“Spain is your home,” he repeats, a slow smile spreading on his face. “I like the sound of that. Do you need any help?” He opens his eyes to look at me.
“Keep your eyes closed.”
“¿Por qué? That means why. Are they too pretty for you?”
I giggle. Like a fucking schoolgirl.
“Yes. I mean, no. You’re supposed to find deep peace and search your body inch by inch.”
He licks his lips. “Isn’t that your job?”
“I mean internally. Like concentrate and—"
“I can’t concentrate,” he says. “I’m waiting for an answer.”
“About what?”
“Your Spanish.”
My mind goes to Sergio’s offer, his name and number in my phone.
And I know I’m never going to call him.
“Sure,” I tell him. “I would like that.”
God, what are you doing? This is a terrible idea.
I push that voice somewhere in the back of my mind, where I can’t hear it anymore.
“So,” he says. “Let’s start. You work on me every day, I work on you.”
“Seems fair.”
“It’s about as fair as it will get between us.”
I frown, not really understanding that. “What does that mean?”
His gaze turns serious. “Maybe I’ll tell you some other time. For now, Spanish lesson number one. The swear words. Very important. Or muy importantes.”
“Muy importantes,” I repeat.
“Like, eres muy importante para mí.”
“What does that mean?”
“You are very important to me.”
I stare at him.
I can’t not stare at him, caught up in those eyes like I’ve stepped into a snare.
If I struggle, it would make it worse.
And I’m struggling.
I manage to look away, my eyes searching the room, trying to regain the easy charm and professional decorum we had earlier.
He sits up and places his hand very close to mine. He lowers his head, trying to see my face. “Why did that upset you? Don’t you see how important you are to me?”
“I’m not upset,” I say softly.
But I am upset.
Upset that my stomach is filled with butterflies, that my heart is aching, that the heat inside me keeps building and building with no release. All of these feelings, these visceral, palpable feelings are swirling around in me like the perfect storm just waiting to unleash.
He reaches out and touches the tip of my chin with warm, strong fingers, bringing my face level with his.
Oh god.
My eyes widen.
But he doesn’t make the move.
He just holds my chin in place and gazes at me, his naturally arched brows coming together in confusion. “I don’t want to upset you when I tell you the truth. I upset you the other night. I’ve upset you now.”
“I wasn’t upset,” I whisper.
I wanted you to kiss me.
I want you to kiss me again.
But the words, the traitorous thoughts, stay behind my lips and his gaze drops to my mouth as if he knows I’m holding back.
“Thalia?”
I hear my name being called.
Alejo immediately drops his hand seconds before Mateo walks into the warm-up room.
“Ah, there you are,” Mateo says, strolling inside. “Luka said you were in here teaching Alejo yoga?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, hoping my voice sounds strong and not shaky, hoping he can’t hear my thundering heart.
Holy shit, I don’t know how that would have looked to someone walking in on that scene. And we weren’t even doing anything.
“I have to say, this is an odd one,” Mateo muses, stroking his chin. “I don’t think any trainer has used yoga before.”
“Yeah, well they should,” I say, getting to my feet. “It does athletes a lot of good. Keeps their muscles long and lean and flexible. Prevents injuries.”
Mateo looks skeptical. What is it with men and yoga?
“It’s true,” Alejo says, getting up. “I already feel better.”
I know that’s a lie but I really appreciate it.
Mateo shrugs. “Okay. Whatever works.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Keep up the good work. Maybe we’ll have the whole team doing yoga. Might help them win some fucking games.”
Mateo is smiling and his tone is light, but there’s a tightness in his eyes. The more games they lose, the more his job may be on the chopping block.
And the more his job is on it, the more mine is too.
“Maybe that’s not a bad idea,” I tell him.
But he’s already walking away, waving for Alejo to follow. “Come, Alejo. I need you to watch practice today. Maybe you can tell me what we’re doing wrong.”
I watch them go, and once they do, I press my fingers to my lips, feeling like I might just keel over. I’m not sure if it’s my hangover, or the fact that we were almost caught in a compromising (albeit innocent) position.
Or the realization that I can’t be around him anymore without something almost happening.
Shit.
I think it might be that last one.
Chapter 12
Thalia
Hydrotherapy has been an incredibly important (muy importante) part of physical therapy, but it also does wonders for someone like myself, who isn’t under any real duress.
(I’m ignoring the fact that my patient kissed me, and I want to kiss him again, and he happens to be a lot younger than me and it could also get me fired, plus the team is playing poorly, which might get the coach fired, and without him, there is no one to bat for me, so I might get fired anyway.)
The hot and cold plunge pools, the jets, it all helps you destress, keeps your muscles in good working order while taking it easy on your joints.
I have a session with Alejo in ten minutes, a session that I know will probably get me in the water with him to work on his hamstrings, so I decided to put my swimsuit on (a modest black two-piece with a high waist, nothing scandalous) and get in the water before he shows up.
First, the warm pool to do a few short laps.
Then, I go into the cold pool to wake myself up and slap some fucking sense into me.
I’m alone down here. There’s no one in the steam room, no one in the showers or the pools. We’ll be alone, and I almost don’t want to be alone with him because I’m not sure if I can trust myself.
But that’s no excuse to put off a very crucial part of his therapy.
Alejo comes first. Your pathetic urges come second.
Though to be honest, with a man like Alejo, I’m pretty sure he’d make sure I came first.
Just saying.
I shake that nonsense out of my head, reminding myself that it’s not to be taken lightly.
By the time my legs feel like they’re going numb and I’m shivering a little, Alejo strolls into the room wearing his robe.
“You’re in the water,” he points out. “In the cold water, like a crazy person. You know what we call a crazy person in Spanish?”
“El pollo loco?” I say through chattering teeth, trying not to stare at him as he undoes his robe and lets it fall. I don’t care how many times I’ve seen him in his black speedo, the sight of his beautiful, golden body never, ever loses its appeal.
“That’s the crazy chicken,” he says. He purses his lips thoughtfully and then shrugs. “It could work.”
He walks over to the edge of the cold pool. “Want me to get in there with you?”
I shake my head. “No, I was just waking myself up. Get in the other pool. I’ll come join you.”
He gets into the warm pool until the water level is at his shoulders, his eyes on me the entire time. He watches as I get out of the cold pool, and I feel completely awkward and vulnerable and self-conscious being in a bathing suit in front of him for the first time.
I mean, I work out every day. I’m lean. I have muscle. I
watch what I eat. I work really hard for the body I have, and I’m proud of it. But when you’re half-naked in front of a much younger man for the first time, a man who is used to girls in their early twenties, well, you become very aware of how you might be perceived. I just have to work it and ignore the fact that not everything is tight anymore. I have cellulite and my boobs aren’t perky. I really don’t think they ever were.
“That is more like it,” he says, something dark coming over his eyes as I walk down the stairs and into the other pool, my body erupting in pins and needles the moment the warm water collides with my ice-cold skin.
“What is?” I ask him, relishing in the warmth as I slowly walk toward him.
“That thing I said the other day. About how things between us aren’t fair. This helps.”
I walk as far as I can without my head going under, and he starts circling me with long, slow strides.
“I don’t follow.”
“Our relationship has always been so lopsided,” he says, his chin and mouth dipping briefly below the water. “You always get to see my half-naked body while you are fully clothed. Now I get to see you.”
“I see.”
“Now since you get to touch me all you want and I can never touch you, I can think of a way of making that fair, too.”
I swallow, my eyes going wide.
Deflect, deflect!
But I have nothing to say. There’s nothing to say. Tell him he’s being inappropriate? I’m starting to think I might be welcoming it.
I turn around and swim to the edge of the pool at the four-foot marker, where an underwater bench runs along the length.
“Come over here,” I tell him.
He hesitates, then swims over, his body gliding through the water.
“Sit,” I command, and he does so, settling on the bench facing me. “Spread your legs.”
His forehead wrinkles in surprise. “Oh really?”
I give him a smirk. “Yes, really.”
He spreads his legs, and through the water I can already tell he’s getting a hard-on, which is going to make this a lot more difficult for me.
Don’t touch it, under any circumstances.
“We’re going to work on your knee flexion today,” I tell him, putting on my professional voice, which honestly sounds a little weak. I clear my throat and reach down for his knee. “And help those hamstrings.”
I straddle his leg, keeping my hands just below his knee, at the taut muscle of his calf, and gently pull it up, keeping my focus on his knee.
Not on his erection.
Not on his eyes, which I know are boring into me.
“How does that feel? Does it hurt?” I ask him, avoiding his gaze.
“It feels a little tight,” he says after a moment. His breath sounds ragged, like he’s trying to control himself, which, in turn, makes me feel like I’m losing control.
I let his calf fall back down and then raise it up again. “I think we’re getting to about eighty, almost ninety degrees flexion now. That’s much better than before.”
“Really?”
I steal a glance at him and wish I hadn’t. His eyes stare at me so intently, filled with hope and something carnal. The weight of his gaze is intoxicating.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice quiet. “You just needed a little neuromuscular re-education. Keep at it and you’re going to be back in no time.”
“Then I won’t have you like this,” he says.
“I’ll still be your therapist,” I assure him.
“But not like this.” He frowns, his expression faltering. “Right now, you’re mine. I want you to stay mine.”
Oh Jesus.
It feels like the rug is being pulled out from under me. The sincerity in his eyes, in his voice, unravels me, a thread being pulled, seams becoming undone.
What happens when there’s no more thread left?
Who am I underneath it all, when he’s left me bare and exposed?
I suck on my bottom lip, worrying it between my teeth.
Try to focus on his knee.
“Don’t do that,” he whispers hoarsely.
“What?” I pause, looking at him, thinking I hurt his hamstring.
“With your lip,” he says, his stare going from my eyes back down to my mouth. “I know what those lips feel like against my lips. I know what your mouth tastes like. Sweet. Soft.”
“Soft isn’t a taste,” I manage to say. My voice is trembling. My whole body is on the verge of something, skirting around an edge that would be far too easy to tumble over.
One misstep and everything changes.
“Maybe not in English,” he says. “To me, it is a taste. You taste how you feel.”
He leans forward, ever so slightly, to place his hands at the small of my waist. In the weightlessness of the water he picks me up, and places me on his lap, right up against his cock which has somehow gotten loose of his Speedo.
Oh. My. God.
Get off him. Stop this. Push him away.
I don’t do any of that. I am completely frozen in place as his palms slide up my sides. “You’re in the water. It is not the same as having you in my bed.” He slides his hands back down before bringing one hand around, across my belly.
I try to inhale, to suck in my stomach, but I’m absolutely breathless.
I know what’s happening, and I’m powerless to stop it.
I stare into his eyes and he stares into mine, the air heavy and thick, the energy between us crackling with electricity. He continues to stare at me as he slips the back of his hand underneath the front of my bikini bottoms.
He bites his lip, his gaze intensifying, and lets his knuckle slide all the way down until it’s gliding over my aching flesh.
My eyes close, my mouth opening, a low, guttural groan surprising me, like I’ve got some primal, carnal woman inside that I’ve ignored for too long.
“Sí,” he hisses quietly. “So soft.”
I’m feeling a little dizzy. I’m not sure what I’m doing. I place my hands on his shoulders, round and hard as rock, and try to adjust myself, wanting more of him and needing to get away at the same time.
My face comes close to his, and he stares at me through his long black lashes, his hand retreating briefly to come at me from another angle, this time sliding his hand all the way under until the length of his fingers find me silky with need.
I let out another gasp, and he grins at me. “I never knew you could make such beautiful sounds. I dreamed about it, but I never knew.”
I’m being reduced to an aching mess and with his cock right up against me. I know it would take nothing at all for him to lift me up, just enough so that he can plunge his length inside me.
I’m dying for it. Throbbing for it.
But I also know I can’t get carried away.
“We can’t…I need to stop this,” I manage to say.
“Then stop this,” he says as he slowly inserts another finger.
I groan, clenching around him, needing him, needing this.
I should stop this.
But I can’t.
I need this more than the air I breathe.
I adjust myself in the water, and for a moment I think I might have hurt his knee.
And then I remember.
His knee.
Why I’m in the water with him.
Where I am.
I blink at him, and he frowns, knowing the connection was just altered. Not severed, but we certainly can’t continue like this out in the open where anyone could stumble upon us.
I push back against his shoulders as he quickly removes his hand.
I start swimming away toward the steps.
The moment my back is to him I’m mouthing, “Oh my fucking god” and staring wide-eyed at the water. I do a quick sweep of the area, just to make sure there’s no one here for sure, and then I walk out of the pool, heading into the steam room.
“Hello?” I call out softly as I open the door. The steam billows around me
, making it hard to see. I walk along the benches that edge the room, but there’s no one in here.
I can still feel his fingers inside me.
What are you doing, Thalia?
Why are you doing this?
Because I want to.
Plain and simple.
The door to the steam room opens, and I hold my breath, not knowing if Alejo will have followed me or not.
A tall, shadowy figure emerges from the steam, like the villain in an old film noir.
But it’s not the villain.
It’s Alejo.
And he’s completely naked.
Before I can even take in the magnificent sight of him, he’s at me, his hands sliding into my hair, tugging my strands loose from my ponytail and covering my mouth with his.
Fuck. Me.
This is like the kiss from the other night but on steroids.
I am a goner.
I’m absolutely melting into his hands as he walks me backward until the back of my calves hit the bench, lips and tongue and teeth all over my mouth and jaw and neck.
Inside, a frantic need wells up, like a river rising over a dam, wanting more of him, so much more.
This is happening.
This is Alejo’s mouth ravaging mine, his hands tugging at my hair, running down my back. Tis is his cock jutting up between us, making me salivate.
This is no longer a fantasy or a threat of what might happen.
This is me finally giving in to him, about to give him everything I have.
Before I can do that though, he’s pulling his mouth away from mine, leaving me breathless and bereft, and wrapping his hands around my waist. In one smooth, effortless motion he lifts me up so that I’m sitting on the upper bench. He immediately places his big hands on my thighs and parts them, stepping between them.
His head is almost level with my hips, and he puts his good leg up on the bottom bench in a lunge position, bending down slightly as his palms slide up over my thighs. He kisses me through the material of my bikini bottom, a torturous tease of not-quite-feeling him.
But I do feel his stubble, the way it scrapes against the soft skin of my thighs, making me shiver.
I arch my back until the back of my head rests against the wall, my hands going into his hair, holding his head.
The Younger Man: A Novel Page 15
