7. Chapter 7

"Alternate ice and heat." I stretched the tape across Aaron's elbow, gave it another gentle squeeze like I'd missed something lurking under the swollen tissue. "Got it?"

"Twenty minutes on, twenty off. Right?"

"You know the drill." I stepped in front of him as he sat up. "You call me if it feels worse."

He waved me off, rolling his eyes. But his expression stayed soft, like he realized I was trying to look out for him. "Yeah, yeah. I hear you, Sully."

"Stay off the ice."

"Stop mother-henning." He nudged me out of the way to scoot off the table as Zac appeared in the doorway to collect his shadow.

"He gonna pull through, Sul?"

"He might make it." I turned away from Aaron to address Zac, because I knew Zac would listen better. "He's off the ice for three days. And out of the weight room. You hear me, Isaacs?"

Aaron huffed again, but Zac gave me a stern salute. "Loud and clear, Doc."

They trundled out, and I watched them for a heartbeat, the way Zac paused to wait and Aaron hurried to catch up. The way they fell into stride so close their knuckles almost brushed, and Zac leaned in towards Aaron when he muttered something. Probably complaining about my mother-henning.

I bit down on a smile and turned away to clean up before my next patient waltzed his way through my door. Not that I was eagerly awaiting his presence. Or even thinking about it. Much. Maybe a little—Like how it had felt having his body pressed against mine.

His goddamn thigh between mine.

How he'd tilted his head up, and those words—"Jamie … will you kiss me?"

Will you kiss me?

Would I have? Should I have? It would have been nothing—so very fucking easy—to close the distance between our mouths. To know how those beautiful bowed lips felt, to taste him, feel the softness of his tongue.

And fuck, I wanted all of those things, a whole lot more than I wanted to admit. He was too young. My patient. A hockey player—how could I ever escape my past, the game, if I was dating it?

I was glad we'd been interrupted. I wished we hadn't.

"You're awfully chipper." Katie's voice jerked me out of my wandering thoughts like a hook through an unsuspecting, idiot fish.

"Hey, Katie. Nice to see you, too." I didn't look up from where I was wiping down the exam table after Aaron's visit. I was suddenly worried I might have been humming. Had I been humming?

"Any particular reason?" Katie didn't come farther in, which meant she was leaning in the doorway. Watching me. I really wished I knew if I'd been humming.

I turned, propped a hip against the counter, and leveled a stare at her. She was doing her cool-guy doorframe shoulder-lean, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle, arms folded and everything. Smug, like she knew things I didn't want her to know.

"Living in the present more I guess." I gave her a tiny smirk. "As a good friend of mine suggested."

Her brows shot skyward. "You got laid?"

"Oh, my God." I groaned, tipped my head back. "Why is that your first assumption?"

"Because … you're a dude?" She strode into the office and slipped into my chair. "So, you've been using TopTier?"

"Wha—oh." Oops, almost slipped there. TopTier: the hookup app I hadn't looked at since she'd downloaded it and made me answer all those stupid questions. "No, I haven't been using TopTier. I told you it wasn't about getting laid."

"Uh huh." Her mouth curved into a smile and I kicked myself for not lying. Inventing some cute guy with mind-blowing dance moves and world-class knowledge of fancy fun drinks or something. Yeah, cause she'd believe that shit.

I was in trouble.

Her smile said nothing less. "So, if it's not sex, then what is it? A certain perky—injured—blond hockey boy who's been spending a lot of time in your office?"

My brain immediately conjured up an image of the aforementioned perky, injured, blond hockey boy with green eyes and tousled hair and a smirk that spoke of all kinds of unspoken dirty movies playing out in his mind. Except I wasn't thinking about that smile.

I was thinking about how sometimes he let that cocky smirk slip and laughed, for real, tipped his head back and laughed. Or when his eyes went round and soft when he was being serious and it made my stomach feel like a storm of butterflies had taken flight.

And I was thinking about those green eyes, a narrow band around pupils flared wide. Will you kiss me?

"I've been spending time outside of work," I said, scraping at a tiny nonexistent hangnail on my index finger. "In nature, you know? I went swimming up at the lake last weekend."

"Swimming. Yeah, sounds life changing."

"I got through that bitch lesson in my business class." I would make a hangnail if I had to. I'd mostly gotten through the lesson, anyway. "So I feel closer to where I want to be."

"Course. I'm sure that's it." She popped back out of my chair, and I thought I was in the clear, that she'd walk out sans comment. "So you humming ‘I'm Walking on Sunshine' has nothing to do with your next appointment."

Goddammit, of all the songs to be humming.

"All right, you're done." I pushed off the counter to bustle her—laughing—out of my office before said next appointment could make his cheery blond way in and overhear anything that would further inflate his already overinflated ego. Or give him any … ideas about things he shouldn't have ideas about.

"But I have so many more comments!"

"Bye, Katie!" I waved with a very specific finger in her direction to get her moving. "Good chat!"

She waved back with the same finger. "Always here for some deep boy talk."

"Keep dreaming." I started to close the door—but someone else stepped in first, and all other thoughts fled my mind. Because there he was.

"Hey, Kitty."

Every atom in my body spun in his direction. "Hey, Bowman. Come on in."

Like he hadn't already. Like he wasn't already standing too close. Not close enough.

"Always so professional." He strode into the office, his gaze fixed on me. Flaying me open with that x-ray laser vision—that afternoon at the lake, all of me on display for him, all over again.

I should have stepped back to let him pass. But I hadn't, and now the heat of his body pressed against me like a physical touch, like the memory of that lean, athletic frame lining mine, hard and honed and so very fucking tantalizing. Will you kiss me?

Snap out of it, Sullivan. "Of course I'm professional. I'm at work."

Remember that, Sully? Remember? That didn't change because of a tight squeeze in a dark museum corner. A heated almost-kiss that I couldn't stop replaying, or even a genuine laugh, a flutter of butterflies.

To my surprise, he didn't fight me. "What's on my schedule for this session?"

God, it would've been better if he had. Easier to push back if he was pushing first—Jesus. I swallowed hard.

"Massage." I nodded towards the exam table. "Go on."

He popped onto the padding, grabbed the collar of his shirt, and yanked it off. Don't look, don't look. Except I had to. Because it was my job.

And he was my patient.

When the hell has this gotten so complicated? And why the hell had I let it? "Roll, Bow."

"Oh, you want me from behind?" He shot me a too-big grin over his shoulder as he flipped onto his stomach.

I groaned. No, I could do this. He was an actual injured patient who needed care. Needed me to give it to him.

Not. Like. That.

Jesus H Christ. I nearly slammed my hip into the counter as I reached for the massage oil.

"Lubing up?" Bowie snickered.

"I swear to fuck, Bowman."

He laughed harder. "Get your slicked up hands on me, Doc."

I withheld a sigh. Took a big deep steadying breath and gave myself another mini pep talk.

You got this, Sullivan. Professional. Clean. Mind on the shoulders, not in the gutter. Or on hips or lips or almost-kisses.

He wriggled on the bench, his perky little ass bobbing side to side and definitely—definitely—not drawing all my attention. Or sending a hefty supply of blood southward. And my mind careening back towards the gutter.

This was going to be so fucking hard. And I'd be lucky if I didn't end up hard, too.

"All right, here we go," I said. Was I talking to him or myself? Or the general universe, putting ‘we got this' vibes out there as I laid my bare hands on his bare shoulders.

The skin-to-skin heat burned like an electric current. Like fire.

No. I had to be cold, distanced. Professional. I'd done this hundreds of times to dozens of athletes. No reason this should be any different.

No reason he should be any different.

My hands swept over his shoulders in a soft brush of fingers. God, his skin was smooth, warm. Inviting, begging to be touched. Explored. But I shouldn't notice that, not now. I was a damned professional. This was my job, and I was fucking good at it.

Another broad sweep over his upper back. Not noting the bunch of his muscles under that soft skin. Not studying the light freckles across the tops of his shoulders, like he'd spent a bit too much time at the beach this summer, basking in the sun.

I timed the soft strokes of my fingers to my breath: inhale, sweep up. Exhale, swoop down. Focusing on breathing so I didn't focus on the way his muscles softened, the way his lashes fluttered against his cheeks as he relaxed. So I didn't linger on the hitch in his breath as my fingers skated down his ribs.

I added more pressure and worked my way back to his shoulders, forcing the skin to bend under my touch, forcing muscle to flex and loosen. Shifting from the easy effleurage into the deeper petrissage. The actual work.

I dug in. Hard. Thumbs working the stiff muscles, bending and kneading to soften the knots and areas of tension. Bowie groaned under the force.

"Ow," he mumbled, his eyes fluttering back open. "This is not a sexy massage anymore. This sucks."

"Yep," I grunted, forcing more pressure into my hands to work more tension out. "No pain, no gain, Bowman."

"When does it end?" His nose wrinkled as he winced, and I tried not to let it soften my hands. I would stay distant, professional.

"A while." I dug in again. Hard. Deep. Deeper. He winced again, but didn't complain. A true pro, used to riding out the pain. My fingers found their rhythm, pushing in, pulling out the tension through force and pressure. The knots eased, tightness slowly eked out.

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?

"You sure, Kitty?" His gaze slanted up toward me and his fingers stroked lazily over his sweatpants and down that firm cock, and no, no I was not sure about anything. "If I go in there, you'll have to listen to me. Every little moan …"

Fuck. I hadn't thought about that. Nothing about any of this was allowing me to think straight.

I couldn't do this.

I wasn't strong enough.

I was going to lunge at that table, crush my mouth to him, wrap my fingers around his cock and stroke him until—

Holy hell. My pants were way, way too tight. Was it visible? I'd never had this happen before, in the office. I could separate my mind from my dick—Except clearly I could not.

I half-stumbled backwards, away from the table, from Bowie, putting my desk and my computer screen between, well, his cock and mine. Wrenched my gaze from his face, angled it towards the bathroom door. I did still have a bathroom. That was good; I needed him out of sight. Even if I had to listen—fuck.

My voice came out choked. "Go ahead, Bowman. If you can."

He smirked, and I could practically see the filthy thoughts behind that filthy smile. "Knowing you'll be listening? Of course I can."

Right. Of course. Right. I stumbled farther back until the backs of my knees hit my desk chair. And I'd enabled this, told him to …

He hopped off the table, his hand still pressed down over his erection. "Let me grab some of this lube—"

"Massage oil," I said, the words way, way too breathy. My gaze crept sideways towards his lean frame—and I wrenched it away again.

"Right." He leaned over the counter. Sticking his ass out in a very, very suggestive position—eyes away, Jamie. "Massage lube."

Jesus. I was going to have a heart attack. Especially as he turned to me, and his gaze dropped down my chest, waist, lower—eyes widening into big, green coins. His fingers slid along the front of his pants in a deliberate rubbing motion, and he stepped backwards towards the bathroom. "Offer still stands, Kitty. You want to touch me?"

So. Fucking. Much.

I sat down in my chair. Hard. Wrenched my gaze away from his hand on his cock and stared at the ceiling and imagined buckets of cold water. About diving into that icy lake—while he watched.

I couldn't do this. "Just … go."

He took another step backwards. Shoulders hit the bathroom door and his hand crept up towards his waistband. Fingers dipped beneath the elastic and I fought hard not to look. To keep my eyes up …

He pushed the door open. "I'll be thinking about you."

The door snicked closed behind him. Leaving me sitting there with the enormity of the situation pressing down on me.

I'll be thinking of you.

You'll have to listen to me.

Every moan …

I'll be thinking of you.

What the actual fuck was I supposed to do? Jack in the trash can? Sit with my legs crossed until he left, and then go jack in the bathroom? I'd never done that at work. Or in a medical office. I couldn't even leave because if anybody saw me—or my pants …

My hands were already pre-lubed.

No way. No.

I needed cold-shower thoughts. To talk myself down. Calm the hell d—

"Oh, fuck," Bowie groaned from behind the door. My dick went, impossibly, harder. "Fuck me."

My ears didn't need to strain to hear the distinctive slap of skin on skin. The gasps of breath. The faint moans. My zipper dug into my cock through my underwear, which was so hard it hurt. Ached. Begged to be touched. Could I really sit here and listen and not do anything …

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," Bowie moaned, and shit, the slapping was getting faster, harder, his breaths coming quicker, louder. I couldn't stop listening. I saw him, the way his hand must be sliding up and down, bringing him closer to the edge. I would come in my pants if he didn't stop.

My fingers twitched towards my own throbbing dick.

"I'm so close," he groaned, the words breathy. What did his face look like? What expression would he wear when he came apart? Why did I want so badly to see it? "Oh fuck, Jamie."

It was almost a shout. As he—

Cold water, Sullivan. Cold—fucking—water. Dead puppies. Ugly old ladies. A bucket of icy Gatorade poured over my head after the last division championship win …

My lungs heaved. My fingers clenched down on my thighs to resist the urge to wrap around my dick instead. It had gone quiet behind that door, but I was still picturing his hand on his cock, his head thrown back, jaw slack—

Shit, he was going to walk out. And I'd have to look at him. And he'd see how much he'd affected me. What the hell should I do?

The bathroom door handle turned. And I panicked. Shoved my hand down my pants to adjust myself in an attempt to hide the evidence. Crossed my legs, and fixed what was probably a very pained smile on my face.

Bowie stepped out.

His hair neat, pants—flat. Everything to rights. Except the massive grin stretched across his face as his eyes dipped down to my legs.

He didn't speak.

Was it obvious? I never crossed my legs, and even after my attempted tucking, there was still too much to hide. What did I say now? Do? I obviously couldn't stand up. Or move. Or speak. Or look at him.

What would a professional do? Well, for starters, a professional wouldn't have given him a special massage. Or let him get hard. Or get me hard. Or sat and listened as he—literally yelled my fucking name. Fuck. I was so far over the line and into forbidden territory, I had no idea what to do.

"We're done for today, Bowman," I said, and I was fooling absolutely no one with that very cheery, very un-Serious Doctor Sullivan voice. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He kept his shit-eating smirk as he strode across the office and grabbed his shirt off the table. Tugged it over his head and winked as he passed. "Well, I'll leave you to it then, Dr. Sullivan. Don't have too much fun without me."

I sat in silence in my office, listening to Bowie's departing footsteps. Trying to figure out what the fuck I was supposed to do. Afraid to uncross my legs. Or move. Or, honestly, think. As soon as I started thinking, I'd start remembering …

Shit.

Nope. I needed to get out of here. Go back to my condo for a nice cold shower. Maybe take a long, long run. Clear my head. Do something that had nothing to do with Bowie or what had just happened. To me. That was still happening to me.

Yeah, I needed out.

I had no more appointments for today. Bowie was gone. Katie had likely headed home. The other guys were in the weight room or the showers. It was now or never; time to make a run for it.

Tuck my dick into my waistband—check. Uncomfortable as fuck, but done.

Shoulder my messenger bag and work it around to the front to cover my awkwardly arrayed pants—check. Not casual, but it covered enough.

Leave—check.

I barreled out, my pants way too tight, my dick still aching, my messenger bag rubbing in all the wrong places. I locked the office and half-ran down the hall. Did someone call my name? I didn't care. Didn't look back. Shoved through the front doors and out into the sticky September humidity.

I threw myself behind the wheel of the truck, started the engine. Didn't even bother to survey the cars lurking in the parking lot, make note of who might have seen me fleeing the rink like my pants had caught fire.

Which, they sort of had.

None of it mattered. I needed to go home, get my head straightened out, my thoughts calmed and sorted. Figure out what to do next. I squirmed in my seat—still hard, still uncomfortable, still way, way too warm—as I pulled out of the lot and into low evening traffic.

I'd have to have a talk with Bowie.

That should've been a sobering thought, except the name conjured up images. Of his hand, pressing down on his pants. Dragging back up, outlining that long, thick shaft, the curve of the crown. Just for me, because he knew I was looking. His grin. The dark heat in his eyes. For me.

Words followed, in his soft, British voice. I'll be thinking of you.

Do you want to touch me, Kitty?

Fuck, I did. So bad.

I panted with renewed desire as I screeched the truck to a stop at a traffic light. Trying to focus on that light and not on the sounds he'd made through the bathroom door.

Like that groan.

Holy hell, that little groan would linger. I shifted in my seat again, searching for a more comfortable position for my poor untouched dick. He was not giving up this fight, and my wayward, spiraling thoughts did not help him calm down.

The light turned green. My foot slammed on the gas, shooting me forward through the intersection.

I needed a cold shower.

Immediately.

Needed to be home. I'd pick Brady up from the neighbor's doggie-daycare later. I veered around a turn, bringing my condo building into sight, and relief washed through me. Almost there. This would all be over soon and I could stop thinking about it, stop feeling every memory like a caress. Stop hearing his beautiful little oh fuck over and over on repeat.

The truck shot into the parking garage. I jerked into my normal spot. Luckily, no neighbors lurked in the elevator, because there was no way the boner tenting my dress pants was anything but really fucking obvious. Not at my size.

I slammed my front door behind me.

Locked it.

Leaned against the wood, hot and bothered and breathing too heavily. My dick throbbed, the zipper like a band against it, the rub of my underwear painful against too-tight skin. In my mind's eye, Bowie's hand scraped up the line of his cock, dragging my eyes with it.

And I knew, right then and there, no amount of cold water could rinse that from my brain. Ever. I was so fucked. And maybe I had been since we'd pressed together in that alcove—Will you kiss me?

There was only one way to resolve my current situation, and as much as it was the absolute wrong thing to do, I really fucking wanted to do it. Couldn't not do it. Needed to do it.

If only to get it out of my head.

I let my bag drop to the floor. Didn't notice where it landed because my fingers were already fumbling with the button of my pants. I wrenched the waistband open, jerked down the fly to give my poor cock a little room to stretch out. I untucked my shirt and ripped it off my shoulders. Let it fall … wherever.

I tugged the band of my underwear away from my hips to lower it down over my very, very erect cock. And at last, at long fucking last, my fingers curled around the shaft.

I groaned.

Relief and desperate need warred inside me as my hand drifted down, thumb curving over the wet head. I should go to my room, get out the lube, do this right. Lie down and wrap slicked, soft fingers around myself, imagine they were his …

But I couldn't bring myself to move, because I was already imagining that.

Was already picturing his slender hand curled around my cock in place of my own. Gliding over me, jerking me in swift, desperate strokes. While he moaned again.

Oh fuck, oh fuck.

My head tilted against the door, and my fingers picked up speed. The dry slap of skin brought back his same faint sounds through the bathroom door. Re-conjured the images my brain had invented: his eyes half-lidded as he jerked himself to the edge, his hand stroking, hips pumping …

And those filthy fucking moans out of his beautiful filthy fucking mouth. Oh fuck, oh fuck.

Holy shit, I was there. Teetering. My hips thrusting, sending my cock through the circle of my fingers over and over. I barrelled towards release like a train come off the tracks, no turning back now.

Oh fuck, Jamie.

I fell.

Tumbled.

Careened.

A sky-diver without a parachute, tumbling headfirst out of a plane.

Warmth blossomed over my hand as I came hard enough to see stars. A little strangled shout escaped my lips, and my head tipped back, eyes rolling towards the ceiling. Chest heaving, heart slamming into my ribcage and against my eardrums.

Holy.

Fuck.

Holy fuck.

I struggled to regain control of my breathing, to quiet my heartbeat. Holy fuck I couldn't remember the last time I'd come that hard. I felt dizzy, almost giddy, so fucking sated. Fuck.

The guilt eked in as I drifted back down from the clouds. I shouldn't have done that. The last two hours, or lifetime, or however the fuck long it had been since Bowie walked through the door of my office—none of that should've happened.

I shouldn't have let it get started, and yet, I had. I'd let it happen, furthered it, by telling him to go into the bathroom. And then I'd listened. Enjoyed it. Craved more of it.

He was my fucking patient. This was the most unprofessional thing I'd ever done.

My heartbeat slowed, breathing evened out. Fuck, what a mess. Cum covered my hand. Splattered the floor at my feet. Had probably gotten on my clothes. When was the last time I'd lost control of myself like that?

And why did it feel so good?

I half-staggered into the kitchen, my pants still halfway down my ass, to rinse off my hands—and my dick—so I could pull said pants back up. Moistened a few paper towels to wipe up the floor. The floor. Jesus.

This couldn't happen again. I'd have to sit Bowie down for a talk. About professionalism and the team and all of that icky stuff I didn't want to talk about. With him, especially. It was my fault, though. I'd let this go too far.

Maybe I did need to have more regular sex. Or at least orgasms involving other people. What had happened today—could not happen again. Ever. It was teenager-level horny and unprofessional to the max. Would I be jacking in my office after every session next?

No, I couldn't.

The app. Right. Katie's stupid get-laid-stat app. I straightened from the clean floor to chuck the paper towels in the bin and dig my phone out of my discarded messenger bag. I hadn't opened the app since she'd downloaded it. I'd been distracted by a certain blond … distraction.

One I needed to stop letting distract me.

I found the pink TopTier icon and tapped it. A screen popped up to let me know I had forty-seven new potential matches—good God, forty-seven? I propped a hip against the kitchen counter, my thumb hovering over the "See Matches" button.

A little flag behind the dialog box caught my attention. A tiny number one in a red circle hovered over a message icon. Someone had messaged me? Had that meddling busybody Katie matched me?

I clicked the message icon. An inbox popped up, empty except for a single message chain. Five new messages from A_Big_Stick.

There was a cringey name if I'd ever heard one. I clicked it anyway.

I nearly dropped my phone as the first message opened.

ABS: Hey, Kitty.

It was Bowie.

I shifted so my whole butt came to rest against the counter. Bowie. I'd matched with Bowie. Of all the fucking people in the city of goddamn Bringham. I scrolled to the second message, from two weeks ago.

ABS: You like the Macarena?

The what? The dance? I scrolled down.

ABS: Your favorite sport is hockey? That's cute. I play hockey.

A smile twitched at my mouth. I couldn't help it. He was the biggest dork. It was adorable. Made me all warm and fuzzy and weird inside and I wanted to chase that foreign feeling.

ABS: You don't seem like a bottom. I mean, if you're into that, I can be, too. But I'd prefer for you to fuck me.

What the hell—goddammit. The questions. Those stupid. Fucking. Questions. The ones I hadn't paid attention to, the ones Katie had answered for me. Christ. She was never getting my phone again.

Wait, had he answered, too?

I clicked on the tiny circle next to his name, and his grinning picture popped over my screen. He was shirtless, his rounded shoulders and the tops of his pecs at the bottom of the photo. His blond hair tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed—or more likely, given the background of lockers and discarded equipment—mussed from a hard skate with the Cavs. And he had that delicious fuck-me smirk stretched over those beautiful bowed lips.

It took almost physical effort to scroll away.

He'd answered the questions all right. And since he'd, clearly, read my questions, I'd read his.

Fuck. No. This was wrong. Bad. Unprofessional, asking for trouble. What would happen when he inevitably got bored, had men and women fawning over him on road games, had dozens of people—younger and more beautiful than me—begging him?

Bowie wasn't just a cute distraction from my boring life. Wasn't just a friend for hiking or trips to unhinged museums, laughter and conversation. This thing—this weird, awkward, strange, unprecedented thing between us—it had changed. Become … something.

Because I'd let it.

And now, I had to stop it, right? Before it became too big to handle, too big to shut down. Before it impeded my career, my goals, before I got too invested in a relationship that surely couldn't last. I couldn't read his answers to the app's questions or send him a message back. Couldn't let him come waltzing into my office with that cocky fuck-me smirk, set my every nerve alight with his gaze, his lithe frame, his very proximity.

I couldn't kiss him.

All of this … everything between us … It had to stop.

Didn't it?

I closed my eyes. Imagined him laughing under the pines of Moosehead Lake. Wide-eyed with innocent amusement in the dim glow of the trolley museum. Fire on the ice, a constant tease off of it. Beautiful and young and alluring. Soft and a little dorky. Fun. Charming. Silly.

Forbidden—but maybe only because I'd set such strict rules.

No. I shouldn't even be thinking about this. He was a patient. He was young. He was a hockey player that would tie me to all the things I wanted—needed—to leave behind if I was ever going to be free. I needed my head on straight and my professionalism in place. I needed to be the boring, grumpy doctor again.

Didn't I?

Fuck. I couldn't make a clearheaded decision if Bowie was around—laughing, looking, teasing, being the charming carefree ray of fucking sunshine that had blinded me to reality.

I needed time and space to think.