Abigail's Slippery Athlete Temptation

The dim glow of the massage studio wrapped around me like a second skin as I hobbled in, my left shoulder throbbing from that damn fall on the sheer face of Montmorency. I'm Jules, 28, a rock climber who's scaled cliffs from the Rockies to the Alps, but one slip-up had sidelined me for weeks. The doctor prescribed rest and therapy, but isolation gnawed at me more than the pain—nights alone in my cramped Quebec apartment, replaying the crack of stone under my grip. That's when I booked Abigail Ouellet, the petite Canadian therapist with rave reviews for her empathetic touch. She was 20, her online photo showing lilac hair in a long fishtail braid that screamed artistic soul amid her professional demeanor. Her hazel eyes promised understanding, honey skin glowing under studio lights, oval face framed by that unique braid swaying as she moved. At 5'6" with a petite build and medium bust, she looked more like a dancer than a healer, but her kindness was legendary. I needed that—someone to see past the rugged beard, scarred knuckles, and tense muscles to the lonely guy beneath. The studio smelled of lavender and eucalyptus, soft ambient music humming, white sheets crisp on the table. She greeted me at the door, her voice soft and warm, 'Jules? I'm Abigail. Let's get you comfortable.' Her empathy hit me instantly; she didn't rush, asking about the injury with genuine concern, her small hands gesturing to the table. As I stripped to my boxers and lay face-down, towel draped low, I felt exposed, vulnerable. Her presence lingered behind me, the click of oil bottle, and then her hands—warm, tentative at first—pressed into my back. Tension coiled in my gut, not just from pain. This wasn't just therapy; something electric hummed in the air, her...