Page 7 of Ice Cold Hearts
I clench my fists in a vain attempt to keep all the blood from rushing to my dick.
This is going to be more difficult than I thought.
By the time she finishes explaining the plan for today, I’m in control of myself again.
The open-space treatment room is a jungle of familiar and unfamiliar machines. Most importantly, it’s empty so I don’t have to obscure my view of Emily.
After a quick warmup on the bike, it’s time for lunges.
“Sit there so I can hook you up to a resistance band,” she commands.
I fight the urge to bury my hands in her thick hair as she kneels in front of me to Velcro the resistance bands to my ankles.
Emily bullies me through a few sets of those, and after a blood pressure check it’s on to squats. These types of exercises don’t usually faze me, but after a team workout session and the ache in my back, I’m ready to tap out.
“One more set of these, then we’ll stretch.”
I groan.
“Don’t they teach you about stamina on that hockey team of yours, Mr. Pro Athlete?” Emily teases.
“Come back to my house after this and I’ll show you stamina,” I grumble.
She chuckles. “I’m not that cheap of a date, Alexei. I think I’m at least worth a nice dinner or two.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, enjoying the way she blushes.
She checks my blood pressure, oxygen levels, and pain levels before guiding me over to the far corner of the room.
“Are these yoga mats or feather beds?” I ask, poking at the squishy mat.
“Would you rather do it on the floor?” Emily asks.
I quirk an eyebrow at her.
“I meant the stretches,” she sputters. “What on earth am I going to do with you?”
“I can think of a few things.” I smirk at her.
Emily rolls her eyes and gestures firmly at the mat.
Normally, I do the bare minimum as far as stretching goes, but the ones she guides me through feel so nice I’m thinking about adding them to my post-workout routine. I tell her as much.
“You should.” She grins. “Actually, that’s your homework for between sessions. I want you to do these stretches at least once a day.”
“Homework?” I groan. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” She nods then shifts to a tone more fit for a kindergarten teacher. “If you’re good and do your stretches, I’ll have a sticker for you next time.”
I laugh in spite of myself.
“What if I want more than a sticker?” I ask.
Her breath catches in her throat, and for a moment I worry that I made her uncomfortable.
“I already told you, you need to take me to dinner first,” she teases.
“I bet you say that to all the patients who flirt with you,” I accuse.