“Is that something you still want to do?”
I laugh. “Strangely enough,no. It’s odd because it was my favorite part, but I’m … tired, I guess. There’s nothing left that I’m chomping at the bit to see and so much else that I’d rather do.”
“Like what?”
“Fuck if I know. I just know that I feel like I’ve completed that part of my life. So another part has to be open, right?”
He grins before wincing. He rolls his shoulder around, holding it with his other hand.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I whacked my shoulder off a bucket last week.”
“Did you go to the doctor?”
“No, I didn’t go to the doctor,” he says like it’s a harebrained idea. “They’ll just tell me to take an over-the-counter pain reliever or an anti-inflammatory. I don’t need to pay a fifty-dollar co-pay for that.”
“So you sit and suffer. Got it. So smart.”
He gives me a look while continuing to move it in circles.
I start to offer to rub it but stop short of speaking.
If I get my hands on that man …
My stomach clenches.Hard.
It’s suddenly darker in the room. Quieter. The air is thicker—hotter. I watch the way he cups his shoulder with his hand and wonder, not for the first time, what it would feel like on me.
Fingertips pressing against my skin. The heat of his body radiating into mine. The coarseness of his palm biting against me.
He winces again—this time, closing his eyes and exhaling harshly.
I shift in my seat, trying to ignore the way heat builds in my core. I try desperately not to imagine his face twisted—eyes closed, breathing roughly—as he climaxes.
It’s been a while since you got laid. Relax, Megan.
“Fuck,” he says again before resting his head against the front of the couch. Pain is written all over his face. He sets his plate down beside mine.
You can control yourself. He’s not willing to do anything with you anyway, so what could it hurtto offer to help him?
I tingle all over at the prospect of having Chase Marshall in my hands—of finally getting to touch him, even if it’s innocent. And it would have to be innocent. I promised I would respect his boundaries.
“Let me help you,” I say.
His eyes pop open, but he doesn’t move. I can do this. I can help him and help myself at the same time. Like I said earlier—no harm, no foul.
“Sit up,” I say, getting to my feet. I swallow hard. I’m committed now. The ball is in his court.
“What are you doing?”
“Let me help you feel better.”
He chuckles, the sound low and rough. It strums a taut chord in my belly that I try to ignore.
“I took a massage class in India,” I say, not mentioning that it was one-half hour of instruction five years ago.I remember virtually nothing. “There’s no reason to sit in pain when I might be able to assist.”
Good. That sounded virtuous. He doesn’t need to know I’m so wet that I can feel it on my thighs.
