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It’s too humiliating.
I have to borrow courage from next year to even look at him.
But he’s not glaring at me. There’s no anger smoldering in his eyes, no barbed words on his tongue.
His face glazes over as he moves, carrying me to a large driftwood log.
Though he’s not looking at me, exactly, he sets me down carefully and kneels in front of me.
I’m expecting him to walk away, if only to pull his thoughts together.
Honestly, I wouldn’t blame him.
I definitely don’t expect to feel his hands massaging my calves.
My brain short-circuits.
I stare at him in utter disbelief because this isn’t happening.
Surelythis can’t be real.
After that messy, accidental kiss, he can’t possibly be—
Oh, but he is.
And it feels divine.
His thumbs dig into my sore muscles with a manly, yet gentle precision.
A groan slips out of me so suddenly I press a hand over my mouth.
You’d think, being numb and kissed dumb, my legs and my brain wouldn’t feel anything, but they definitely are.
And it’s not total mortification.
His fingers are warm and my face is flushed, but he doesn’t look up.
He doesn’t meet my eyes.
He just works my torn muscles into butter like he’s trying to smooth them back together.
I whimper again.
I can’t help it—the human connection, the unexpected massage feels amazing and it isn’t all the sensuality, either.
His skin rubs roughly against the rubber, and his hands are big.
My calves aren’t small, with all the cycling and running I do, but he can practically wrap his hands around them.
He works his way up slowly, up to my knees, still rubbing and kneading at a steady clip.
I bite my lip until it hurts so I don’t make more humiliatingly sexual sounds.
Though the higher he gets, the sexier this feels.
When he reaches my thighs, my legs open.
Just a bit.
