“Thanks, honey. I enjoy helping people feel better. And it’s a good thing I do, because I’m probably pretty close to done with the other stuff.” He looked at the sticky balm on his gloves. “Guess I’ll have to figure out how to make a real living out of this.”
I shifted my hips. “If’n you were willin’ to make house calls, you could probably take care of all the cowboys out here who refuse to go to the doctor.”
“I don’t know,” he said with a razor-sharp grin. “I can only handle one stubborn cuss at a time.”
“Oh, I bet you’ve handled more than that.”
Skylar barked out a laugh, and I realized—belatedly—how that sounded.
“Shit, Sky. I swear, I didn’t mean it like that.”
He laughed again, then went silent as he worked my calves and back up to my thighs. First the outer thighs—my T-band istrash, apparently—then the tops of my thighs, then the inner thighs. I couldn’t figure out why people thought massage was so dang relaxing. I had to take calming breaths to get through these little torture sessions, and I can’t believe I never thought to numb the pain with alcohol.
I reached for the bottle and took another drink.
As the liquor wound its way into my veins, my brain loosened up, allowing me to enjoy his hands on my body. I had to admit that having Skylar on his knees for me, working me over like that, was one helluva visual. Then again, I always enjoyed having a pretty thing between my legs. Hell, if he looked thisgood therapizing my shitty knee, I bet he looked extra hot doin’ whatever he did to care for his sugar daddy.
Just gonna let that thought float on by . . .
“Sorry to make you smell like the bathroom at a punk concert,” he joked.
“I don’t mind so much.” I set the bottle aside to run my fingers through his hair. The silken slide sent currents up my arms. “You really are very pretty for a man.”
He smirked at me. “Maybe we need to slow down on the mezcal, cowboy,” he said, moving the bottle out of reach.
“I’m fine,” I said, grazing his fine cheekbones. “I thought you were pretty before the mezcal.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but I could only focus on the way his pouty mouth fell open, so luscious. What man had lips like that? Fuck, I bet he tasted fantastic.
God, I wanted to taste him.
Without another thought in my head, I leaned in and captured his mouth with mine. Lowering my hand to his jaw, I pulled him in a bit more, deepening the kiss even as I registered his stubble against my palm. I delved my tongue into his mouth, encouraged by his soft moan.
I’d been right. Skylar tasted like every man’s dream. Had I been missing out? Did all men taste this wonderful? His hand went to my chest, sending heat and need down to my groin.
He’s on his knees for you.
Would he be willing to suck me?
Before I could even imagine how good it would feel, Sky pressed against my chest, pushing me away from him. I chased after his lips, needing them like my next breath.
“Kit,stop,” Skylar said, his shaken words bursting whatever bubble I’d been in.
Shit.
Oh,shit.
What had I just done?
His eyes flicked to my boxers, and I followed them, horrified. I was hard as a rock, millimeters away from the soft cotton fly giving up the goods, all from the mere thought of what his mouth would feel like on me. Shame wound its way through my guts, hot and uncomfortable.
“Jesus, Sky,” I said, the words rushing from my lips as I fumbled to adjust myself. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what the hell that was about.”
“No worries, honey.” He ran his hand over his velvety bottom lip. “You’re not the first guy to get a little heteroflexible while under the influence.”
“Hetero—what?” I asked, embarrassed and unable to tear my eyes away from his perfect mouth. “And I only had two shots.”
He pointed to the exiled bottle of mezcal, and . . . shit. I’d put a damned solid dent in it.
