Page 88
ROSY
I’d expected some sort of role play, or perhaps a dominant Nate issuing demands in the bedroom. I didn’t expect him to lay a towel across the bed, then massage oils over my back. Even though he’s done this once before, I’m still choked up over the thoughtful way he looks after me.
When Nate hits a particularly tight area in the middle of my shoulder blades, I’m unable to hold in the loud grunt that escapes me. He doesn’t pause or comment; he just keeps going, paying extra care to the areas I seem to react to and need attention on the most.
The more time we spend together, the more he seems to anticipate what I need before I do. Asking for a massage isn’t something that crossed my mind, nor would it be something I’d be comfortable asking someone to do for me. Asking for things isn’t something that comes naturally. I find it easier to be the person to do things for others rather than inconvenience them. Nate somehow knew, when I didn’t, that my body needed this.
I needed this.
Whilst I can allow myself to relax to a certain extent, I’m also hyper aware of what happened the last time we did this…how he explored me and I him.
His hands move lower down my back, pushing and easing the muscles, and my belly starts to heat and flips when his thumbs reach a point just above my butt.
Please go lower.
Pressure leaves my back and starts on my left arm, and I huff disappointedly even as my mind admonishes me. He’s doing something sweet, kind, and I’m internally demanding more.
“You really should’ve gone into this line of work,” I tell him, to fill the silence and drown out my needy, demanding inner voice.
“Prefer to just touch you,” he gruffs, and I groan low as he drives his thumb into the meaty part of my palm.
“Why does that hurt, yet feel so good at the same time?” I pant, a touch breathlessly, as he circles in again. Each push sends a zing up my arm, before slowly easing me into a gooey mess.
“A lot of tension’s held in our hands. You should stretch them more,” he murmurs, then starts on my right arm.
It’s not as easy for him to move around and have the access he needs, compared to when we used the massage table before. With me lying across the end of the bed, and Nate’s long reach, he makes it work somehow. It does mean when he’s reached over to my right side, as he is now, that his upper thighs brush against my left arm. The material of his shorts is soft, but it’s still one too many layers, and I’d rather it was his naked thighs that tickled my skin. Although naked would mean that something else would be not far from my arm…
“Why an electrician?” I squeak out when his crotch nudges my elbow.
“Dad was one,” he says, gruff and curt.
I pause. Should I continue probing? If I don’t ask a follow-up question, will he think I’m not interested? Although perhaps this is his way of shutting down the conversation.
Shitballs. How do I even proceed?
“Why are you tensing, little tease?”
I don’t answer straight away. When his hands pause at the sides of my neck, my toes twist and knot in the towel with indecision.
“I just…don’t know if I can ask you more.”
“More what?”
“Well, about what you said?” I push, holding back the urge to scream into the pillow. Surely, I should be less awkward around them by now.
“Dad being an electrician?”
“Yes…”
“Ask what you want to know.”
I wonder if that’s one of the things that draws me to him, being a book girl; I love a cliff hanger. Too much of what Nate says has me on the edge of my seat, waiting for more breadcrumbs, needing to know what he’s going to tell me next.
“You said was?”
“Retired.”
“Oh, okay. Are you close?” Although now I’m feeling more like a detective with this line of questioning.
