I break our hands and reach for the massage gun in her lap. My fingers graze her thighs and I have to tamp down the excitement in my blood. I examine the device carefully. “You had me going there for a second that this was going to be a very different conversation.”
“You pointed a thermometer at me before you even walked in,” she reminds me. “Besides, this is for muscle release.”
I raise my eyebrows and give her a wolfish grin. Because there is one set of muscles I would specifically like to help Charlie release. “Oh, I mean, that is a muscle too, so that’s fair.”
It takes Charlie a second to riddle out what I am implying. I can tell when she does because that smart mouth of hers drops and forms a shocked “o.” Her cheeks turn a beautiful shade of pink.
“It specifically says on the instructions tonotuse it for that,” she rushes to correct me. The mortified look on her face is priceless.
“Oh, so you were thinking about that use, then? Had to check?” The idea that Charlie would ever think about that is hot as hell. I want to know more. I’m walking a fine line between flirting and trying to lighten the mood.
For once, Ms. Chatty seems too stunned to speak. I wonder if she is going to think about this conversation the next time she uses this, or another device, on herself.
“I’m giving you a hard time,” I say, and then look back at the device in my hands. The double meaning isn’t lost on me. In my periphery, Charlie licks her lips, debating what to say next. I give her an out. “Also, you need a better massage gun. For starters, this isn’t the brand that sponsors FIRE, and this has only five settings.”
She grabs it back from me. “I don’t use it much.”
“You need a better one,” I repeat.
She rolls her beautiful eyes at me and I know I’ve pulled her out of her darkest thoughts.
“It was your shoulder that was bothering you?” I ask.
She nods and I gesture for her to turn round.
“Let me try to help,” I say.
As my hands get to work on her shoulders, I can tell I’m falling for Charlie. I’m going to need some serious restraint to keep myself from losing control.
31
CHARLIE
Declan is in my apartment. And his hands are kneading my shoulder muscles. The leathery scent of his cologne is going to leave traces of itself on my couch cushions so I will still smell him after he leaves. And he just asked me if I use my massage gun as a vibrator?! Is this really happening?
My head is telling me that I am losing ground professionally. That I am showing every facet of my weakness to someone who was hard to impress in the first place. Now he is seeing me at my worst, only a few days after I fumbled our mission. I should act like everything is fine. I should put on a professional face and refuse this massage.
My heart and my sore muscles tell my brain to shut up. I close my eyes and relax under his touch.
Gently, his hands pinch and knead my shoulders. His grip is perfect; it’s the right amount of pressure. My muscles are grateful. But beyond this my skin hums under his touch. My arms and lower back and neck are all crying out, wanting his hands there as well. My thighs clench at the thought of his hands working over other parts of my body.
“That’s good,” I breathe. My voice is deeper than I expected, a seductive tone I wasn’t aiming for. The soreness he is working on is deep in my bones. The run the other week. Lifting equipment on site in Kalispell and Key West, because that’s what you do at a new job. You pitch in. Traveling to Copenhagen and back in one weekend. And the gluten. All that delicious, delicious gluten. It was one too many drops in the bucket. One too many “it’s just this one little thing” on the scale. And now my body hates me, I think.
I’m mad at myself. I know better. Yet I gave in to my temptations. And, like a hopeless fool, part of my brain is still wondering if this is normal muscle fatigue and tiredness.
“We’re a team. I’m happy to help.” Declan’s hands stop for a second as he says this.
I turn my head. Our faces are so close. He could close the distance between our mouths. I could too.
“If the massage is helping, then it probably is the good kind of muscle ache,” I offer with a smile. I move my gaze from his lips; his eyes are serious, focused. And I’m a chicken. Because if I said nothing, he would have kissed me again.Maybe. Instead, I finish the thought. “I hate that I can’t tell. That I couldn’t tell before. It’s like I can’t trust myself.”
Declan sits back, putting more space between us, breaking whatever spell we were just under. “If it makes you feel any better, I trust you.”
“Oh wow. We need to call theNew York Times. Stop the presses. This is headline news,” I say as I playfully reach for my phone. I have it in my hand when Declan’s arms circle my waist and pull me back toward the couch. The casual touch, the way I am longing for the next and the next and the next, has me smiling. I’m fully leaning back onto him, his hard muscles flat against my back.
I look down and see a notification. I hadn’t heard my phone chime. I sit up to check it.
Ana Alonso
