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)
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.
I wish things were different. I wish I were different. “I’m thinking you’re right about my Christmas bonus, so I hope your girlfriend was a good teacher.” I grin, totally casual, not at all turned on by what’s about to happen. “I’ll meet you inside.”
I tuck my towel around myself and race into the house and up to my room. I’m sure he doesn’t want me on his bed in a wet bikini, so I dry off and put on a thin tank and a pair of shorts—modest enough but not too much to get in the way.
When I get back down to his room, he’s shirtless and in a pair of flannel sleep pants. His bedside lamp is on, and he waves me toward the massive four-poster bed. “It’s not as ideal as a massage table, but I think I can make it work.”
Dear Girly Bits: I’m going to lie down in Brayden Jackson’s bed and let him put his hands on me. Do not get any ideas. This isn’t for you.
I lick my lips then stare at him, the bed, then him again.
He cocks his head. “Does this make you uncomfortable?”
It makes me hot. It makes me want things. “I feel a little selfish, I guess.” I shrug, as if it’s nothing. “Maybe you can teach me, and I can massage you next. Quid pro quo, or whatever.”
He grimaces at my word choice. “It’s just a massage, Molly. If you want it.”
Just a massage. Just his hands on my body for the first time in seven months. Just the very thing I fantasize about on a nightly basis.
I climb onto his bed and lie on my stomach, closing my eyes. I’ve been sore all week—not just from working out with the Jackson boys but from putting in too many hours at the banquet center. I know this will help. What I don’t know is whether I’m letting him do it because I want relief from my sore muscles or because I’m so desperate for his touch.
He runs his hands lightly down my back, over my tank, moving up and back down and adding pressure with each pass.
“Tell me about your masseuse ex,” I say. Maybe if we talk about a woman from his past, my brain will remember that this touching—this delicious, perfect touching—is platonic.
He scoffs. “Don’t let her hear you call her that.”
“Call her what? Your ex?”
“No, masseuse. She hated that word. Said it’s too associated with people who give happy endings. She had an athletic training degree and preferred the term massage therapist.”
“Oh, wait.” I turn my head to look at him and put on my best innocent mask. “Does that mean I shouldn’t count on a happy ending to go with this massage?”
His grin is damn near lecherous, and his gaze sweeps down my body, leaving little chills of pleasure in its wake. He crouches beside the bed until our faces are level and his mouth is inches from mine. “Struggling with some tension in other places, Molly?”
So much tension. My breasts are full and aching, my nipples too tight and sensitive against the mattress. I should look away from those dark, seductive eyes, but I don’t.
He holds my gaze as he rubs the tight band of muscles at the small of my back, right above my waistband. “Do you need me to use some of your pink tools to help me reach those deeper muscles?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” My voice is husky.
He takes my hand and strokes my fingers one at a time without taking his eyes from mine. His fingers toy with the web of skin between my thumb and index finger. Lightly. So lightly that the touch reminds me of what those skilled fingers can do between my legs. I don’t care about the secret box at the back of my closet. All I need are those hands. “You set some pretty clear boundaries between us, and I’m not about to violate those. But if you change your mind and want to adjust the rules because you need something more from me . . .” His fingertips slide over my palm, and I swear I feel it between my legs. “Just say the word, and I’d be happy to help you out. With or without your collection of toys.”
He stands and returns to the muscles on my back, as if nothing has happened. As if he hasn’t just offered to get me off. I close my eyes and try to ignore the pulsing ache between my legs, try to ignore the devil on my shoulder who’s telling me to roll over and drag him down on top of me.
Could I take him up on his offer without ruining everything? Does he mean it? Or is he just teasing me? No matter how much I want him, I need to think this through.