The hand on the back of her head stroked through her hair, traveled down past her shoulders, only to disappear before coming back to the start. A constant loop of comfort given, and consolation taken.
She nodded during the next pass. “You’re an ass, but you couldn’t help yourself, I get it.”
He snorted. The sound odd coming from the man who held his lid on tighter than a jar of peanut butter at a squirrel convention. “You have no idea, princess.”
Lord. When he called her princess, she turned to putty in his hands. The exact opposite of what she needed to be. Tough. Strong. Capable. She started to giggle. Figures. For years, she waited for the right man to call her princess, and here Adam was, tossing around the endearment like he wasthe one.
“What?” he asked his arms tightening as her cackles approached hysteria.
“Ow.” Body shaking with peals of laughter she could no more control than her sobs, her right shoulder started throbbing. A piercing stab. An ice pick through skin, muscle, and bone. “Ow. Ow. Ow.”
As quick as it came, her laughter died, replaced by mind-numbing pain.
“What’s wrong?” Adam asked as he attempted to set them apart.
“Muscle spasm in my right shoulder,” she cried, clinging to the rock wall of his chest as another cramp shot straight through her.
“Tell me what to do.”
“Put your hand under my shirt.”
“Uh…” He hesitated, and she groaned as the contraction came close to unbearable.
“Adam! You’re the one who put me in these clothes, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so you’ve already seen me naked. No big deal. Put your hand under my shirt.”
“Aren’t you a bossy little one,” he grumbled as he burrowed beneath the hem and laid his palm flat in the middle of her back. “Now what?”
“Move your hand to my right shoulder at the top of the blade.”
His fingers skimmed over her skin leaving a trail of tingling flesh. “Here?”
“Yeah. Now trace along the curve of the bone.” He did as she asked, his movements slow and deliberate. When he reached the spot she needed him in, she jerked, and his hand stilled. “Feel the lump?”
His fingers explored, and he nodded.
“Okay. I need you to press your thumb into the knot until I say stop.”
“Eve—”
“Please! You know what I do for a living, right?” Again with the nod. “So, trust me. The problem is in the rhomboid major muscle that runs under the trapezius. To get to it, you need to press hard and deep.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured, his mouth near her ear.
“You don’t have a choice,” she whispered back.
Accepting the burden, he inhaled until his lungs were full, forcing her to do the same. “Ready?” he asked, thumb in position.
She nodded, and he dug deep, but not deep enough.
“Harder,” she groaned, and he complied. Unable to stop herself, she cried out. Her body strung tight, she fought through the agony, her chest crushed tight against his. With no space between them, she felt his heart hammer against hers.
Pain sheeted her vision red, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Sweat broke out over her skin. A sign of shock. Trauma. Injury.
