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I work the oil into his shoulders and along his spine. He groans, but the sound is different from the noise he made when Anthony did this for him yesterday. I try to convince myself that he’s only enjoying it because he’s more comfortable lying on the bed rather than a thin gym mat, but considering I’m straddling his ass and his hips keep pressing into the mattress, I know better.
“Where are you going?” he asks, his tone lazy and soft, when I move off of him.
“I’ve got to do your legs.”
I work him up to the idea of massaging his injured leg by doing the other one first, spreading more oil on his skin before pressing hard into his thigh before moving onto his calf.
He doesn’t bitch and complain when I start to do the same to the injured leg, but the mood shifts in the room. Instead of giving in to his unease, I work his residual limb thoroughly, and to his credit, he doesn’t tell me to leave, which is what I was betting on.
“Turn over,” I say, my voice catching at the end.
I clear my throat, but he doesn’t move.
“Aro, turn over.”
“No,” he grumbles into the pillow.
“Do you want me to get you a towel so you don’t get oil on the comforter?”
“Don’t give a shit about the comforter,” he grumbles, turning his head a mere few inches to the side so I can actually understand his words.
“I’m not leaving this room until you do,” I threaten. “Anthony said the whole leg, and I need to get the fronts. I told him I’d do it, and I keep my promises.”
The bitching continues as he flips over, and I feel like a fucking seductress when he has to reach down and adjust his erection.
He doesn’t mention it, doesn’t ask me to ignore it, but his lack of conversation on the subject isn’t an invitation either.
Praying that I’m capable of keeping my professionalism in check, I oil up my hands and get to work on his thighs, my fingers brushing the fabric of his underwear on each upward stroke. I keep my eyes locked on my hands because looking anywhere else would only bring trouble.
His cock jerks, and of course I notice in my peripheral vision.
I look up at his face to better gauge the situation, but his eyes are closed. They aren’t squeezed shut as if he’s annoyed or in pain. His lashes are softly brushing his cheeks. He seems serene, a little boyish this way, but there’s nothing innocent or childlike about this man’s body. He’s got muscles on top of muscles from his prominent pecs to the ridges coating his abdomen.
“Aro?” I whisper as my fingertips accidentally on purpose brush his sac behind the fabric of his boxer briefs. “Sorry.”
“Jesus, don’t be,” he says a second before he reaches down and tugs at his underwear.
I’m struck stupid at the sight of his exposed cock. He’s thick, which I already presumed while grinding on him in the living room. It’s several shades darker than the rest of him, coated in solid veins that map the length of him.
“Don’t make me beg.” His words are soft, pleading.
They should immediately swing me into action, but I have to pause for a second. This is a step further than we’ve gone. This literally crosses a line. He isn’t having a panic attack. I’m not going to be controlling his breathing with my mouth on his. This is nothing but sexual intent.
“Brynn,” he pants, his hips rolling up once again.
His eyes are still closed, now squeezed tight as if pained. I don’t know if he’s troubled by asking or hurting with the need to be touched.
Either way, I know I’m going to do what he wants. I’ve wanted this part of him for so long, and there’s little clarity that comes with turning fantasy into reality. In my head, I can control all aspects and reactions. Getting a second person involved, who holds the power to change the outcome, is a whole different ball of wax.
I don’t spend much time debating because I already knew the second he exposed himself what was going to happen.
He hisses as I stroke one oily hand down the length of him, the sounds making gooseflesh rush down my arms and back.
I shiver in delight at the contrast in skin tone of my hand compared to his shaft as I slide my hand down his cock.
On the upstroke, I add my other hand, and from the noise he makes, I know it pleases him.
“Your mouth,” he whispers.
I pause, looking down at the oil coating his cock. I want to please the man, but I’ll be damned if I’m getting fucking baby oil in my mouth.
“On mine,” he continues, and I scramble to get to him because this is something I can give him.
