flushed.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“It feels like it’s sixty degrees.”
