She crosses her arms. "So fire him."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
My mother. The threats. The fallout. I'd rather be miserable than deal with any of it. I shake my head without answering.
"He crossed a line."
She waits for more, but I don't elaborate. And she doesn't push. Instead she sets the glass down and says, "Go change. If you sit on the couch, I'll give you a massage."
"Scout..."
"Sit, Silas."
The command in her voice makes my cock twitch. I hate it. I go change into sweats and a t-shirt anyway because thealternative is standing here arguing with her. It's been a long day and I'm too tired for that.
When I sit down, she moves behind me without a word. Her hands land on my shoulders and I tense immediately. My whole body goes rigid because if I'm not on high alert, I'll do something stupid.
I haven't been touched with care in years. Not like this. Her hands carry intention and warmth and the kind of attention that makes my chest feel too tight. Her palms on my shoulders, fingers pressing into muscle. The accidental brush of her thighs against my back when she shifts for better leverage. My body's been starving for this and now that I have it, I don't know what to do with the need it creates in me.
My head drops forward.
It feels too damn good to make her stop. Her thumbs work into the knots with firm, sure pressure. She knows exactly where to press, exactly how hard. Every stroke makes something in me unwind against my will.
"Where'd you learn this?" My voice comes out rough.
"Enzo had a nagging groin injury a few years ago. I learned sports massage in school, but I took another class in it to help him through the worst of it." She says it matter-of-fact, no emotion coloring her tone.
Jealousy knifes through me sharp and sudden. The thought of her hands on him. Rubbing him down, caring for him while he probably took it for granted. He probably cheated on her at the same time as she doted on him.
Fucking Enzo.
I have no right to this possessive rage. But the image makes my teeth grind together so hard my jaw aches.
"Done," I say abruptly, standing before I embarrass myself. Before my body's reaction to her touch becomes too obvious to hide.
"Okay." She doesn't sound offended. Just steps back and moves toward the kitchen. "I'll prep your morning shakes for the week."
"Thanks." It comes out gruff, ungrateful. She's too good. Too kind. Certainly too good for a man like me who can't even say thank you without sounding angry about it.
“You’re welcome.” Her surprised smile makes me feel even deeper shame.
I retreat to my room and close the door. Leaning against it, I try to breathe. My shoulder throbs. My cock throbs worse.
I pull out my phone and open up the dating app. Her username glows at the top of my messages.
I shouldn't do this. I know it's bad. Every rational part of my brain's screaming at me to stop before this gets more complicated than it already is.
And I do it anyway.
StatMan12
Tell me about your day.
She responds a few minutes later. I hear her door close softly down the hall. Now I'm picturing her shedding clothes, curling up in that guest bed surrounded by pillows. My hand wraps around my cock through my sweatpants before I can stop myself.
Yoga4Lyfe
