As we all make ourselves comfortable, Grey starts to fuss with the remote. “Okay, folks, we’re watchingForbidden Planet.”
Morgan groans. “I forgot you guys have no taste in movies.”
Grey shoots her one of his scowls, and I have to suppress a laugh.
Misha returns from another room, a small bottle in hand. He plops down on my other side and grabs my ankles, pulling them onto the couch, which turns me sideways. I don’t even complain—being casually manhandled by these guys is something I’ve grown to enjoy far too much.
Grey turns slightly behind me, allowing me to lean back against him. His familiar scent fills my nostrils, soothing me further.
“Got something that might help,” Misha murmurs, shaking the bottle. He unscrews the cap, and a sharp, medicinal scent fills the air, making my nose wrinkle at its intensity.
I want Grey’s buttered rum scent back.
“Hope that works better than it smells,” Morgan quips, scrunching her nose.
Unfazed, Misha lifts one of my feet onto his lap, carefully rolling up my sweatpants to my knee.
Thank God I shaved my legs this morning.
As the movie starts, the room darkens, the only light now emanating from the projector and the screen. Morgan munches loudly on popcorn, prompting Grey to turn up the volume.
Misha’s hands are warm, almost hot against my skin, and the way his fingers press into the tight muscles of my calves sends a complex cascade of sensations through me—pain mingling with relief.
God, that feels so good.
Each stroke of his hand seems to draw the ache out of my limbs, and I close my eyes, letting out a slow breath. I can’t help but think about what else those hands could do.
Dammit, I’m way too horny since I started hanging out with them.
Feeling a jolt of electricity run through me, I breathe deeply, trying to sink into the comfort of the couch, into the sensation of being cared for, which I never really had.
“Is it hurting good?” Grey’s low, husky voice whispers against the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.
When he drapes his arm around my waist, his hand coming to rest on my thigh, the touch is possessive and protective. He begins to massage gently, his fingers skillful and reassuring.
I nod, unable to speak, my voice caught in my throat, overwhelmed by the dual sensations of Grey’s touch on my thigh and Misha’s persistent, soothing manipulations on my calves. So much so that the cramps get overridden by fanny flutters.
Holy.
Misha’s eyes, dark and intense in the dim light, occasionally meet mine when I open them for a moment, and there’s a lingering intent in his touch that makes my heart race a little faster. The room around us fades to a blur of sounds and dim lights, the movie playing to an audience half-attentive at best.
Grey’s fingers dig a little deeper, coaxing tension from my muscles, and the blend of firmness and gentleness in his touch is exquisitely balanced.
It’s strange and wonderful, this feeling of being cocooned between them, cared for in a way that’s both comforting and exhilarating.
Misha finishes his massage, carefully pulling my sweatpants back into place, but as I start to shift, intending to pull away, he grips my feet, keeping them in his lap. His touch is gentle, reassuring, and I relax even deeper into Grey’s side as the old sci-fi movie flickers on the screen.
“Better?” Grey’s breath tickles my ear, his whisper blending with the hushed sounds of the movie.
“Much better,” I whisper back, just above the hum of the projector, as my hand finds his on my thigh, and our fingers link together.
The peace of the moment wraps around me, a soft, comforting blanket that soothes deeper than the ointment on my skin.
TWENTY-THREE
Fifteen minutes early.
Typical. It’s like I’m programmed to preemptively counter any possibility of being late.
