Page 145 of Slapshot Baby

She turns over, pulling the pillow under her chin. I sit beside her and press the heel of my hand into the muscle that runs alongside her spine.

She hisses. "Right there."

I dig in. The muscle is rigid under my palm as I work it with my thumb, pressing deep, holding until it releases. Then the next knot. Then the next.

Her shoulders are worse. The tension is layered. I use my forearm across the flat of her shoulder blade to reach the deeper bands, grinding slow, leaning my weight in.

She groans into the pillow with relief.

I work down to her ribs, where the muscles are banded tight. The sides of her waist, where I can feel her flinch before the pressure turns to relief. My thumbs press dimples above her tailbone and her fingers grab the sheets.

"Harder."

I press harder.

Another groan, lower this time, coming from somewhere deeper.

"Don't stop."

My hands spread wide across her lower back, fingers curving over the swell of her hips. I press and drag, slow, the heel of my palm grinding into the tight spots while my fingers smooth the skin beside them.

Her breathing changes. The pained gasps give way to a sound that sits somewhere between relief and something warmer. Her hips shift under my hands with a different kind of urgency.

"Lower," she murmurs.

My hands move to the tops of her thighs. I knead, thumbs tracing her skin. Her legs spread wider.

"Kai."

"Hmm."

"I want you."

"Not tonight."

She lifts her head. "I'm not broken."

"I didn't say you were. But you passed out an hour ago, and you can barely stand."

She turns her head on the pillow. Her cheek is flushed. Her eyes are heavy-lidded and dark.

"Then don't make me stand. Just touch me."

“Ava, you need rest.”

"No, I need my boyfriend to touch me like he means it."

The way she says it pulls at something low in my stomach. Her voice is raw and direct and stripped of every wall she usually keeps between us.

My hands slide down from the top of her spine, thumbs tracing the grooves between muscle and bone.

But this time, they’re softer and slower. My fingers spread across her ribs and trace under her breasts.

She moans. “Yes.”

They glide down her sides, tracing the curve where her waist narrows and her hips flare. I touch her buttcheeks. Squeezing. Caressing.

Her breathing changes. She grinds her hips on the bed.