Page 67 of The Spare

‘I’m not trying to fuck you,’ he says hurriedly, ‘but I get the impression the whole renovation thing is a bit of a headache, and I wondered if you’d let me give you a back massage. No strings or happy endings.’ He holds a hand up as if in surrender. ‘Just thought it might help you to sleep.’

I stare at his gorgeous face on the pillow. He is such a beautiful, beautiful man, and this is an extremely sweet idea. He’s even pitched it as if I’d be doing him a favour, which clearly isn’t the case. Nevertheless, I appreciate his use of ‘let me’. If he’d asked me if I’d ‘like’ a massage, I’d probably say no. I don’t want to be a bother. But this way, he’s making it easier for me to say yes—and he’s given me a get-out clause right at the start. I can relax and enjoy his touch without wondering if I need to find my inner sex goddess somewhere inside this ugly, knotted mass that is my mental health this week.

Is this man for real?

This time, my smile is genuine. ‘Yes, please. I’d love that.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’ He boops my nose. ‘I can be your beck-and-call girl.’

I laugh at that as I clamber up to sitting. ‘Sounds perfect. How do you want me?’

‘On your front and lose the nightie. Do you want it relaxing or, like, vigorous?’

I’m already pulling my nightie over my head. ‘Vigorous, definitely.’ The idea of a light touch when my nervous system is so frazzled makes me want to shudder. I’d probably punch him. ‘Be robust with me. And maybe take off your t-shirt? I don’t want you getting oil on it,’ I say quickly, but his grin tells me he’s onto me.

‘So fucking predatory. I’m nothing but a piece of meat to you, am I?’

‘Pretty much,’ I say happily as I lower myself down onto my stomach, cactus-ing my arms and turning my face so I can watch him. He tugs off his t-shirt—thank you, Lord—and wanders off into the bathroom. ‘Grab the Bamford body oil,’ I call.

A mere moment later, I’m face-planted into our soft bed, naked, with a gorgeous man straddling me. I’m bracing for a cold trickle of oil down my back, but it doesn’t happen. Instead comes the squelch of his rubbing his hands wetly together. When they find me, he’s warmed the oil.

It’s not just that Ben’s good at this—he really is—but that his hands are so big and so strong compared to the size of my back. He can cover most of my upper back with both hands; he can apply such incredible pressure with his palms and dig so deep with his fingernails. Forget sex—this is what I want to happen every night. Not to mention, I’m in olfactory nirvana thanks to my favourite geranium body oil.

As my husband works me with his magic hands, I sink further and further into the mattress (you’d better believe I had a premium memory foam topper delivered within a week of moving in here). His fingers glide over my skin, melting the muscle below it into butter. But more than just the knots he’s untangling, being like this, trapped below him, caged in by his body—his touch speaking to my nervous system in the somatic tongue it understands—feels secure and delicious and perfect.

It’s as if, with every stroke, he’s telling me it’s safe for me to let it all go. To let the tension and spiralling soften, to allow that fizzing in my bloodstream to pop like bubbles on the surface of a glass of champagne.

Through this sensory language of touch, it feels as though our bodies are truly speaking to each other. We’re nothing but the sounds of even breathing and oil-slicked skin on skin. The heat of his hands warms me to my core, almost as if they’re healing me.

As if he’s healing me.

And the longer he continues the massage, the more my experience of it becomes shot through with other sorts of sensory pleasures, tiny sparks of arousal igniting as he lights up my nerve endings until they cover my body in a kind of shawl of stardust. It doesn’t help that I could swear that pressure at the very base of my spine is him growing hard. It could just be the angle of him leaning forward to rub my neck, but… it doesn’t feel like it.

Beneath him, I wriggle a little and stretch in pleasure. ‘So amazing,’ I mumble.

‘Good.’ I can’t crane my head around to see him, but he sounds gruffly pleased. He does something magical and fluttery with his fingers along the discs of my spine, and I imagine those same fingers doing something magical and fluttery way further down my body. I reach one arm down so I can stroke his pyjama-covered thigh.

‘Ben?’

‘Hmm?’

My words fail me. It sounds so stupid, but even though I’m paranoid about his finding me insufficiently horny, it doesn’t stop me from being awkward about actually asking for sex. Like, what the hell am I supposed to say? Honey, how about you bury your face down there and give me that happy ending after all?

Yeah, no.

‘Can you lift up for a sec?’ is what I go with.

‘Sure.’ He does, and my bottom is instantly chilly after the perfect, weighty warmth of his body. I turn myself over onto my back and gaze up at him.

‘You can get back down.’

He lowers himself down again so he’s straddling my hips. I don’t miss the way his eyes rake over my naked torso, my breasts. I run my fingernails lightly down over the cotton stretched over his thighs, and he shivers.

‘You’re very good at that,’ I tell him. ‘It was amazing.’

‘Good.’ He leans forward a touch and brushes his hands, with what little oil is left on them, over my stomach. ‘I can keep going. I love touching you.’

‘I have a better idea.’ Our eyes are locked; there can be no doubt as to my meaning, just as there can be no doubt, from the baton in his pyjama bottoms, what was pressing into my coccyx a moment ago.