Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
His smile only grows bigger.
“Is that all you like?”
I have to bite my lower lip to keep from groaning when he rolls his hips against me. The heat of his shaft through his lounge pants hits me perfectly, making me crave all sorts of things with that thick part of him.
It’s my turn to swallow because asking him for that would be going too far. Kissing and making out are one thing, actually transitioning to something more sexual complicates things in a way I’m not even close to dealing with.
“We have to do your massage,” I whisper, leaning in close for another kiss.
His response isn’t what I expect when he pulls his face away, his mood suddenly turning sour.
I can’t keep myself from frowning but I quickly replace it with a soft smile as I climb off his lap.
I know he’ll ask me to get up or he’ll shove me away if I wait too long, and moving myself is easier on my ego than the strike of his rejection.
He doesn’t waste a second trying to get up from the couch, but even as he struggles, I don’t offer him help. The man not only wants but needs to do everything himself. He’s retraining muscles to do everyday things, and they’re not happy. I could tell by the way he entered the room a half hour ago after waking up that he was sore, and I know from working with other veterans with injuries that he’s going to be sore for a long time.
“I don’t want a fucking massage,” he mutters as he finally manages to stand. “And I’d like you to stop reminding me of what happened.”
I swallow the lump in my throat as he scuttles past me slowly. If I had the ability to fix all of this for him, I’d do it in the blink of an eye, but no one holds that power.
I wait until he’s in his room, the door closed, before going to my bedroom and grabbing a bottle of baby oil. I don’t knock when I enter his room. I’m not surprised to find him face down on his bed, his face buried in the pillows.
I don’t remind him that Anthony said to take it easy, despite knowing he’s probably going to want to lift weights on the back porch later like he has been doing several days a week.
It’s as if he doesn’t remember needing days off even before his accident. The body needs time to heal and recharge, but he doesn’t seem interested in giving it what it needs.
I don’t ask permission as I climb on the bed and straddle his hips.
“Shirt off,” I tell him without touching the fabric.
Lifting it out of the way would be akin to stripping him naked, and that’s not something I’d be able to handle. More importantly, I don’t know if I’d be able to stop once I got started.
“Lounge pants, too,” I tell him after he pulls his t-shirt free. I slide to the left onto the bed beside him. “I need to be able to get to your skin.”
He grumbles his displeasure as he shifts from one side to the other to shove his pants off, stopping once they’re past his thighs. His black boxer briefs are nondescript but they do wonders for his muscular ass. I can’t help myself as I stare down at him.
“A little fucking help?” he snaps, and my hands are instantly on him, savoring the removal of his pants like a creep instead of focusing on what this actually is.
Once again, he buries his face into the pillow, all the while muttering his displeasure at having to even do this in the first place.
I know he’s in a rough place mentally but his attitude could be better. He’s like an angry dog biting the hand offering him something to eat, and it rubs me the wrong way.
“Fuck!” he hisses, his torso jerking to one side when I pour the oil directly on his skin. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Are you such a baby that you’re going to throw a tantrum over a little cold oil? Nut up, Marine.”
His back trembles as he laughs, and it brings a smile to my own face.
Because I was so distracted watching the oil spread on his skin, I barely manage to catch a trail of it before it drips onto the bed.
His skin is hot, the oil already heated by the time I press my palms to his back. I let myself imagine that it’s my touch causing the gooseflesh to pop up rather than the temperature of the oil.
If I’m able to keep my thoughts and actions in fantasy form, I’ll be okay. Daydreams are creative and healthy for everyone. I need to get a handle on not following through.
I look away from his tan skin as I work my fingers into his muscles. I have had many opportunities to give back massages, and I know mine will never be as effective as Anthony’s, but it’s better than nothing.