"Turn over," he says.
I roll onto my stomach. Arms folded under the pillow, face turned to the side. My back is broad and bare and still warm from the shower, muscles loose but aware, every inch of skin prickling with anticipation under his gaze.
He straddles me. His thighs settle on either side of my waist, knees pressing into the mattress, his weight coming down gently but fully onto the small of my back. Even that simple contact—his bare ass and balls resting against my lower back, the heat of him seeping into my skin—sends a current through my body.
He's light compared to me, but the intimacy of it is electric. His naked cock, half-hard and warm, nestled against the curve just above my ass, shifting slightly with every breath he takes.
His hands land on my shoulders first. Small but strong fingers dig into the thick muscle there, thumbs pressing into the knots that live between my shoulder blades from years of hauling kegs, plywood, and everything else this bar has thrown at me. He works with focus, the same focus he brings to every task, kneading deeply until the tension starts to melt away and I groan low into the pillow.
"God, that's good," I say, voice muffled. "You have no idea how much I needed that. I didn't know you could give backrubs. You've been holding back on me. That feels fantastic."
He doesn't answer with words. He responds with his hands, moving lower, working down the center of my back. His thumbs run along either side of my spine in slow, firm lines, pressing just hard enough to make the muscle yield. He hits a knot below my right shoulder blade and I hiss softly. He eases up immediately, then circles back with gentler pressure, working it patiently until it loosens and I sigh in relief.
His weight shifts as he moves lower. His thighs slide down to straddle my hips more fully, his cock now resting hot and thickening against the cleft of my ass, the head brushing sensitive skin with every small adjustment he makes. He doesn't grind or push. Just lets me feel him there, hard and wanting, while his hands work the muscles along my sides, the obliques, the thick cords that run from ribs to waist. He's thorough. Attentive. Learning the map of my back the way he learned it with his eyes from across the parking lot all those weeks ago.
"You know," I say, my voice muffled by the pillow, "I used to catch you watching my back when I was at the grill."
His hands pause. "You noticed that?"
"I noticed. You'd be at the serving station with a stack of plates and your eyes would be on my back like you were trying to read a book. I didn't know what you were looking at. I hoped it was appreciation. I was flexing, just in case."
"You were not."
"Yes, I was. Every time I lifted a keg or moved a table. I was doing entirely unnecessary physical labor in your line of sight because you were watching."
"You mean all that work we did on the rebuild was just so you could flex your muscles in front of me?"
"Yeah, it was my way of flirting."
His hands keep going. Lower now. The small of my back. The curve where back becomes ass. His fingers trace the line of my waist, the dip above my hips, and I feel the shift in his touch. He's not massaging anymore; he's exploring. His hands move slower, lighter, fingers spreading wide to feel the shape of me, the way the muscle gives under his palms.
He reaches my ass. His hands stop and rest there. I can feel the hesitation, the slight tension in his fingers, the moment of decision.
"Keep going," I say softly. "I'm all yours, baby."
His breath catches. His palms flatten and he kneads the muscle the way he kneaded my shoulders, slow and deep, thumbs digging into the thick flesh. The pressure sends warmth spreading through me, my cock twitching against the sheets, already hard and leaking.
His own cock is fully hard now, thick and hot against the cleft of my ass, the slick head brushing sensitive skin with every small shift of his hips. He doesn't grind deliberately, but the involuntary roll of his pelvis tells me how much he's feeling this, how much he wants.
"You're so—" he starts, voice rough.
"If you say big, I'm going to start charging a royalty every time you use that word in reference to my body. I'll be rich by Tuesday."
"I was going to say beautiful."
I go still. That word, in his voice, from this man who has seen the worst of what bodies can do to each other and is choosing to call mine beautiful while his hands are on it. That word matters more than he knows.
"Oh, damn, thank you," I say, voice thick.
His hands keep moving. Down the back of my thighs, then back up. I lie there and let him touch me the way he wants to, every stroke building the heat between us. I can feel him against the small of my back now—his cock fully hard, thick and heavy, the head slick with precum that smears against my skin as he shifts. He lets out a soft, shaky breath, hips rocking once, instinctively, before he catches himself.
"Tex?" he says, voice trembling slightly.
"Yeah?"
"Can we do it tonight?"
"I'll need to check my schedule. I might be able to work you in."
