Page 30 of Misconduct Zone

He swiftly lifts off me and swats the back of my thigh. “Time to go.”

The sun is high in the sky and the leaves a riot of color, turning Central Park postcard perfect. Many tourists are out snapping pictures so I’ve got my ball cap pulled low. Lars borrowed one of mine since all of his have the team logo on it.

The class has more diversity than I expected, and we aren’t the only men. Lars’s long muscular body struggles to hold the positions, but he’s grinning at me and I’m the one who falls out of pose. Lars does everything with efficiency, and grins are saved for special occasions. I’m his special occasion today, and again, it’s better than any drug-induced high I’ve ever had.

I’m a dumbass for not realizing how much this man means to me. That my gratitude is only a sliver of my feelings.

My body shakes, holding in laughter, as Lars tries to relax into Savasana as we end the class. He’d be more relaxed lying naked in the middle of our ice rink. “You good?”

He tilts his head, and our gazes snap together. Suddenly I’m hyperaware. The cool air brushes my heated skin, and below my mat, a lump of uneven grass digs into my shoulder blades and back. The air smells crisp, as if it will snow soon, and of damp earth.

But most of all, his eyes tell me the story of us. How he’s always good when I’m near him. The immense need to reach out and touch him holds my limbs hostage. The class ends, but we don’t move, staying locked in the bubble of us where no one else exists. A siren blares in the distance, breaking us out of our cocoon. Everyone has left but the instructor.

Lars stands, holding out his hand to help me up. Next time, I’ll be the one helping him up. Giving him the care he’s given me.

After showering, our next stop is a swanky spa in Midtown, and I have to turn away from the reception desk to keep from laughing when Lars gives our fake names. I’m Mr. Caraste, the American version of his pet name for me, and he’s Mr. Puckerton. Points for originality. Everything invokes serenity with earth tones and quiet nature sounds. We’re whisked away to a dressing area and told to remove as much clothing as we feel comfortable with. I strip to my boxer briefs and don the robe, then sneak into Lars’s changing area for a kiss or two or three before someone clears their throat and we exit.

The blush on Lars’s fair skin thrills me, and I can’t wait to find new ways to get him to shed his stiff exterior.

We’re led into a rose-colored room filled with a eucalyptus scent and a TV playing ocean waves. There are two tables next to each other so we’ll be able to talk and touch if we reach out.

Now I understand the fake names and cash payment. No record of two pro hockey players getting a couples massage.

The massage therapist leaves, giving us privacy to slip under the sheets without exposing ourselves.

“Do people do this naked?” I whisper curiously.

“I assume so. But…” He trails off, and it doesn’t need to be said that we won’t be doing it. It’s risky enough without added nudity.

A pair enters and introduces themselves. Lars does the talking, invoking his accent in a way I’ve never heard. According to him, we’re here for a few days on business and their spa came highly recommended.

At first, I keep my face in the cradle, but when she asks me to roll over, Lars and I stare at each other again. His face remains stoic, but his eyes are as deep as the ocean with a million emotions, and today I’m his focus. I see a terrifyingly beautiful life for us. A life I’m determined to make happen against the odds.

“How do you feel?” he asks once we’re left alone after our session.

“Boneless. She really dug into sore muscles.” I sit up and roll my shoulders. His eyes linger on my back, and my heart hitches with excitement.

“The showers here are private, and we’re all oiled up.” I raise my eyebrows.

“You cannot be quiet if your life depended on it. I will shower you at home.” Lars swings his legs off the table and grabs his robe.

I’m fascinated by how he says he’ll shower me, not he’ll showerwithme.

By the time we leave, I’m amped up and impatient. In the rideshare, I press my leg into his but can’t look at him. Any glance will cause a situation in my pants unsuitable for being out in public.

Lars leads me into his walk-in shower. There’s plenty of room for us with two shower heads—one fixed to the wall and the other on the ceiling. The sleek black marble matches his personality and makes me smile. My broody Swede could use a little more light in his life.

I’m under the ceiling spray, and he tugs me out to shampoo my hair. His fingers massage my scalp, a new erogenous zone, zinging nerve endings to life everywhere. He sifts through my hair as he rinses, and I lean into his touch.

“You’re hired. Can you do this every time?” I ask, and he kisses the knot at the top of my spine.

“It could get awkward in the team showers when you’re moaning like a porn star. The guys might object. What do you say? TMI?” His voice is light and unbothered.

“Will we tell them?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“It’s our first date. We do not have to decide now.”

His hands cup my head, and the panic recedes, quickly replaced with guilt. “It’s not that I don’t want to.” So many thoughts race through my mind I can’t sort through them all.

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