I slide into the chair beside him, lean over without a word, and sink my teeth into his shoulder.
He yelps, sharp and breathless, kicking his legs under the table as he starts to laugh, the sound ringing bright and dangerous as I growl low into his skin, “You’re gonna get us kicked off the fucking island.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just hums around another sip, eyes glinting. “Worth it.”
I shoot him a glare, sharp and warning and he kisses me—still laughing, still smug—his mouth hot and sweet with daiquiri and defiance, and I swear I’m going to devour him.
Iknew bringing him to the spa was a gamble. Not because he’s high-maintenance—though he is. Not because he doesn’t like to relax—though he doesn’t. No, it’s because Damian Kade, coach of the Reapers and the man who can destroy careers with a glare,hatesbeing touched by strangers. Which, you know, kind of defeats the purpose of a couple’s massage.
The spa is all candlelight and plinky music, way too calm for two violent hockey husbands, and we’ve barely been on the table five minutes before I hear him sigh like someone’s murdering him with essential oils.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
He’s on the table next to mine, both of us face down with towels covering our asses. My massage therapist—bless her—has magic hands. She’s working into the knots in my shoulders like she’s got a personal vendetta against tension. I groan. Out loud. Long, low, maybe a littleobscene.
“Pup,” Damian growls from the next table.
“What?” I moan again, just to fuck with him. “It feels good.”
“Shut up.”
I grin into the face cradle, biting down hard on the pad to keep from making more noise. But then she hits a spot on my lower back, and Ican’t help it—I let out another sound, high and breathy this time. I hear Damian groan.
“Christ.”
I peek sideways under the cradle. His face istense.Jaw locked. Fist clenched on the table like he’s ready to fight someone for having the audacity to touch him—even though the guy massaging him is barely even making contact, probably out of sheer self-preservation.
“You look relaxed,” I chirp.
He doesn’t look at me. “You sound like a porn track.”
“Maybe I’m just expressive.”
“Maybe I’m gonna drag you out of here by your towel.”
“I dare you.”
“I will.”
I grin wider, close my eyes, and moan again—louderthis time, just to see if he flinches. I think the therapist beside him stifles a laugh. Damian growls something low and vulgar under his breath, probably imagining burying me under the massage table and doing the job himself. Which, to be fair, I’d absolutely allow.
Their massage tables are close enough that when I stretch my fingers blindly to the side, I find him—warm skin, solid muscle, a faint sheen of oil making him slick under my touch. Damian’s bicep twitches the moment I graze it, like even half-asleep and pissed off, he still runs on instinct.
“Pup,” he growls, low and dangerous.
I pretend not to hear him. My fingers drift higher, tracing the thick line of his deltoid, slow and innocent as sin. I’m smiling into the face cradle like a goddamn choir boy, but we both know better.
“Don’t start,” he warns.
The woman working on my calves lets out a soft little laugh, trying to keep it professional. “Sir, hands on your own table, please.”
“Sorry,” I sing, not sorry at all.
My thumb presses against his skin again, kneading lazily into the edge of his shoulder, and I swear Damian makes a sound like he’s torn between snapping my wrist or snapping the table in half. His whole body’s tense now, which probably defeats the point of the massage—but fuck, he’s sexy when he’s annoyed.
“Elias.”
I hum. “Mmm?”
