Shit.
I’ve heard Tatum make plenty of sounds over the years—laughter, frustration, even tears—but this is different. This is . . .
I swallow hard as my thumbs dig into a particularly tight spot at the base of her neck, and Tatum arches her back, her head falling against my shoulder. A deep, throaty sound escapes her lips—a moan so raw and sensual it sends a bolt of electricity shooting through my veins hot and sharp enough to make my hands freeze.
My breathing turns shallow as a thousand images dance through my head. Tatum beneath me, her hair splayed across my pillow like spilled ink. Her pouty mouth swollen from my kisses, and those same sounds echoing off my bedroom walls.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers, eyes still closed, completely unaware of the effect she’s having on me.
I grunt as my thumb works out a knot, then inhale a shaky breath as my hands resume their work. But now every touch feels charged. I focus on keeping my movements steady, professional, friendly, as she melts further into me. But the floral scent of her shampoo mingles with the ridiculous banana mask, and I find myself drinking her in, memorizing the curve of her neck, the soft rise and fall of her chest, and the swell of her breasts beneath the thin cotton of her shirt. I wish I could slip my hands beneath it and make her moan for entirely different reasons.
Fucking focus.
She hums another soft contented sound, each note vibrating through her back and into my hands. The mask on her face has started to dry and flake, bits of it dusting across the neckline of her shirt and speckling the dark waves of her hair, but she doesn’t notice or care. She’s too far gone, drunk on the massage—or maybe just on being cared for by someone who actually gives a shit about what she wants.
“Your hands are so strong,” she murmurs, and my dick twitches, coming to full attention at the compliment and the soft sounds coming from her throat as I work my way down her spine in slow, measured strokes.
I tell myself to behave, but my body doesn’t want to listen.
Circling the tight muscles in her lower back, I pray she can’t feel how turned on I am, that she’s too caught up in the massage to notice. Because it’s impossible to ignore the press of her bodybetween my thighs and how fucking amazing it would feel to be between hers.
What would Tatum think if she knew where my head was right now? If she knew how fucking turned on I was just by touching her like this with all our clothes on?
If I were a gentleman, I would stop. Maybe Ishouldstop. Tate trusts me. Sees me as a friend. Every logical cell in my body is screaming at me to take a break and cool off, put some fucking space between us before I do something stupid. But the rest of me—the reckless part, the selfish part—feels like I might die if I stop touching her.
She sighs again, louder this time, shifting so her hips scoot back against my groin.
My breath catches in my throat as I focus on playing it cool. The movement was so subtle, it could’ve been accidental.
The heat of her skin burns through both our clothes, and I can count each of her breaths in the way her shoulders rise and fall beneath my hands.
I trail my fingers up her spine, lingering at the base of her neck and tracing the line of her hair and curve of her jaw, before moving to the ridges of her shoulder blades.
She’s so soft, and suddenly, all those years of platonic friendship, of being the good guy and the best friend, feel like a cruel joke. My hands are traitors. They want to memorize every inch of her, to press into the places that make her gasp and moan for more.
She lazily tips her head back, her eyes hooded as she glances up at me. There’s honey dried at the edge of her jaw, and I’m seized by the insane urge to lick it away.
My mouth waters at the thought, my tongue begging me to lean in and do it because I have no doubt she tastes as sweet as she looks, with or without the mask.
Instead, I clench my jaw shut, staring at her intently as I wipe it gently away with my thumb, pretending I don’t notice the way her lips part at the contact.
She has a boyfriend, I remind myself,and it’s not you.
I’m supposed to be her friend. Period.
“I didn’t know you were so good at this,” she murmurs, her voice syrupy and low.
“Maybe there are a lot of things I’m good at that you don’t know about,” I say, my voice rough like gravel.
Her eyes widen slightly, letting me know the innuendo wasn’t lost on her.
I clear my throat and add, “Besides, it’s probably better because I know you so well.”
I know what you fucking need. Every. Single. Thing.
God, I could make her feel so damn good if she’d just let me.
As if she can read my thoughts, a blush blooms beneath her face mask as she clears her throat. “Well, you talk too much for a masseuse.”
