Page 10 of Climb Me Maybe
I retreat to the bathroom, giving him privacy while my heart hammers against my ribs.The rustling of fabric makes me very aware of Brady Tanaka stripping twenty feet away from me.
Professional.Boundaries.Ethics.
"Ready," he eventually calls out, slightly muffled.
I open the door and nearly forget how to breathe.
He’s a mountain under crisp white linens, positioned perfectly on the table, face buried in the cradle.The sheet clings to his hips and glutes like it’s begging for mercy.
Jesus Christ.
His entire back is exposed, the tattoos I saw yesterday displayed in their full glory: traditional Japanese waves and clouds, and vibrantly colored dragons, flowers, and koi fish flowing across his shoulders, arms, and down his back—a storybook on skin.
But it's the musculature underneath that has me speechless.
As I told him yesterday, years of climbing have sculpted him into a work of art.His lats create this beautiful V-shape that narrows to his waist, while his rhomboids and traps are defined in a way that speaks to serious strength.Every muscle group flows into the next with the kind of development you only see in athletes who've dedicated decades to their craft.
"Everything all right?"he asks, and I realize I've been staring.
"Sorry, just...admiring your artwork again."I approach the table, warming oil between my palms."Your tattoos really are incredible.How long did they take?"
"About five years, on and off," he says."My grandfather's designs, mostly.Stories from our family history."
"They're stunning," I reply."I'm going to start with some general warming strokes, then work deeper into the problem areas.Let me know if anything feels too intense."
The moment my hands make contact on his upper back, his entire body tenses.
"Try to breathe normally," I murmur, beginning with long, flowing strokes across his shoulders."I know it might be weird having someone touch you like this, but I promise it'll feel better once you relax into it."
My thumbs sink into corded muscle, and I swear the room’s oxygen evaporates.He’s radiating heat like a forge—and the low groan he muffles into the cradle makes my knees weak.
“Breathe,” I remind him again, but as I work down his spine, I wonder ifIneed reminding, too.
Gradually, I feel some of the tension ease out of his shoulders.His breathing deepens, and I catch the occasional soft sound when I hit a particularly tight spot.
He gasps when I hit a knot near his scapula.“Fuuuuck.”
“You okay?”I ask, grinning when his shoulders inch down.
"Yeah," he groans when I work a knot near his shoulder blade."That hurts in the best way."
Heat swirls low in my belly.
Watch it, Imogen.
I work systematically down his back.His body tells a story of hard work and dedication, but also of accumulated stress and compensation patterns.
"Your right side is definitely overworking," I tell him, pressing my thumbs into his erector spinae.“Compensating for whatever's going on with your left side."
He lets out a sound that's almost pornographic when I hit a particularly stubborn knot."Sorry, I?—"
"Don't apologize.Your body's releasing tension it's been holding onto for a long time.Those sounds tell me I'm doing something right."
The next hour is equal parts torture and revelation.His body speaks in shudders and hitched breaths—resistance melting into surrender beneath my hands.I map every ridge of scar tissue, every ripple of ancient tension, and when I work the oil into his lower lumbar region his choked noise has my lower parts clenching.
“You’re…thorough,” he rasps, voice wrecked.
By the time I finish, he’s putty…cheek smushed against the cradle, fingers limp near the floor.I cover him with a heated blanket and step back, dizzy from whatever pheromone cocktail his unbelievably hot body excretes.
