When I was at boarding school in France, when things got too loud, I’d go to the Louvre and sit in the same room of oil paintings every time. I’d stare for hours at the same damn pictures, always noticing something new, falling in love all over again.
That’s how I feel when I look at him. I could stare for hours at the indentations of each muscle, the ink and intricate details of his tattoos, and every time it’ll feel like the first. Every time it sparks the need to stare, the urge to touch, the desire to feel his skin against mine.
It never gets old.
“Yeah,” I force myself to say. “It’s still really tight.”
“Why don’t you book a massage for the morning?” he asks, unbuttoning his pants.
“Really? I don’t want to ditch you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll go visit the site, work on my laptop. There’s always something I can do.”
He unzips. “Besides, I’ll be leaving you alone every day next week.”
The buzz from the wine settles in my head, making it suddenly feel heavy.
“That’s my point. I want to spend time with you here before you’re gone working every day.”
“Then lie down.” He gestures to the beds. “I’ll give you a massage. I’m no pro, but you’ve always said I was good at it.”
He pushes his pants down and steps out of them, draping them neatly over a hanger and placing them in the closet.
My brain stutters. “Why aren’t you changing in the bathroom like I did?”
“Because I love when you take that tone with me,” he quips with a grin. “Come on. We’re past that, aren’t we?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Oh, we’re past that? I remember you being very upset with me just for wearing my pajamas in front of you.”
“It’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m a guy.”
“Wow. Thank you for clearing that up. I had no idea.”
He huffs a laugh. “You know what I mean.”
He steps into a pair of joggers.
“What—you think I don’t get turned on like you do?”
He grins, walking toward me. “Nah. I know you do. It’s just not as obvious like it is with me.” He stops just shy of me, voice dropping. “But you’re not as subtle as you think, babe.” His eyes flick to the bed. “Lie down so I can get these knots out. Do you have massage oil?”
“I have coconut oil,” I say, heading back to the bathroom for my toiletry bag.
“Why am I not surprised?”
Thirty seconds later, I’m walking back to the bed with the jar in my hand. “I like to be prepared.”
I toss it to him, then lie on my stomach, shoving a couple pillows under my ribs so I’m not crushing my boobs into the mattress.
“But why coconut oil?” Matt straddles my hips, careful not to put his weight on me. “You’re not cooking.”
“I use it as lotion.” And because I’m still mildly irritated at him for changing in front of me, I add, “And lubricant.”
“Christ.”
