Oh, crap. I’m not supposed to do that, am I?
Nor was she supposed to like it.
* * *
It was official. The doctor made Clay hard. And now…
Her hand on the back of his head… Fuck.
First, it made him want to fight back, pull away, get up, and take over. Because nobody pushed his head down. Nobody.
But it also made him want to give in—to see what she’d do. Rebel or succumb?
He went for something in between. Light resistance, up and back, into her hand, was all it took to turn things upside down.
She’s not controlling me, he realized with the strangest jolt. She’s holding me. Helping me. His mind flew back, remembering the way she’d held her cat in the dark in front of her house—and then to his embrace with the animal. He’d have held that cat all night long if it hadn’t eventually heard some forest sound and sprung away, ears pricked, tail swishing, its missing limb barely noticeable in attack mode.
But right now, here, the press of her hand against the back of his head was full of something good, something like affection or desire or maybe, just maybe, tenderness. And it was the best thing he’d felt in a lifetime.
So different from recent flashes of memory—flesh smacking, hard fucks, teeth gritted, fist caught up in greasy hair. Toothy blow jobs from nameless women, victims of circumstance—collateral damage as he and Bread did whatever it took not to lose their covers.
Everything he’d taken—bottles to the face, ink, bullets, a loss of honor.
Clay stiffened.
But this—
He heard her breathe, felt the warmth on his nape, and shuddered.
That sent her away, left his back cold and him alone. When she came back, the moment of intimacy was gone. Maybe it’d been imagined anyway. He felt immune to sensation. Lost and empty and hard as nails.
He shut his eyes tight, wanting her to touch him again and so afraid of the mixed-up signals his brain kept sending.
Her gloved hands returned to his skin, warm through the cold cream. She rubbed it in, leaving a trail of goose bumps in her wake, and he wished she’d press his head again, take some of his weight, make him feel something. She walked around the table to the other side, where she stroked him with a fresh layer of cream, and something else skimmed his back when she leaned—her lab coat, maybe? In his fantasies, it was a breast. A mouth.
It was quiet in here, so quiet. He closed his eyes and breathed her in.
* * *
He’d fallen asleep. Either that or he’d gone to that place, wherever it was, that he seemed to go on her table.
Only this time, George’s hands were on him. She felt heavy and warm, and his back was big and strong and supple, but so sweet, laid out for her, waiting, needing…
Dear God, what’s wrong with me?
He was numb by now. He had to be—as numb as the cream would make him, which wasn’t very. Another dip, another swipe, and his flesh rippled beneath her touch. Maybe not asleep?
She wanted to put her hand on his head again and push him down, but there was nowhere to go. She wanted to lean into him and over him and maybe just stretch herself across all that muscle and bone. Desire settled into her pelvis as she stroked his shoulders, ran a hand a little too far down an arm that had absolutely no need of numbing cream. None.
What the hell is wrong with me?
But still, she couldn’t quite convince her body to stop. Slowly, she kneaded her thumbs around those beautiful scapulas, felt him shudder slightly, and pulled away, hyperaware of how strange her actions were—how unethical and wrong, but maybe…maybe just…
“Don’t stop,” he mumbled, and honestly, that was all she needed.
His back—this solid, robust plane—was like the culmination of all of the backs she hadn’t had the pleasure of touching over the years, and goodness, she wanted it. She wanted his back.
Wanted his back?
