“Service medals and ribbons? More than some, fewer than others.” He studied her for a long moment while she tried to think of something else to say. “If you’re tired, I can go.”
Maybe it was time for a little honesty. “I am tired,” she said. “I don’t want you to go though.”
His expression, solemn and tender, didn’t change as he pushed away from the doorframe and crossed the short distance to stand beside her. “Shoes off,” he said as he eased her jacket from her shoulders and hung it up on an empty hanger, then went to work on the buttons of her blouse. With methodical, slow movements he slipped each button through its hole, gently tugging the shirttails from her waistband and unfastening her cuffs before slipping it down her arms to leave her in her trousers and bra.
“Wash or dry clean?”
“Wash,” she said.
The blouse went in the basket on her closet floor. She balanced herself with a hand on his shoulder as he took off her trousers and hung them up next to the jacket. She wore utilitarian cotton underwear, nothing sexy or fancy, just keeping her covered. Jamie didn’t seem to care one way or the other, just took off her bra with the same pragmatic approach, and guided her to lie facedown on the bed. “Do you have any lotion?”
“Sure,” she mumbled into her folded arms, “but I keep sweet almond oil in the bathroom. It’s good for rubdowns when I get sore.”
All she could think was that this was a really bad idea. It wasn’t basketball and it wasn’t sex, but since tonight had been all about bad ideas, she couldn’t bring herself to stop. For a moment she wondered if this was how her mother slid down the slippery slope, one questionable judgment sliding into another, but then Jamie came back with the bottle, dropped it beside her, and stripped off his shirt.
Electricity sparked along her nerves, staticky and hissing in the long moments while he straddled her hips. The bottle cap clicked open, then closed. The sound of palms rubbing together, then he put his big hands to the slope where her neck met her shoulders and pushed.
Hard.
Her brain shut off, the circuits connecting so the sparks lengthened into a steady hum of desire. His big thumbs dug into her shoulders, finding the tight spot at the base of her neck, the knot where she held her tension, just above her shoulder blade. She winced, stiffened, then felt the pop as the muscle released and she relaxed just a little bit more.
“You’re wound up like a top,” he said above her.
She made a rather embarrassing sound in response, because yes, she was, but his relentless assault on her muscles was rapidly reducing her to a limp noodle. “I miss the massages the most,” she mumbled. “I don’t miss the ice baths or the stretching or the weight room, but I really miss the massages.”
His response was also wordless, coming from deep in his chest, but the important part was the steady sweep of his hands, finding each tense spot and working it out. He didn’t hesitate to use the strength in his arms or his body weight. He knew she could take it, would tell him if he needed to avoid a long-standing injury. By the time he reached her bottom she was in a drift zone, hearing only her deepening breathing and the slick swipe of his hands over her skin.
“Okay?” he asked, his fingers curled in the waistband of her panties.
“Sure,” she said blurrily, and lifted her hips.
Professional massage therapists worked at hips and thighs under the drapery of a sheet. Jamie just spread Charlie’s legs and started pressing his fingers into the muscles around her hip socket and tailbone. She tensed and grunted when he worked the heel of his hand against her glutes, consciously relaxed, and was rewarded a few moments later with a good pop as the muscle released.
“Where did you learn to do this?” she asked.
“I’ve gotten my share of massages,” he said. “I have a working knowledge of the musculoskeletal system.”
“In other words, you hooked up with a massage therapist,” she said, amused.
“I like learning new things,” he said, his angelic voice contrasting with the hot pressure of his fingers against her hamstring.
She huffed out a laugh.
“Tight hammies,” he commented.
“I don’t stretch as much as I used to,” she admitted as he switched to her other buttock and thigh.
By the time he reached her feet she was all but purring, so when he gripped her hips and rolled her to her back, she flopped like a rag doll. “Better?” he asked.
“Much.” Her body was loose, warm, arousal humming along her nerves, tightening her nipples. If he pressed his oil-slick fingers between her legs, he’d find her hot and ready. “C’mere.”