Her wide eyes follow me as I move towards her, but Idon’t let that stop me. I need to touch her, I’m craving it, and I don’t like knowing she’s hurting even if it’s just something minor like her feet.
“Sit back,” I order as I slide onto the sofa beside her, tapping my thigh. “Put your leg up here.”
Her brow furrows before she asks, “Why?”
“So I can rub your feet,” I deadpan like it’s obvious.
She rears back slightly. “You want to rub my feet?”
“You said they were killing you. I can help with that.” I lace my fingers together and crack my knuckles.” She hesitates for a moment, and it’s enough to make me rethink my offer. “You gotta problem with that?”
“No … I umm … just wasn’t expecting your offer. You don’t seem like the feet-rubbing kind of guy.”
I’m not, but for her, I’m starting to realise I’d be just about anything. I shrug, trying to act casual, though my heart is now doing that stupid fluttering thing again. I grunt in annoyance and tap my thigh for a second time.
She stares at me briefly before hesitantly lifting her leg to rest it on my lap. I inhale a sharp breath before I wrap my hands around her narrow ankle, feeling the soft weight of her foot in my palms. She leans back into the sofa with a soft sigh, and for a moment, the room grows quiet except for the faint hum of the television in the background.
I start kneading gently, pressing my thumbs into the arches of her feet. She shivers slightly at my touch, and when she clenches her eyes closed and moans, I have to stifle my groan.
I lean a little closer, moving my hand higher, letting my fingers linger on her leg and feeling the warmth of her silky, smooth skin beneath my touch.
Her breath catches, and I can see the tiniest quiver on her bottom lip before she bites down on it as I continue working her muscles.
When her eyelids finally flutter open, everything elseseems to fall away. We’ve had moments like this before, sparks simmering beneath the surface, only for someone or something to break the spell. Not this time.
I tilt my head, giving her a moment to shut this down, but when she doesn’t, I slowly and deliberately close the distance between us and press my lips to hers. They’re soft and pillowy just like they look, and the moment I touch them, something inside my chest constricts.
For a heartbeat, she doesn’t move, and I’m worried I’ve crossed a line, but when her fingers curl into my shirt, not pulling me closer, just anchoring herself, I know she wants this.
The kiss is gentle and almost hesitant. I test the waters, feeling it everywhere as the steady rush it brings threatens to sweep me somewhere I’m not sure I’m ready to go.
This woman undoes me like no other, so I slow it down and draw back. Her eyes open slowly as her long lashes lift, and there’s something in those baby blues that hits harder than the kiss.
I don’t see any sign of disappointment or confusion, which is a relief. When she releases my shirt, she settles back into the cushions as a small smile curves her lips. I clear my throat and force my gaze back down to her foot.
Emily makes me feel so much, I’m not sure how to process all these emotions. I’m used to feeling empty and indifferent.
No words pass between us as I return to the massage. When I finish her left leg and motion for the other, she lifts it onto my lap without hesitation.
I wrap a hand around her ankle, pressing my thumbs into her heel, but pause when she moves. The leg I’d just finished slides off my lap, bending as she draws it up and hooks it loosely behind my back.
The movement itself isn’t the problem. It’s the angle.
With her legs now slightly parted, she’s unknowinglygiven me an unobstructed view of the thin stretch of white fabric that’s covering her magnificent, tight cunt. It takes every ounce of strength I have not to audibly groan at the sight.
From where I’m sitting, there’s nowhere else for my eyes to go, and for a split second, I forget how to breathe as my tongue skims over my bottom lip.
My eyes flicker from her underwear to her face, and I can clearly see from the heat in her eyes that the move wasn’t an accident, it was deliberate … an invitation.
The tension between us is electric; she reaches for my shirt again and tries to tug my torso closer, but she’s not strong enough to do that.
Her fingers bunch the fabric in her fists and pull with stubborn determination, stretching the cotton tight across my back. The material gives under her insistence, but my body doesn’t budge an inch.
A full-fledged war breaks out in my head. I want to fuck her into next week, but I also know exactly what she’s been through, and for that reason alone, it doesn’t feel right. She needs time to heal, which is exactly what I’ve been trying to give her.
The want is there—heavy, immediate, almost overpowering—but I can’t think like that. I don’t want to be her rebound, some reckless distraction she reaches for. I don’t want to be a bandage slapped over a wound that’s still open. I need to be more to her than that.
I want her clear-eyed and certain. I want her to choose me because she’s ready, not because I was convenient, or strong, or just close enough to reach.
