Page 49 of Rookie Recovery

Instinct took over, and my hands relaxed into light, sweeping strokes. His muscles softened to putty under my touch, soft and malleable, and the lines of discomfort faded from his face. Lashes fluttered closed again. Breath slipped through parted lips in a sigh.

My hands swept down his back. Lingered to flutter little circles over the hard muscles along his ribs. His body melted under my fingers, utterly submissive to my touch. Inviting me to soften and slow, soften and slow, until I walked the razor’s edge between massage and caress.

My hands brushed the tops of his hips.

Bowie’s breathing hardened into a moan that went straight to my cock. “Fuck, Kitty, you really do have magic fingers.”

I froze. Fingertips still pressed into his sides right over his narrow hips as I realized at some point, I’d lost control of my hands, the exercise. My body. My professional autopilot had turned into another, deeper instinct.

I was edging a boundary I shouldn’t cross. This was my job. He was my patient.

And yet, I couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to break that skin to skin contact I felt in every nerve.

“Please don’t stop,” he said in that same little pleading moan.

“Bowie.” My voice escaped in a strained gasp, and I was sure it had nothing to do with the strain below my waistband. Holy fuck, I was losing control.

“Keep going.” That desperate note sent heat surging up through my body in a tidal wave. Fuck. He needed to stop sounding like that and I needed to stop touching him because—

My mind crawled back to another time he’d come smirking into the office. Sat down on my table. Hernia. Check my groin, Doc. Except this time he lay face-down so I couldn’t see the bulge in his pants.

But I knew it was there.

Because of me. Because of what I’d been doing.

Step away, Sullivan. Hands off. Be professional. But I didn’t. Didn’t want to. Because I wanted something else a whole lot. Something I shouldn’t want and couldn’t stop wanting and every fiber of my body knew it and wanted it, too.

Bowie pushed himself up on his elbow, half-turned to look back. Arousal darkened his green eyes as he angled his gaze up towards me. “Jamie?”

Fuck me. Fuck.

I pried my slick fingers off his warm, soft skin. “Bowman—”

He. Rolled. Over.

His right hand slid over the front of his sweatpants to press down the bulge tenting them upwards. But the smirk curving his bowed lips as he held my gaze was anything but ashamed.

He knew I couldn’t look away. Didn’t want me to look away.

“You want to help me with this?” His fingers slipped down a few inches, leaving a very clear outline of his rigid cock for me to observe.

Which, I did.

It took every ounce of willpower to lift my gaze. To his face. To his sharp grin and sex-glazed eyes. Fuck me. Except I wanted to be the one doing the—no. God.

“Bowman.” My voice sounded like sandpaper on rocks. “Do you, um, need a minute?”

“Probably wouldn’t take a minute,” he murmured, tone low. Husky. Sexy as sin. His fingers dragged back up. “Not if you did it.”

I bit my lip. Hard. Every nerve in my body hummed, stood on alert, and begged me to step up to that table. Pry his hand away and replace it with my own. Pull down his pants. Kneel in front of him, so my mouth—

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I was at work!

“There’s a bathroom. Right back. There.” I pointed in the direction of the office bathroom. Did I have one? Maybe. I didn’t know anymore. Wait, had I told him to—

Had I given him an invitation to masturbate in my office?

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