Was this how it felt to go crazy?
George stepped away, embarrassed and more than a little worried for her sanity. Was she really, truly, going to cave in and do things she might very well—no, would definitely—regret over some stranger’s back?
He grunted—or maybe it was more of a groan—and twisted his neck so one shadowed eye peeked out at her.
“’S the best thing that’s happened to me in fu…frickin’ years.” His voice came out low, almost on a whisper.
“This is…” George couldn’t get the words out, she was breathing so fast. “This is weird. I can’t… I don’t—”
“No. Feels good. So damn good.”
“Just…me touching you?”
“Yeah.”
There was hardly any hesitation at all, and then the succubus wearing her skin stepped forward. Closer, until her belly was level with his hand. “Are you numb?” She reached out and stroked him, right on that horribly defacing burn, wondering if he could feel her. Wanting him to.
“No,” he said, even breathier now. “No, the opposite. Numb when I walked in. Now. Shit. Now, it’s all nerves.”
The weight in George’s belly turned liquid, spread out on a wave of shivery sensation that she hadn’t felt since she’d been just a kid, squished in the backseat of Dylan Dean’s bright-red Mustang with nothing between her legs but his hand, and nothing in her head but blind teenage lust.
“Here?” Her fingers caressed him where his skin had melted into unsightly whorls, tracing the jagged surface and wishing he’d let her do more. Although, even as she thought that, she wasn’t sure if she meant more as in treatment for the burn, or more right now, to his body. To him.
“Yeah. There. Just…” He groaned, then begged, “Please.”
Possessed, she caressed him, up his side, almost to his armpit and its tuft of dark hair. It looked sexual, that hair, like something she wasn’t supposed to see. Then tracing along the top of his shoulder to the back of his neck and down, down, down his spine, the bumps adding texture along the way, the rocky road of his body the most enticing thing George had ever seen.
More sounds escaped him, little grunts that said he liked what she did, and those fueled her even more. Lord, she wanted to flatten herself on top of the man, to cover him, and… What? Hump him? No. Not really. Make him feel good? Touch every little bit of him? Heal him? Protect him from whatever hell he’d been through?
With a snap that surprised even her, she removed the glove that separated his skin from hers and lightly—oh so lightly—felt the reality of his flesh without the barrier of Nitrile in between. The noises were hers this time, and the contact was kinetic, burned the air, turned the heat up, ate out her brain.
His hand, right there on the edge of the table, somehow turned until his palm rested flat against her belly—not pushing, just…absorbing, fingers taking in her softness, exploring her the way she was him.
Before she knew it, she’d curled her palm around that hunk of a shoulder, leaned in until more than her lab coat pressed against the man, her breathing shaky and short. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered, in a dream. The bridge of her nose skimmed his hairline, and she took him in, smelled him, got a bigger dose of what she’d only guessed at until now. And it was good, elementally good, unexplainably, animalistically perfect. A smell she could dive into and live off of.
She pulled back. “Got to stop. I’ve got to stop.”
“Hang on.” His hand reached for hers, grasped it, skin to skin, and held on tight. “Don’t know what the hell you’re doing to me, but it’s making me crazy.”
“I don’t know; I don’t know. I’m not… This isn’t me,” George muttered, eyes clearing. She pulled hard at her hand, blinked hazily at the man laid out before her, and moved toward the door. “I’ll be…I’ll be right back.”
* * *
Tea. The woman brought him tea.
She’d touched him so he’d almost cried on her table like a goddamned baby, and after running away, she came back in with tea. One for him and one for her. And not sweet iced tea, like people here guzzled by the gallon. No, mugs full of the hot stuff. In the middle of July.
“Maybe we’ll wait on your back” was the first thing he actually understood after his complete and total whatever-that-was in her office. Jesus, had he nearly come at a medical back massage? Almost come and then come close to passing out on the exam table.
“Yeah,” he managed through a throat that was raw, an open wound. He felt like that. Not just his throat, but his… What? His psyche, maybe. His very being chafed. He hurt where she’d touched him, like he’d scarred or scabbed over, and she’d come along and opened him up again—with nothing but tenderness. It scared the hell out of him, the way he’d disappeared into her, made him want to grab her and fuck her. Or maybe hide beneath her lab coat.
He swung up to sitting and accepted the tea, blinking like a newborn baby, exposed, his cock semihard and heavy in his underwear.
“You okay?” she asked, sounding pretty choked up herself.
“Yeah. Thanks.” He took a sip, just to give himself something to do. It tasted good, spicy.
After a couple of minutes, the fuzz cleared slightly, and he noted what he held in his fist with a strange jolt of hilarity. It was a mug, brown, with the words Coffee makes me poop written in big, white caps.
