Page 31 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
“Clearly,” I replied, dropping my purse on a chair. The alcohol in my system made me bolder than usual. “That stretch is all wrong for an ACL injury.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Since when are you an expert on knee rehabilitation?”
“Since I spent three days reading every medical journal article on ACL recovery after you mentioned your injury,” I admitted, stepping closer.
A hint of amusement crossed his face. “You researched my injury?”
“I research everything that interests me,” I said simply, then immediately felt heat rush to my face at the implication.
What the hell did I say. Why can’t I put a stop to the words coming out of my mouth.
His eyes darkened. “And my knee interests you?”
“Among other parts,” I replied, the cocktails making me dangerously honest.
Austin’s breath audibly caught. “Kate...”
“Let me help you,” I offered, closing the distance between us. “I understand the biomechanics. There’s a modified stretch that would be more effective.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Show me.”
I knelt beside him, suddenly very aware of my proximity to all that bare skin.Focus, Kate and please keep your mouth shut.
“Lie back,” I instructed, pleased when my voice came out steady. “Extend your good leg flat on the floor.”
Austin complied, lowering himself to the carpet. I placed my hands on his injured leg, trying to ignore how the muscles jumped beneath my touch.
“The key is to maintain alignment while gradually increasing the stretch,” I explained, gently guiding his knee into a better position. “How’s that feel?”
“Better,” he admitted, watching me with an intensity that made my skin tingle. “Where did you learn this?”
“I dated a physical therapist in grad school,” I said, adjusting my grip on his calf. “Before he turned out to be sleeping with his receptionist.”
Austin’s eyes narrowed. “His loss.”
The simple statement sent warmth flooding through me that had nothing to do with the alcohol. I shifted position to demonstrate the next stretch and found myself practically straddling his good leg.
“This one might be a bit uncomfortable,” I warned, leaning forward to guide his knee into the correct alignment. The movement brought my face inches from his.
“I can handle discomfort,” he said, his voice dropping to that lower register that made my insides melt.
“I remember,” I murmured, echoing his words from earlier. “From our texts.”
His eyes flashed with heat. “You remember a lot of things from those texts?”
“Everything,” I admitted. “I have an eidetic memory.”
“Everything?” he repeated, his hands coming to rest on my hips.
I nodded, swallowing hard. “Like how you said you wanted to taste every inch of me. How you described what your fingers would do if they were mine.”
“Fuck,” he breathed, his grip tightening.
“That too,” I whispered.
We stared at each other. I was suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact between us—my hands on his thigh, his fingers digging into my hips, my hair falling forward to brush his chest.
“This is a bad idea,” he said, but he made no move to pull away.
