I do trust him though, don’t I?
I suck in a breath.
“This,” he says in a low, growling voice, “is me and you. Nothing more, nothing less.” He lowers his body so his chest skims mine. “Nothing happens here that you don’t want.” He dips his head so I can feel the warmth of his words right over my silk-covered breasts.
“But also, whatever you want can happen. If you want my tongue to explore slowly, oh so achingly slowly, every curve and crevice of your body, that’s certainly what I want. If you want to be massaged and licked, inside and out, that, my dear, is what I had in mind when I sat down on this bed with you last night. It’s been in the back of my mind the entire time we’ve talked of other things because the scent from between your legs drives me mad with want. What do you think about that?”
Some kind of incoherent noise comes from my throat.
I nod and flip over so I’m face down. “Sure. A massage sounds great.”
I hear him chuckle above me. “A massage, eh? That’s what you choose from the menu I offered?”
Being face down and not having to look at him gives me just enough courage to say airily, “A massage to start with, anyway. I’ve had a very trying few days being yanked through the air this way and that.”
“Oh, you have, have you?”
I shrug. “You’re the one offering massages.”
I’m not ready for how close his lips are when they whisper behind my ear. “Any excuse to get my hands on you, little consort. Will you take off your coverings for me? I want to see you.”
I slip the straps of my nightgown off my shoulders, and he drags it down my back until it pools at my waist. At first, I think he’ll stop there. But no. He commands, “Up,” and I lift my hips.
Then his big, cool hands drag the silk down my ass. I love his sharp intake of breath when he realizes I’m not wearing anything underneath before he’s working the fabric down my legs and off completely.
I’m completely naked, face down on the bed. My fingers fist in the sheets.Just a massage. Right. I only want a massage.Excitement gathers low in my belly.
His big, cool hands return to my shoulders, slick with some kind of sweet-smelling oil. This isn’t like any massage I’ve ever gotten. Using his palms, he just starts to rub. He’s working my shoulders, but somehow it’s already sensual as hell. I don’t know how to describe it, except maybe the way he digs in with his fingers, trailing at the end after his palm has worked my muscles. Deep, too. He’s not just playing on the surface.
He’s getting intimately acquainted with my body. And the way I can see it affecting him—he’s not some detached spa worker. I turn my head to watch as his whole body bends over me, his soft fingers digging in and rolling. The concentration on his face, the pressure of his knowing hands—damn.
I almost come from that alone. Especially when he works his way to my lower back, gripping my hips like he’s a heartbeat away from flipping me over and taking me hard.
When he reaches for more oil, I take a deep breath and flip onto my back. I want to cover my eyes, but I’m trying to be brave. I’m trying to be better than the girl who ran from her cheating boyfriend and let herself believe it was her fault for not being pretty enough. I want to be all that I am and own it proudly.
So I bare my breasts, and I don’t cover my eyes, and I at least pretend that I’m confident and believe I’m as beautiful as he says I am, even if half of me is terrified he’ll run or say something that’ll shatter my heart. I try to remind myself that he seemed to like what he saw at the lake. But insecurities are warring with my attempts at logic. At the lake, I was being spontaneous and wild. Here, there’s way too much time to think.
He cleans the excess oil off his hands with a cloth, then hovers there without touching, eyes locked on mine like he’s checking to make sure I’m still with him.
I nod, holding my breath.
But then he cups both my breasts, weighing them in his palms like he’s memorizing their shape.
“They’re real,” I blurt out, then immediately feel stupid for saying it. If there’s one thing I’ve always been proud of, it’s my boobs. Silly, since the only reason they’re so big is because all of me is so big. But hey, I’ve always claimed they’re my best feature, and guys have appreciated them before.
“They’re glorious,” Remus says, holding them reverently and kissing each nipple.
But then he completely bypasses them and starts massaging down my stomach to one of my fat rolls.
“What are you doing?” I squeal, sitting up and automatically covering my breasts.
He looks confused. “Worshipping and massaging every inch of your glorious flesh.”
My mouth falls open. “Well, notthere.”
Remus’s eyes travel down my stomach—the last place I want him looking—and I let go of my boobs to practically double over, keeping him from focusing on what I look like. “Stop it! Don’t look at me there!”
His eyes come back to mine, completely bewildered. “Why not?”
