His grip tightens on me. One squeeze. Then his hand loosens and his thumb traces one more line across my hip, slowly.
“You probably should turn me loose now,” I say. “So I can pretend I’m capable of doing what I just said.”
He holds me for one more second. His fingers press flat against the small of my back, spread wide, holding as much of me as his hand can cover. The touch stops my mouth mid-ramble. Then he slowly lets go. His arm slides away. The space where his arm was feels cold immediately.
“Is it okay if I still do the cream?” I ask.
“Always,” he says.
Chapter 25: Mickey
Benji starts with my hands. The calluses are thicker than they were in Tallahassee, from the wheel rims and the parallel bar grips. His thumbs work into my palm and the contact, skin on skin, runs heat up my arm.
Then my chest. His palms flat against my pecs, the cream slick between us, and his hands move in slow circles from center to shoulders. My ribs. He traces the line of each one. The hollow below my collarbone where his fingers pressed ten minutes ago, and when he touches that spot again my breathing changes and we both pretend not to notice.
My neck. His thumbs in the hollow of my throat where the pulse is going too fast. His fingers behind my ears, into my hair, and I tip my head back into his hands and the low sound comes again from my chest.
Then he goes to the floor. He kneels between my footrests. He unlaces my sneakers, peels the socks down without hesitation, and wraps his hands around my right foot. I still can’t feel it. His thumbs work the same slow circles he’s been doing since the first night in Tallahassee, and I watch his face while he does it. The concentration. His mouth pulling slightly to the left.
He’s tending a part of me that can’t thank him for it. My eyes fill. I don’t try to stop it. What I wouldn’t give to feel his hands on my feet one fucking time.
He works both feet, then up through my calves. His hands on muscle that’s going softer from disuse. He holds myleft calf in both hands and looks up at me and his face is wet too. Neither of us wipes our faces.
“How far up your leg can I go this time?” he asks quietly. “Can I go above the knee?”
My heart slams against my ribs. “You can go higher,” I say.
His hands slide above my knee. Onto my left thigh. His palm flattens against the quad, spreading cream over the skin, and his fingers press into the muscle with slow, firm pressure.
I watch his hands on the part of my body that lives somewhere between what I was and what I am, the place where the doctors say maybe.
His hands are on my thigh. God, I want to feel them so badly. He moves to the right thigh. Both hands now, one on each leg, his thumbs tracing the line of muscle above my knees. Him between my legs on the floor with his hands on my thighs is doing something to the upper half of my body. My pulse is pounding in my throat.
He sees all of it. His eyes come up from my thighs to my chest to my face. His thumbs make one more pass above my knees. Then he lowers my feet gently to the footrests. He caps the bottle and stays on the floor, looking up at me.
I reach for him. The lean forward is hard but my core muscles hold. I take his hand and press my lips against his knuckles.
“How long are you staying in Jacksonville?” I ask. “How much time do I have with you?”
“I booked a cheap hotel room for a couple of nights,” he says. “Ten minutes from here. A Holiday Inn that got three and a half stars and exactly one review that says the pool is questionable but the beds are clean.”
“Hold on,” I say, dropping his hand and wheeling to the closet. My wallet is in the suitcase Tex packed for me when I transferred. I haven’t opened my wallet since I got here because there’s been nothing to buy and nowhere to go. I pull out my credit card and hold it out to him.
“Take this.”
He looks at the card. “Mickey, no.”
“You’ve driven countless miles to visit me and you’ve brought food every time. And now you’re booking hotel rooms. Take the card, Benji, and give it to them at the hotel to charge.”
“I don’t need your...”
“I know you don’t need it. I need to give it. This is the least I can do. Please. Let me pay for the hotel, your gas and all the food. Please.”
The “please” does it. Not the argument, not the logic.
“I don’t want to take your card,” he says.
“Benji, I need to do this, okay? Let me.”
