“It was a long time ago. Doesn’t matter anymore,” he muttered, almost to himself.
“I think it does.” Margot’s hands barely touched him and yet the sensation burned.
“Could have been worse.” Shame gnawed through his gut. He hated that she saw this crack in him, the weakness. “What’s done is done. End of story.”
She pressed another part of his back and he grunted in barely contained annoyance.
“You are going to want to drink a lot of water tonight,” she said softly. “The massage might make you sore.”
“I can tough it out.”
“Why do I get the feeling that you do that too much?”
Too much was this strange intimacy. Too much was this gorgeous woman on him, her nimble hands roaming over his body as she unearthed uncomfortable truth after uncomfortable truth. All that he had thought was safely buried was being exposed, the roots bared. Even though he was lying down, he felt ready to topple over.
Too much was the fact that she’d been right about her magic hands; the problem now was what would happen if she discovered that his erection was drilling a hole through her bamboo floor.
He had to get out.
Now.
His sanity depended on it.
“That’s enough.” He rolled out from beneath her, scrambled for his hat and threw his jacket in front of his hard on. “I forgot I have to do something.”
Before she could answer, he stepped toward the door, tripping over one of her floor pillows. His jacket flew one direction. He flew another, landing on his back.
Legs splayed.
And there was no way in hell that Margot Kowalski was going to miss his full salute.
Chapter Seven
“Oh my God. Are you okay?” Margot stifled a peal of horrified laughter. The struggle was real: half of her felt terrible that Patch Donnelly clearly wished the earth would crack open and swallow him whole, but the other half was curious about the rather large elephant in the room. That is, the elephant-sized hard-on straining the crotch of his pants like it was about to stampede through the African savannah.
These things happened. Erections were natural. She had professional masseuse friends who admitted men often got hard on the massage table. Some clients were perverts about it, but most were mortified.
Patch fell into the second category. He sucked in a great gulp of air, his broad chest rising and falling, a fine dusting of tawny hair spreading over his pecs, darkening as it etched the hard slabs of his abs.
“Let me give you a hand.” She stepped forward, scanning his face for a clue of what to do next, trying her best not to glance back at that prominent ridge beneath his denim.
“Don’t touch me!” He stood in one quick movement, unfolding to his full height, a good eight inches above her. His cheeks were hot, the red stain spreading down his neck. “I’m not a joke.”
The air left her chest in a sharp gasp as reality took hold. “I don’t think that.” He was hurt. And she’d done that.
His lips twisted. “You just laughed at me.”
“No! Not at you. I mean, I did laugh, but it’s just what I do when I get nervous. I wasn’t doing it to be mean or make you feel—”
“Coming here was a mistake.” He walked to the door, his gait stiff, his posture as rigid as his features. “Like I said... I’ve got to go.”
She wanted to tell him that what just happened was fine, to provide reassurances. But the fact was that her knees trembled, and her own body flushed. If she looked in a mirror, no doubt her cheeks would reflect a similar hue.
“Patrick. Please. Stay and have a cup of tea and—”
“Don’t drink tea. Or eat acai. Or do yoga. Or get massages.” He addressed a point past her left shoulder before slinging on his shirt. “Look. You seem like a nice enough person. I’m sure you meant no harm. It’s just... this isn’t for me.”
And without further ado, he slammed out of her apartment.
