That’s all he says. Then he tugs at the hem of my shirt. “What is this? Off. I can’t massage you with a shirt on.”
I turn my head. “I’m not taking my shirt off.”
“This isn’t sexual. I’m trying to help you.”
I sigh, and he shifts back so I can pull it over my head. I toss it aside.
Three seconds later, he unclasps my bra and pulls it loose.
I go still. “Matt. That wasnotpart of the deal.”
“Relax.” His voice is calm. Too calm. “I’m not looking at you like that. Don’t know why you even care. A little side boob is nothing compared to what you wear to bed.”
“Whatever,” I mutter.
He opens the jar, and a second later his hands are on my back—sliding, warm, firm, kneading into the tension like he’s been doing this forever.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, relief crashing through me. “That feels so good.”
“See?” he murmurs. “Just relax. Enjoy, babe.”
My muscles loosen with each pass of his hands, my whole body melting into the mattress.
“You still want to do the five-lakes hike on Sunday?” he asks after a few minutes.
“As long as my neck feels better, I do.”
“The pressure’s on then.” He chuckles softly. “Do I still have it?”
“Do you still have what?”
His hands glide up and over my shoulders, catching on my bra straps.
“The magic touch.” He slips the straps down my arms. “Pull your arms out. It’s in the way.”
I do what I’m told because it feels too good to argue.
“Am I still good at it?” he asks again.
God, yes.
“Uh-huh,” I manage. “Really good.”
His fingertips trace down my arms, then return to my back, pressing deeper.
I’m in a trance. On a cloud.
“You talk to your pappoús yet?” he asks.
“No. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
His hands drag down my back to the base of my spine, thumbs dipping just past the waistband of my sweatpants before sliding outward, palms curving around my hips.
My pulse picks up.
“I don’t know what to say,” I admit. “Or how to fix it.”
