“I know,” she says, voice edged with sass, a little arrogance, a little pride.
She’s so damn cute.
“I have this quirk,” I start, just as my hands slide lower, palms warm as I work into her skin.
“You say that like you haven’t already introduced me to several of yourquirks,” she counters, and I can hear the smile in her voice even before I see it.
“Hush, woman,” I say, but there’s no bite in it. None at all. “Maybe it’s from my former days as a DJ, but I have this thing where I like to give people a theme song. Folks I notice. Observe. Whether I’m watching them pass on the street or—”
“Bathing them in your beautiful outdoor shower?” she finishes.
“Yes,” I concede. “That too. But I pick a song based on what I see. Who they are when they don’t realize they’re being watched.”
She stills under my hands. I feel the shift, the tension threading back into her body.
“And what about me?” she asks quietly. “What song describes what you’ve observed about me?”
“Eager, much?”
She takes her foot and kicks me, lightly, on my leg. “Stop teasing me.”
“Someone to Love You,” I say. “Ruff Endz.”
I let the song hang there for a beat.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
I bend down and bite her behind on the right cheek, just enough to make her hiss.
“Lies,” I whisper.
“Why that song?”
I lean in, mouth close to her ear. “First, tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t hear yourself in it. Tell me you don’t feel seen by the way I chose it for you, Mama.”
She exhales, the tension easing just enough to give her away. “I actually love it.”
So I don’t say anything else. I let the massage speak for itself. But this part? I use my tongue.
I trace the line of her spine, unhurried, letting my mouth follow the path like punctuation instead of explanation. My voice drops, quiet and intimate, as I recall the lyrics and why she makes me want to give her everything.
My tongue trails down, further, as I whisper the lyrics, each word meant to be felt as much as heard.
“Girl, I think you’ve gone for far too long without a good man to make you smile…”
“Bear,” she breathes, and there’s emotion wrapped around the sound. Something tender. Exposed.
I don’t stop. I continue on to my favorite part next.
“How can I appeal to you and make you understand that I’m here when you’re ready for someone to love you?”
I stay right there, close enough that she can feel the truth of it—every word pressed into her skin as presence. And maybe, just a little, asking for permission, too.
I press a kiss to the base of her spine, just where that inviting dip begins—the very threshold of everything I'm desperate to taste.
“I’m gonna need you to spread your legs for me, Mama. There’s somewhere else I’d like to massage.”
Max
