I step up my massage game, aiming for maximum pleasure rather than easing pain. The trouble is, the more relaxed he gets, the more turned on I get. He flops his head back onto the sofa seat. I gulp. His eyes are closed. Has he realised how close his head is to my crotch, or is he so relaxed that it hasn't entered his mind?
He opens his eyes in a fluttering motion. Our stares lock. His lips are parted. I still my hands. I could bend down and kiss him and, fuck, do I want to. But I don’t move. I’m not even sure I’m breathing. Does he want me to kiss him? The blue of his eyes is intense, the ring around them darker than ever. He’s beautiful.
“Hi,” I say, because I have to break the silence somehow and ‘hi’ is more sensible than a kiss.
“Hi.”
He’s not moving. Why isn’t he moving?
“Good massage?”
He upturns his lips into a content smile. “Yeah.”
“Relaxed?”
“Uh-huh. Very.”
“Want me to keep going?”
His mouth twitches. His pupils shrink a fraction. What is he thinking?
“Or I could call for pizza,” I offer.
He shakes his head. It’s a slight movement. He raises his left hand and hooks his fingers around the back of my neck, applying a hint of pressure. I swallow, lick my lips, and answer the gentle press of his fingers by bowing my head towards him. Is he asking me to kiss him? Should I? Wanting to doesn’t make it sensible. He’s still in love with Billy, even if he doesn’t want to admit it out loud. That alone should stop me. But it doesn’t. The soft warmth of his breath on my face, and then my lips brush his, and I kiss him. He brushes his fingers over my lips and returns my kiss, his lips parting for my tongue. His breath is minty, with an underlying hint of sweetness. His lips mould against mine.
I can’t get enough of him. I want more. I don’t want to break the kiss in case it prompts him to run away. Not that he's stopping it, either. I rest my hand over the collar of his T-shirt, risking stroking my thumb back and forth over the skin above it. He shivers and kisses me with renewed fervour. Our tongues dance, our teeth clash, our lips move in perfect synchronicity.
Somehow, he moves without breaking the kiss. He turns, so he’s kneeling upright between my legs, his arms around me, hugging me to him. I put my arms around him, resting one hand between his collar bones and the other on the small of his back. I apply pressure, closing the small gap that remained between us, so our chests and stomachs are pressed together. Does he know I’m hard now? Does he know every fibre of my being is aching for him? Because of him.
Our lips have to part. We stare into each other’s eyes, breathing hard. I want him. I need him. I could get carried away with him. Only this time, I’d make it wonderful. Not sloppy and rushed and dulled by alcohol.
Is he going to pull away, or regret kissing me, or worse, run?
I need to say something. Do something. So I cup his cheek and kiss him again, worshipping his mouth with my tongue. I run my hands over his back, wishing more than ever that he were topless. Naked would be even better, our hot, wanting bodies pressed together. But I’ll take what’s on offer right now. Kissing as he strokes his hands over my back and shoulders, and runs his fingers across the stubble where I’ve shaved my hair, and up further still, to tangle into the section I’ve allowed to grow around three inches. I don’t know what he’s thinking, or feeling, only that he’s kissing me as passionately as I’m kissing him. Is he afraid to speak, too? Afraid that words will snap us back to cold reality?
I don’t need to speak to show him how much I wanthim. I’m doing that with my lips, my tongue, and my hands. I’m doing it in the way I’m pulling him against me. My heart thrashes as I breathe the same air as him. As I touch and taste him. I’ve wanted this for a long time, even as I tried to hate him. His feelings for me—whatever they are—might be new, but mine are old. I tried to shove them down. Tried to throttle and ignore them. But now they’re all at the surface, and I’m powerless to do anything but give in to them.
What does he feel for me? Lust because I work out? I’m good with that. Everyone else I’ve slept with wanted me for my body or my looks. Why should Flynn be any different?
Am I a temporary replacement for Billy? Fuck. I shouldn’t think like that. It’s unfair. But what if it’s true? Do I want to be used like that? Do I care?
He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “What are we doing?”
“Kissing. You are a fucking good kisser.”
A pretty blush creeps across his cheeks and nose. “So are you.”
“I’m good at other stuff, too.”
“I bet you are.” He licks his lips. Can he taste me on them? “But what are we doing?”
I chuckle. “I’m pretty sure I just answered that.”
“Jimmy.”
“Sorry. Does it feel wrong?”
“No.”
