said, his voice rising slightly at the end—almost a plea. One hand lifted briefly—the arm with the shoulder bruise stayed still, she noted. “I don’t like to lie to you.”
“Having a nickname isn’t a lie,” she said, her curiosity flaring up again: why would he have a fake name? Did it have to do with the amnesia? Who was he?
His head dropped a little, his long eyelashes shuttering his eyes. “No. Well, yes, in the sense that no one ever called me that. I don’t think. My brother called me Jay, that much I remember . . . ”
“Can I ask what happened? Don’t answer if you don’t want to.”
“I can’t answer—I don’t remember. All I know is that I was in a bad crash.” His voice roughened.
“So ‘therapeutic’ is literal,” she said slowly.
He turned to look at her. “I do want to tell you the truth. But what is the truth? I’ve got almost as many questions as you do. In a different sense, maybe more.” He frowned.
“That biker today? You think that guy was trying to run you down on purpose?” she asked.
“Not sure. Of anything,” he murmured, once again gazing out to sea. His good hand flexed.
She surrendered to an almost overwhelming impulse. “Look, say no if this sounds awful, but I’m considered pretty good at massage. Not professional,” she hastened to say. “But if you’d like me to rub that shoulder . . .”
“God, that sounds awesome,” he responded with unmistakable sincerity. “It feels like a load of cement got packed in there.”
She rubbed her fingertips as she shifted behind him. Raccoons, she had discovered when she was little, are all about touch. Once she’d learned that, she began to understand why even as a tiny kid she’d always had her fingers into everything. Texture and feel were all-important, at least as much as sight and hearing.
“I’ll start gently, because I know you’ve got to have a big-ass bruise.” She laid her hands on the breadth of his shoulders at either side of his neck. She pressed the sides of her thumbs into the muscles there, and listened to his breath hiss in. But he didn’t stiffen under her fingers, so she knew it was good hissing, not pain hissing.
She began to knead in slow circles, smoothing out the muscle. On the hurt side it was rock hard, but not swollen. So she began to dig her fingers in a little more as she worked outward in broader circles.
“That feels insanely good,” he sighed, his voice rough and deep in his chest.
Heat flared inside Kesley. She began kneading with her palms, caressing the contours of his muscles as she worked his knots ribbon-smooth. Whatever he did, he stayed in shape, she thought, light-headed with desire.
His head dropped back, and she concentrated with both hands on his bad shoulder. It didn’t seem to hurt him at all, so she dug in deeper, wishing she could follow all his beautiful musculature all the way down, and then work around to the front . . .
He growled softly deep in his chest, as she shifted her weight to his side so she could knead his shoulders on both sides. He turned his head, and lifted his arm, and she glanced down into his face—
And their lips met.
Soft, tentative, questing, he nibbled her lips, which parted eagerly. His tongue swept inside her mouth, sending sheets of lightning through every nerve, and she kissed him back, hot, hungry kisses. Breath shaking, they gasped and kissed again, and his hands slid up her sides, over her shoulders to cup her face.
She slid her fingers inside his shirt, groaning at the softness of those little hairs in the dip between his collarbones. Her fingers twitched at the buttons of his shirt and then stiffened as his hands drifted down to cup her breasts.
Heat flowered in her core as he thumbed her nipples through her shirt and bra. Her nipples tightened into throbbing nubs. When his hands slid up her ribs under her loose shirt, she swayed with urgency.
Her eyes met his, and saw the question there—and the want.
He
“Having a nickname isn’t a lie,” she said, her curiosity flaring up again: why would he have a fake name? Did it have to do with the amnesia? Who was he?
His head dropped a little, his long eyelashes shuttering his eyes. “No. Well, yes, in the sense that no one ever called me that. I don’t think. My brother called me Jay, that much I remember . . . ”
“Can I ask what happened? Don’t answer if you don’t want to.”
“I can’t answer—I don’t remember. All I know is that I was in a bad crash.” His voice roughened.
“So ‘therapeutic’ is literal,” she said slowly.
He turned to look at her. “I do want to tell you the truth. But what is the truth? I’ve got almost as many questions as you do. In a different sense, maybe more.” He frowned.
“That biker today? You think that guy was trying to run you down on purpose?” she asked.
“Not sure. Of anything,” he murmured, once again gazing out to sea. His good hand flexed.
She surrendered to an almost overwhelming impulse. “Look, say no if this sounds awful, but I’m considered pretty good at massage. Not professional,” she hastened to say. “But if you’d like me to rub that shoulder . . .”
“God, that sounds awesome,” he responded with unmistakable sincerity. “It feels like a load of cement got packed in there.”
She rubbed her fingertips as she shifted behind him. Raccoons, she had discovered when she was little, are all about touch. Once she’d learned that, she began to understand why even as a tiny kid she’d always had her fingers into everything. Texture and feel were all-important, at least as much as sight and hearing.
“I’ll start gently, because I know you’ve got to have a big-ass bruise.” She laid her hands on the breadth of his shoulders at either side of his neck. She pressed the sides of her thumbs into the muscles there, and listened to his breath hiss in. But he didn’t stiffen under her fingers, so she knew it was good hissing, not pain hissing.
She began to knead in slow circles, smoothing out the muscle. On the hurt side it was rock hard, but not swollen. So she began to dig her fingers in a little more as she worked outward in broader circles.
“That feels insanely good,” he sighed, his voice rough and deep in his chest.
Heat flared inside Kesley. She began kneading with her palms, caressing the contours of his muscles as she worked his knots ribbon-smooth. Whatever he did, he stayed in shape, she thought, light-headed with desire.
His head dropped back, and she concentrated with both hands on his bad shoulder. It didn’t seem to hurt him at all, so she dug in deeper, wishing she could follow all his beautiful musculature all the way down, and then work around to the front . . .
He growled softly deep in his chest, as she shifted her weight to his side so she could knead his shoulders on both sides. He turned his head, and lifted his arm, and she glanced down into his face—
And their lips met.
Soft, tentative, questing, he nibbled her lips, which parted eagerly. His tongue swept inside her mouth, sending sheets of lightning through every nerve, and she kissed him back, hot, hungry kisses. Breath shaking, they gasped and kissed again, and his hands slid up her sides, over her shoulders to cup her face.
She slid her fingers inside his shirt, groaning at the softness of those little hairs in the dip between his collarbones. Her fingers twitched at the buttons of his shirt and then stiffened as his hands drifted down to cup her breasts.
Heat flowered in her core as he thumbed her nipples through her shirt and bra. Her nipples tightened into throbbing nubs. When his hands slid up her ribs under her loose shirt, she swayed with urgency.
Her eyes met his, and saw the question there—and the want.
He
Similar Books
