Then warm oil touched the back of my thigh.
I sucked in a breath.
Drew’s hand paused instantly. “Too much?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
His palm returned, broad and warm, moving slowly over the back of my thigh just above the knee. Not too high. Not too intimate. Just firm enough to make muscle loosen under his hand.
The first stroke made my eyes close.
The second made me forget my own name.
By the third, I was gripping the pillow like it had personally wronged me.
“Where did you learn this?” I asked, voice muffled.
“I’ve been playing football a long time.”
“That is your answer for everything.”
“It covers a lot.”
His thumb found a tight line along the outside of my hamstring, and I hissed.
He stopped.
“Pain?”
“Good pain.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Don’t stop.”
The words slipped out before I heard them.
Drew went still for half a beat.
Then his hands moved again.
Slower now.
More careful.
“Relax, baby,” he said, voice low.
The word baby moved through me differently this time. Not public. Not performative. Not for anyone watching.
Just his voice in his clean, quiet house while his hands worked heat through my injured leg and my body melted beneath him one inch at a time.
I tried to hold on to my irritation.
It dissolved under his palms.
