“Stay.”
That wasn’t supposed to get me worked up, was it? Being talked to like a dog or something. And yet, somehow, that one word did just that. Or maybe it was his touch, warm and heavy through the worn cotton of the shirt.Hisshirt.
Breathless, I dropped back to my front and waited for what felt like forever. He finally shoved my shirt up, managing not to touch my bare skin at all.
“Maybe, uh…”
I glanced back to see him gesturing vaguely at my back, the visible parts of his face so red he appeared sunburned.
“Oh.” Awkwardly, I lifted my top half up so he could get the shirt above my shoulders and almost all the way off. The fabric grazed my nipples and I dropped back with anoof, hyper-aware of my breasts, flattened to the bed now, the sides no doubt perfectly visible.
After a few long seconds, he sank to the bed beside me, his weight making me roll into him. Would he shift back? Should I?
Neither of us moved until he opened the tube of cream. I braced myself for that first cold squirt. It never came. He must have rubbed it between his hands, because when he finally massaged me, there was nothing but warmth. And somehow, he knew exactly where I needed it.
His strong, rough fingers carved out a semi-circle around first one aching shoulder blade, then the other. He kneaded at me, pressing at a knot to loosen it, then moving on to the next. I let out a sound, then another, until finally what emerged from my mouth was a long, low, constant groan of pleasure-pain.
The man was a miracle worker, those hands some kind of magic.
Over and over, he worked at me, his movements deep and slow. At some point, our breathing synchronized, gasped mint-laced inhalations flowing into long, heaving exhalations. He leaned forward to pluck gently at my neck, his chest close enough to warm my back, though not quite touching it, and all I could think was,Do it. Get on top. Straddle me. Cover me with that impossibly strong body. Show me what it can do.
Who the hell was I? I’d put this man out, forced myself into the solitude he clearly sought, and now, to top it all off, while he worked his ass off to heal me, I objectified him.
Goosebumps, which he couldn’t possiblynotsee, ran out from every place he touched with his hands, making my skin doubly sensitive, alive.
By the time he pulled away, I was a sweaty, guilty, squirming mess. Despite the sore muscles—or maybe because of them—I felt swollen, pumped full of blood and a strange sort of need.
“That good?” he asked, gruffly. I imagined a tinge of resentment in those words, as if he’d meant to addenoughat the end, and just held back.
“Amazing.” My voice came out lower than I’d intended.
He didn’t get up, didn’t move and, though I wanted a look at his face, I didn’t dare turn around, couldn’t burst this bubble by opening my eyes.
After a long, uncomfortable, hyper-aware handful of seconds, his hands returned to my shoulders and I tensed.This is it. He’ll touch me differently now, take advantage in a way that I welcome, instead of how that Jonathan jackass did it last night.
Only it wasn’t like that, of course. Because guys like him didn’t take advantage. And, probably, he didn’t even want me that way, which made my own fantasies absurd and more than a little misplaced.
Roughly, in a purely practical way, he grasped at the shirt and pulled it over my back. When one of his pinkies skimmed the soft side of my breast, lighting up my nerves like a Christmas tree, it was purely accidental. Obviously.
Once I was fully covered, those big hands landed at the base of my back. So quickly I must have imagined it, his thumbs brushed under the cotton, along my spine up, then down.
He let out a long, shaky breath, tightened his grip briefly around my waist, and stomped out of the room, leaving me alone to figure out what the hell had just happened.
14
Micah
Christa didn’t leave my bed for the rest of the day, which was a relief. I shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have touched her at all. But that last bit—the squeeze at the end… Fuck. When was the last time I put my hands around a woman’s waist?
Years. My last leave, in fact.
I shoved the chickens into the hot oven, shut the door, and stepped back, clenching and unclenching fingers that couldn’t seem to lose the feel of her. Not just the softness of her skin—as foreign to a man like me as some wild animal to a city person—but the ripe swell of her hips.
Even now, hours later, I got hard just thinking about it.
While rubbing her back, I’d stared at her nape—slender and…not weak, exactly, but dainty or something. Vulnerable, in need of protection. I’d fought the urge to press my lips to that defenseless spot, and then, as if that wouldn’t freak her out, to add my teeth to the mix.
Jesus, how would she have reacted? Especially after the shit she’d gone through last night—not just in her car, but with her asshole boss?
