Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
He grins before wincing. He rolls his shoulder around, holding it with his other hand.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I whacked my shoulder off a bucket last week.”
“Did you go to the doctor?”
“No, I didn’t go to the doctor,” he says like it’s a harebrained idea. “They’ll just tell me to take an over-the-counter pain reliever or an anti-inflammatory. I don’t need to pay a fifty-dollar co-pay for that.”
“So you sit and suffer. Got it. So smart.”
He gives me a look while continuing to move it in circles.
I start to offer to rub it but stop short of speaking.
If I get my hands on that man …
My stomach clenches. Hard.
It’s suddenly darker in the room. Quieter. The air is thicker—hotter. I watch the way he cups his shoulder with his hand and wonder, not for the first time, what it would feel like on me.
Fingertips pressing against my skin. The heat of his body radiating into mine. The coarseness of his palm biting against me.
He winces again—this time, closing his eyes and exhaling harshly.
I shift in my seat, trying to ignore the way heat builds in my core. I try desperately not to imagine his face twisted—eyes closed, breathing roughly—as he climaxes.
It’s been a while since you got laid. Relax, Megan.
“Fuck,” he says again before resting his head against the front of the couch. Pain is written all over his face. He sets his plate down beside mine.
You can control yourself. He’s not willing to do anything with you anyway, so what could it hurt to offer to help him?
I tingle all over at the prospect of having Chase Marshall in my hands—of finally getting to touch him, even if it’s innocent. And it would have to be innocent. I promised I would respect his boundaries.
“Let me help you,” I say.
His eyes pop open, but he doesn’t move. I can do this. I can help him and help myself at the same time. Like I said earlier—no harm, no foul.
“Sit up,” I say, getting to my feet. I swallow hard. I’m committed now. The ball is in his court.
“What are you doing?”
“Let me help you feel better.”
He chuckles, the sound low and rough. It strums a taut chord in my belly that I try to ignore.
“I took a massage class in India,” I say, not mentioning that it was one-half hour of instruction five years ago. I remember virtually nothing. “There’s no reason to sit in pain when I might be able to assist.”
Good. That sounded virtuous. He doesn’t need to know I’m so wet that I can feel it on my thighs.
“Having your hands on me feels like I’m asking for trouble,” he says.
“What are you saying? That you can’t control yourself?”
His eyes hood as he watches me stop in front of him. Slowly, he drops his hand, giving me the okay to touch him.
“I can control myself.” Much better than I knew I could. “Besides, I’m an employee doing my job.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m here to make sure that Kennedy is taken care of,” I say. “And what happens if you can’t go to work next week and then can’t afford food? I would’ve failed at my job.”
He chuckles.
“Sit on the floor,” I say. “Let me sit on the couch behind you.”
Chase does as he’s asked. My breathing is ragged as I sit, placing one leg on either side of him. I block out the proximity of his head to my sex. Don’t go there, Megan.
He leans his head to the side, offering me access to the area that hurts. It’s slightly swollen.
“You should probably see a doctor,” I say.
“I’ll take another anti-inflammatory. It’ll be all right.”
Holding my breath, I reach for him. Blood races through my veins as I drape my hands over his shoulders. I slide my hands all the way down until my thumbs rest on the top of his trapezius muscles.
Holy shit.
The contact causes an explosion inside my body that settles in the apex of my thighs. My brain screams that this is a very bad idea. What am I doing? But my body doesn’t stop touching his.
He sucks in a breath, and his head tilts back as if he’s absorbing the same hit of adrenaline as I am. It gives me a full view from his Adam’s apple to his lap. I’m convinced he was crafted by God, and God knew this would punish me someday.
Because I can’t really touch him.
I draw his muscles upward with gentle pressure, hoping my hands aren’t shaking. Pressing the tips of my fingers into his shoulders, I squeeze and lift the muscle toward his collarbone. I find a rhythm, scaling the length of his shoulders. Kneading and pulsing against his skin, I focus on the areas that seem to get the most response.
“Damn, Megan,” he hisses. “That feels fucking good.”
“You’re tight. No wonder it hurts.”