Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
He finishes one foot then takes the other into his lap and gives it the same treatment. Maybe I should be embarrassed about the moan that slips out, but every muscle in my body is sore, and I don’t care how I sound.
“If you want to come here, I can rub your shoulders,” Brayden says, releasing my foot.
A shudder moves through my body at the silky promise in those words. Does he want me to sit on his lap, or . . . ?
He must see the hesitation in my eyes, because he smiles. “Just sit beside me.” He drags a hand through his hair, and when he pulls away, it sticks up in two different directions. I like him like this. A little mussed. A little off his game. He’s always so put together, and I’m realizing how much I like at-home Brayden. The only problem is trying to remember he’s still my boss. Still off-limits.
“Do you give all your employees back rubs?” I ask as I scoot around to his side of the hot tub to sit beside him. I angle my body so my back is to him, but I hate that I can’t see his face.
“Only my favorites,” he murmurs.
I close my eyes the second he touches my shoulders. The heat of his calloused hands lights my nerve endings on fire and reminds me of our night together. His hands skimming over my breasts, my hips, gripping my waist as I straddled him.
I can’t regret that night, and I suddenly wish he knew that. Wish he knew that it’s one of my favorite memories.
His touch is soft at first, and I wonder if his thoughts have gone in the same direction as mine. He lightly kneads the tight muscles under my skin before moving to my neck to do the same. I roll my head to the side as he rubs the muscles along the ridge between my neck and shoulder and digs a little deeper there. His touch takes away my tension while wrapping my mind in the memory of his mouth, his whispers against my skin. Thoughts of that night send a buzz through me every time I let them surface, but now, with him touching me like this—kneading my muscles and reminding me of the strength of his hands, the skill of his mouth—I know I’d let him take me to bed if he asked.
I hear the moan before I realize it’s mine, and Brayden chuckles, as if he understands what my memories are doing to me—what his touch is doing to me.
“I need to schedule a massage,” I say softly. If he doesn’t believe the sounds coming from deep in my throat can be blamed on my tight muscles alone, he doesn’t call me on it.
“How often do you do that?” he asks. “Go for massages?”
It’s a luxury I’ve only allowed myself when it’s been gifted from a friend. “Maybe once a year if I’m lucky?”
His thumbs dance along my spine before pressing into the muscles on either side. “You need one.”
I groan. “Maybe I’ll treat myself with my Christmas bonus.” The words come out as a husky whisper, because sweet baby Jesus, his hands.
“Why do I feel like you’ve already conspired with Santa Claus to spend said bonus on Noah?”
My laughter is hollow, and I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “Can you blame me?”
“Not at all. I’d do the same.” He squeezes my shoulder. “If you want, we can go inside and I can work on you a little more.” My eyes narrow, and his lips twitch. “Just a massage between friends, Molly. No expectations.”
But I want more than that. Even though I shouldn’t. Even though I’ve promised myself I won’t.
Swallowing, I nod, sliding away from his touch and climbing out of the hot tub, all too aware of the skimpy fit of Shay’s bikini on my breasts and his eyes on me as I reach for my towel. Do I go to his room or mine? Maybe just the couch?
The questions swirling in my head make me hot enough that I almost don’t notice the winter air nipping at my wet skin.
He seems to see the question on my face. “Go to my room,” he says gruffly. “The bed’s higher and will make it easier to work on you.”
I turn so I can see his face. “Are you sure about this?”
“I used to date a woman who was a massage therapist. She taught me a few things.” His expression is unreadable. “It’s up to you. No pressure.”
I swallow. Hard. My body is practically begging me to climb in his bed. For the massage he’s offering. And for more.
I drew the line between us. He’s my boss. We’re friends. And now . . . roommates. Are we crossing that line if I let him rub my back?