Page 81 of Trust

“Okay,” he says softly. “Here. Right under the shoulder blade. Firm, but not too much. Feel a knot?”

“Mm-hmm.” Words evade me once more.

“Now move slowly in circles. Follow the muscle.”

I do what he says, and he leans into my touch, releasing a low sound from deep in his throat. His shoulders twitch, and his hand clenches the blanket at his side.

My focus shifts. Tucked into the ink, half-buried in shading and pattern, is a clown. Its makeup is smeared, its mouth twisted into a vicious grin. It’s the eyes holding me, terrifying and sad at once, glassy with unshed tears, like they could spill at any second. It reminds me of the bear on my mom’s hoodie, like it’s the clown version of it.

“You’re good at this,” he murmurs.

I’m not. But the way he says it makes me want to be—for him. My hands move with more confidence now, sliding down and pressing into every inch of his strength. I can’t stop touching him, and I don’t want to.

This strips everything down to instinct. More real than anything I’ve ever known. As if I’ve stepped out of my life into forbidden territory, yet somehow exactly where I’m meant to be.

How is this happening? Why is it inevitable?

He exhales slowly, his breath growing strained as if he’s holding himself together by a thread. His hands rise to where I’m working the knot between his neck and shoulder. He gently rests them on mine, keeps them still. Then he turns. His eyes claim me first, and then his arms pull me into his lap.

I’m straddling him, knees planted on the couch on either side of his hips. My pulse flutters. My skin hums with tension.

He draws me in, one hand at my neck, the other low at my spine, until every inch of me is flattened against him. When he kisses me, it’s consuming, full of want that’s been held back too long. His tongue touches mine with aching certainty.

A broken sound breaks through, helpless, as if my body answers before my mind. Everything burns. His touch. His mouth. The hard press of him beneath me. I shouldn't want this. But I want everything.

What if Chris were here too?

The scene plays out, uninvited. Except I don’t push it away. I imagine Chris being here, watching or even closer, involved—no, what the hell?

I crush the thought before it can spread and swallow it whole even though it sears.

Under my tank his thumbs stroke the sides of my breasts. The tender touch sends another surge of unfamiliar sensations through me. Without permission, my body starts rocking rhythmically against his groin, and I kiss him back harder, my fingers fisting his dark hair, gripping his neck, his shoulders, anywhere I can hold on to.

This is insanity. I know it.

But I don’t care, because beyond the walls of this cabin, nothing else exists right now. No past to haunt me, no consequences to fear. It’s only this moment, only him.

A shift in the shadows above the railing catches my attention, like a presence silently watching us. It’s gone before I can take a second look.

Cash pulls back slightly, breathless, cupping my face in both hands.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.

Lust glints in his dilated pupils.

“Then why stop?” I whisper back.

“Because...” His mouth hovers over mine. “We’re not there yet.”

The words echo.

My heart sinks.

He lifts me from his lap with a gentleness that melts me. My body misses his already.

His mouth brushes mine one last time. “See you tomorrow,” he says softly.

I leave him at the stairs and begin to climb, words stuck in my throat.