I start to push my chair back, but Bishop holds up a hand. “You can stay where you are. I need you to work out a knot. You know exactly how to loosen me up.”

I can feel how red my cheeks are. It’s obvious that Bishop is being intentionally suggestive, and it makes me highly aware that he’s been pretty reserved up to this point despite how antagonistic we are with each other.

He knocks Joey’s arm out of the way and drags the chair away from the table. Rocking it back on two legs, he then spins it around with me still seated. I’m not sure this is recommended for someone with a groin injury. He slips one hand under his knee to help raise his leg and plants a bare foot on the seat of my chair, sliding his toes under my butt to keep it in place.

His package is at eye level, and the fabric of his shorts is shiny, stretching across the front and making everything even more pronounced.

In my periphery Joey looks like his head is about to pop off. I fight to keep a straight face. “Where are you tight?”

I’m still wearing my gross old sweats and my giant, repulsive sweatshirt that I’ve had since my first year of college. I’ve painted in this hoodie. Bishop fingers the material at the sleeve and makes a face. “Are you wearing a T-shirt under this? Can you take this off? You know how sensitive my skin is, and this feels like sandpaper. If you need new hoodies, I can get you some team ones.”

“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.” I can’t believe how extra he’s being.

We reach for the hem at the same time, but Bishop gets there first. He pulls it up a couple of inches, the fabric sticking to the shirt underneath and exposing my navel. He separates the layers, his warm fingertips grazing bare skin. Electricity crackles through my veins at the contact, and a wave of goose bumps flashes across my skin.

I hold my tank in place while he lifts my hoodie. I have to release my shirt eventually so he can pull the hoodie over my head. He tosses it on the floor. I’m wearing a tank underneath that reveals a significant amount of cleavage. Which is where Bishop’s eyes go.

“That’s way better,” Bishop says to my boobs.

“Glad you’re more comfortable.” All the snark I mean to channel into that statement comes out as breathy.

“So much more comfortable now that you’re not wearing that stupid hoodie.” He grabs my hand and presses my fingers against a spot about two inches shy of his trouser sausage. “It’s tight right here.”

I have to remind myself that this isn’t Bishop flirting with me. He’s doing me a favor by making it look like there’s more going on between us than there really is. “Here?” I put pressure on the area, and he sucks in a breath.

“Yeah. Not too hard, though. It’s still sore.” He subtly shifts his groin forward, closer to my face.

I keep my eyes on the bruises on the inside of his leg. There’s a purpose for this, and it’s to make Joey uncomfortable.

As I massage the area, Bishop groans, loudly. “Ahh yeah, right there. Fuuuuck, Stevie, that’s it, that’s the spot. Jesus Christ, ah shit, oh Gaaawwwwwd, gentle, gentle, yeah, just like that, uuunnnngggghhhhh.”

I wish my hair was down so I could hide behind it and laugh. I tip my head forward and twist my face so it’s pretty much pressed against the inside of Bishop’s knee. As if he knows what I’m thinking, he tugs at the tie holding my hair up in the horribly messy bun, and it tumbles free, cascading around me in a pale-blue waterfall. It desperately needs to be washed, but at least now I have some cover.

Bishop groans again and grabs the back of the chair, forearms resting lightly on my shoulders as he bows toward me. His stubbly cheek brushes mine, his nose at my ear. “Think I’m making him uncomfortable or horny?”

“Probably both.” My lips almost brush the inside of his leg.

The position we’re in is intensely intimate. I can smell sex and sweat and possibly baby powder, which is . . . strange. I have the urge to part my lips and find out what his skin tastes like, which is really messed up, since my cheater ex-boyfriend is sitting a few feet away, observing this. But then, maybe that’s the point. Bishop knows all about what happened, because I told him, so this intentionally intimate scenario is likely him helping me get even for what I walked in on before I became his neighbor.

His fingers tense against the back of my neck when I accidentally graze his penis. Which is very, very erect. Since we started rehab sessions, I’ve grown accustomed to his semis. I’m constantly touching him in areas proximal to his peen, and I wear running shorts, sports bras, and occasionally tanks when we have sessions because it gets hot working on a guy his size. Besides, he lives in his underwear, so why should I feel uncomfortable? Thus his reaction isn’t unexpected. But the sound that comes out of him—half agony, half desire—sends a shiver down my spine and a zing between my legs. It’s impossible for me not to imagine what his sex noises must be like.

“I should probably go.” Joey’s chair screeches across the hardwood.

My hand is still splayed across the inside of Bishop’s thigh. When I start to move it away, he laces our fingers together, keeping it where it is. Bishop stays curled around me. “You sure, man? Stevie’s almost got the knot loosened up.” His voice is gritty and low.

“It’s cool, bro. I know you need to be on the ice. I’ll see you at work tomorrow, Stevie.” Joey sounds like he’s been huffing helium.