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“Poppy! What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled.
She flattened her palm against Lance’s chest and shoved him away when he reached for me again. “Don’t touch my sister.”
I got one last glimpse of him as she dragged me away through the crowd of screaming teenagers. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his pale green eyes locked on mine. The emotions I saw there were staggering, everything from hunger to anger filtering through. I swear he mouthed I’m still not sorry before the crowd swallowed me.
Lance’s hands cover mine, and his voice is a gravelly rasp, snapping me out of my inappropriate memories. “Poppy.”
“Is it too much pressure?”
“I think you need to stop.”
“I’m so sorry.” I attempt to drop my hands, but he’s holding them in place. His breathing is heavy, as if he’s anxious. My thumb is below his bottom lip. That full bottom lip I was just thinking about. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
He clears his throat. “Yeah. That’s not the problem.”
“I don’t underst—” The words get caught in my throat as I lift my gaze. The white sheet covering his body has a lump below his waist. A very obvious, ample lump.
He releases my hands, and they slide down either side of his neck. The action makes his erection twitch.
“Oh.” It comes out a squeak. I place my palms on the table on either side of his head.
“Oh is right.” He sort of cough-laughs.
“You really aren’t compensating at all.” I slap a hand over my mouth, because it’s probably the most inappropriate thing I’ve ever said to a client. “I’m so sorry,” I say from behind my hand.
This time Lance snorts.
I try to reclaim professionalism. “That’s a totally normal reaction.”
“Oh yeah?” Lance is looking at me with an expression that borders on amused, except there’s an accompanying hunger that I recognize. That look was only trained on me for a few seconds last year, but I’d felt it, and I feel it now—in all the wrong places. Or the right ones, depending.
“I’m going to give you a few minutes. Just, uh, tell me when you’re dressed.” I roll back my stool and tear my eyes away from his massive erection. I’ve been staring this entire time.
I go directly to the kitchen and turn on the tap. I pump soap on my hands, scrubbing away the oil and what I imagine is the scent of Lance’s cologne. At least I have the restraint not to be a total loser by sniffing them first.
I try not to envision him getting dressed, tucking that hard-on away. I wonder if he’s in my bathroom relieving himself. I wonder if he’s still hard.
“Stop it.” That I’m talking to myself again is a real issue.
I’m worried that I’m crossing lines I shouldn’t by treating him, especially here. It’s too personal, intimate in a way it shouldn’t be. Or maybe that part is all in my head because I have these memories he’s unaware of.
Either way, I don’t think I’m doing a good job of compartmentalizing him as a client. Here I am, treating him in my living room, and now he’s got a raging hard-on because of a face massage. My face massage.
I grip the edge of the counter, weighing my options. I should pass him over to someone else as a client. Marcie could work. Plus she’s older, and not really attractive, so maybe he’d be less likely to get hard for her.
Not that it’s me he got hard for. It’s just the physical contact. It has to be; the other possibilities are too out-there to entertain. And even if I am the reason for his hardness, it’s not like he’d want anything from me other than physical release. I’ve seen enough online to understand Lance isn’t a guy who dates. Wishing that wasn’t the case is another reason I should probably let someone else treat him.
“Hey.”
I look up to find him standing in the doorway of the kitchen with his hands in his pockets. I keep my eyes at chest level. “Oh! Hey.” I turn off the water and force what I hope is a natural smile.
“Got my situation all sorted out.”
“What?” I cough, and this time I look directly at him.
“Oh, fuck.” He raises his hands in the air. “I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t whack it in your bathroom or anything.”
“Right. Okay.” I try not to let that image become more than vapor in my head.
He continues to explain. “I thought about dead kittens and old, wrinkly boobs, and the situation resolved itself.”
“Gotcha.”
“Sorry. That was probably a lot more information than you needed. I’ve been hanging out with Violet too much lately.”
The twinge of jealousy over another girl’s name is as much a problem as my fixating on Lance’s hard-on.
“Is that your girlfriend?” I want to crawl into the sink and stay there for the rest of my life.
