Page 5 of Healing Love

Has he been thinking about me the same way I’ve been thinking about him all week? When I close my eyes, all I can see is Elliot’s piercing green stare and the mournful look on his face when he murmured about wanting to be a career military man like his father. There’s so much hurt and shame locked away inside him, and for some reason, I want to be the one to set him free.

I only have four more sessions left with Elliot, so no pressure or anything.

“Your stretches are bullshit,” he says as soon as I close my office door. I’m still facing the wooden door, my back turned to Elliot, as a grin breaks out on my face.

I manage to regain my professionalism after a moment and turn to face my client. He's much closer than I thought he'd be. My breasts graze his chest, sending a shockwave down my spine, landing between my thighs.

Holy hell… what was that?

Tilting my head back - way back - to look at him in the eyes, I'm caught up momentarily in the swirling green, brown, and golden tones in his irises. Elliot stares back at me, then at my lips. I think he's going to kiss me for a second, but then he turns his head and takes several steps backward.

I clear my throat and smooth out my blouse, thankful that even though I’m more aroused than I’ve ever been, my hardened nipples are hidden beneath my bra, cami, and loose-fitting blouse.

“My stretches are amazing and based on heavily researched kinesiology studies as well as psychological studies involving combat soldiers and PTSD,” I correct him.

“Well, they still suck,” he grumbles. Is he pouting? It’s hard to tell with the beard, but I’m pretty sure it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. Who knew it would come from the surly Elliot Erickson?

“Hmm, maybe it was a user error, then?” I suggest as I wheel in the adjustable padded table I use when showing clients how to perform certain movements.

“User error… You mean I did them wrong?”

I love how shocked he sounds every time I give him crap. I think it’s helping to lighten the mood, but honestly, I’m just having fun. Which isn’t the point of these sessions. Get it together!

“How about you sit down here and show me the set of stretches I assigned last week?” I pat the table, and Elliot looks at me like I’m playing some kind of prank on him. “You don’t have to show me your leg, but can you get on the table and at least run through the stretches?” I ask again, trying to put him at ease.

“Fine,” he says with a scowl.

I watch as he gets on the table and lies down with his legs stretched out. He slowly lifts his left leg, only able to raise it a few inches before he curses and drops it back down on the table. I’m about to give him pointers on his form, but before I can, Elliot grips the side of the table in his hands and grits his teeth, trying for a second time to lift his leg.

He’s nothing if not persistent, but he’s a stubborn ass as well. I just need to figure out how to direct that energy into motivating him to get better.

Elliot tries a third time, but I gently rest my hand on his foot, stopping the motion. He freezes at my touch, much like he did last week. I pull my hand away and look down at Elliot, who looks absolutely miserable.

“I know it’s tempting to try and overcompensate by using our other muscles to do the heavy lifting, like how you’re gripping the table to try and get leverage.” I nod at the hand closest to me, and he loosens his hold. “But the point of the stretches is for those weaker muscles. Instead of using your upper body strength, try readjusting your position to make it easier to use just your leg.”

Elliot is looking straight up at the ceiling, no doubt praying for a bolt of lightning to strike me down or for aliens to stop by and beam me up so I’ll leave him alone. The longer I study his features and body language, however, the more I realize he’s embarrassed. He’s not truly mad at me or the stretches I assigned him. He’s mad at himself for not being able to do them.

“Here,” I say softly, walking around to the other side of the padded table. I gently wrap my hand around his right ankle - the good leg - and urge him to bend his knee and place the sole of his foot flat down on the table while keeping his bad leg stretched out. “This time, try not to use your arms or torso or upper body strength at all, okay? Instead, push into your right foot while keeping your hips straight.”

His nostrils flare and his gaze never leaves the ceiling as he starts the stretch again. Elliot does better this time, and I can tell he's trying to refocus the energy and strength on his legs instead of his sculpted arms and the hard slats of muscles I know he's hiding under that shirt.

Reel it in, woman!

“Fuck!” Elliot shouts, letting his leg drop back down onto the table.

“That’s good,” I encourage. “You did a lot better that time. Let’s go again.”

He grits his teeth, no doubt holding back a few choice words for me. I worry for a moment he might not do it, but then Elliot inhales sharply and lifts his left leg. I hold his heel in my hand, keeping the leg up and letting the new position stretch out his weakened muscles.

“Jesus, fuck,” he growls under his breath. “You’re torturing me, you monster.” When I don’t let go of his heel, Elliot tilts his head down to look at me, his face red with strain and undoubtedly more than a little frustration with me. “Sadist!” he accuses. “That’s why you got into this business. To harm people for your own sick, twisted… goddamn,” he finishes, letting out a ragged breath when I finally set his leg down.

“You can go ahead and call me every awful name you can think of,” I inform Elliot, wanting him to know his words won’t scare me away. “I assure you, I’ve been called worse.”

Why did I say that last part?

Elliot swings his legs to one side and stands from the table, leaning over it and looking at me with more intensity than I know how to handle.

“Who is being mean to you?” he snarls, the look in his eyes nearly feral. Is he… mad? But not at me, at whoever calls me names? I’m so confused.

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