Chapter 7: Chapter 7
The humid scent of jasmine body wash still clung to Debbie’s skin as she smoothed the silk robe over her camisole. The fabric felt cool, slippery against her arms. Down the hall, the shower had finally stopped its rhythmic drumming. Silence, then the muffled thud of a cabinet closing. Her heart did a nervous little flip-flop against her ribs.
Okay. Professional. Clinical. Just like class. She took a deep breath, the air in her room thick with the anticipation she was trying to crush. Family photos on the dresser – her son’s graduation smile, a beach trip years ago – seemed to watch her judgmentally. The soft whir of the oscillating fan on the nightstand did little to dispel the heat prickling her neck.
She walked to her doorway, the plush carpet muffling her steps. Matt’s bedroom door stood ajar, a slice of messy bed and discarded clothes visible. She tapped lightly on the frame. “Matt?”
He emerged from the steamy bathroom hallway, a cloud of damp warmth preceding him. He was scrubbing a towel over his tousled hair, wearing only the faded towel wrapped low around his hips. Water droplets still glistened on his shoulders, tracing paths down his chest, over the defined pectorals and the dark trail of hair that narrowed beneath the terrycloth. His hazel eyes, bright from the shower, met hers.
“Hey,” he said, dropping the towel from his head. It hung loosely around his neck now. “Massage time?”
Debbie swallowed, forcing her gaze to stay level with his face, not the smooth skin of his chest or the knot of the towel. “Yeah. If you’re still sore. Come on in.” She stepped back into her bedroom, gesturing towards the portable massage table she’d set up earlier, its vinyl surface gleaming faintly under the warm glow of her bedside lamp. A bottle of unscented massage oil sat ready on the small side table she’d pulled close.
Matt followed, his bare feet silent on the carpet. He glanced around her sanctuary – the warm-toned walls, the soft bed, the sheer curtains filtering the last of the evening light. “Nice in here,” he remarked, his voice casual, but she detected a slight edge to it, a wariness beneath the laid-back tone. He rubbed his hip absently. “Yeah, it’s still pretty tight. Especially after sitting through that brutal econ lecture.”
“Lie face down,” Debbie instructed, pleased her voice sounded reasonably steady. She busied herself unscrewing the cap on the oil, the faint, clean almond scent rising into the air. Focus on the muscle. The adductor magnus. The insertion point. Bony landmarks. Her instructor’s voice echoed in her head, a lifeline.
She heard the soft creak of the table as Matt climbed onto it. The towel rustled as he adjusted himself. He settled onto his stomach, resting his cheek on the face cradle. His back stretched before her – broad shoulders tapering down to the defined muscles flanking his spine, the skin still slightly flushed and damp. The towel covered his hips and backside, but the strong lines of his lower back, the dimples just above the towel’s edge, were exposed. The dark trail of hair was hidden now, but its path burned in her memory.
Debbie warmed a dollop of oil between her palms. The slick heat was familiar, grounding. “Okay. Tell me where it’s worst.”
“Right side,” came his muffled voice from the cradle. “Kinda deep in the groin when I try to move my leg.”
“Right.” She positioned herself beside the table, near his hip. Her fingers, strong and sure despite the tremor she felt inside, found the crest of his hip bone. She traced down, locating the origin point of the adductor muscles along his inner pelvis. “Here?” she pressed gently.
A low grunt. “Yeah. There.”
She began, using the heel of her hand and firm, gliding strokes along the tense band of muscle running down towards his inner thigh, carefully skirting the towel’s edge. The muscle felt like thick rope beneath the skin, knotted and resistant. She worked steadily, deepening the pressure incrementally, feeling the tissue slowly begin to yield under her practiced touch. The fan hummed. The oil made slick, rhythmic sounds. His breathing, initially shallow, deepened into a slow, steady rhythm. She lost herself a little in the mechanics of it, the satisfaction of feeling tension melt under her hands.
“Feels good,” Matt murmured, his voice thick with relaxation. “Way better than the campus physio. Her hands felt like ice picks.”
A small, genuine smile touched Debbie’s lips. “Glad to hear it. Try to relax.”
She worked for several minutes, focusing solely on the tight muscle, her movements confident and therapeutic. The intimacy of the act – the warm skin, his prone form, the quiet intimacy of her bedroom – was compartmentalized, locked away behind the focus of her work. She moved lower, her thumbs pressing into the denser tissue near his inner thigh, just above the knee. The towel shifted minutely with her pressure.
“Okay,” she said softly. “I need to work a bit higher, on the inner thigh where it inserts. Is that alright?”
“Hmm? Yeah, sure,” came the drowsy reply.
Carefully, she hooked her fingers under the edge of the towel draped over his hip and thigh. She lifted it just enough to expose the top few inches of his inner thigh and the crease where leg met torso on the injured side. The skin there was incredibly soft, vulnerable. The scent of clean skin and almond oil intensified. Her fingers moved back to the taut muscle band, applying deep, specific friction right at the problematic insertion point near his groin.
Matt tensed slightly, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “Whoa. Yeah. That’s… intense.”
“Too much?” Debbie asked, easing the pressure fractionally.
“No… no. It’s good. Just… deep.” He shifted his leg slightly. “You have really strong hands. For, you know… a mom.” He chuckled awkwardly.
Debbie paused, her fingers stilling for a second. The casual comment, the weird compliment, the intimacy of her hand on his bare inner thigh just inches from territory covered only by the towel… it shattered her clinical focus. Heat flooded her face. She looked down at his profile visible in the face cradle. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his cheek. He looked peaceful, trusting. Young.
“Just part of the job,” she managed, her voice tight. She resumed the friction stroke, but her touch felt different now, hyper-aware. Her knuckles brushed against the soft cotton where the towel covered him. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the power coiled in the muscle beneath her fingers. Her own pulse thrummed loudly in her ears.
“Okay, that side feels way looser,” Matt mumbled after another minute, his voice muffled but clearer. “Thanks.” He shifted again, a subtle movement that brought his hip slightly closer to her hand.
Debbie pulled her hand back as if shocked. She quickly smoothed the towel back into place, covering the exposed skin. “Good. That’s… good.” She grabbed a clean towel from the side table, wiping the excess oil from her hands with unnecessary vigor. The slickness felt suddenly cloying. “Try turning over? I should check the range of motion now it’s looser.”
Matt pushed himself up slowly, rolling onto his back with a small grunt. He adjusted the towel across his hips. His chest was bare, the defined muscles and the dark trail of hair starkly visible under the warm lamplight. His hazel eyes met hers, clearer now, holding a question she couldn’t quite decipher. Was it lingering relaxation? Apprehension? Or something else entirely?
Debbie’s gaze flickered over his torso, then snapped back to his face. The safe distance of him lying prone was gone. He was right there, exposed, watching her. The air in the room thickened, charged with the unspoken tension of the bathroom, the intimacy of the massage, and this sudden, vulnerable proximity. The fan’s hum seemed deafening in the sudden stillness.
“Lift your right leg,” she instructed, her voice barely above a whisper. She reached out, her fingers hovering near his knee, ready to guide the movement, to assess the muscle she’d just worked on. But her hand trembled, just slightly, betraying the carefully constructed calm. Her eyes locked with his, the depths of his hazel irises holding her captive across the narrow space of the massage table. The weight of her own reckless desire, the terrifying reality of his nearness, pressed down on her chest, stealing her breath. The invitation had been made, accepted, and now they were here, suspended in the warm, oil-scented quiet of her bedroom, the next move terrifyingly unclear. Her fingers remained poised, millimeters from his skin, in the thrumming stillness.