It’s a struggle not to stop and stare at him, though I do steal a few glances. It’s tough not to—he’s always had a gorgeous body, and time has been nothing but kind to him. He’s smooth in all the right places, sharp in all the others, with a few constellations of freckles here and there, placed as if to deliberately draw attention to his shoulders and pecs.
“Um.” I gesture at the bed. “Facedown?”
“Yeah. Use whatever pillows you need. So you’re comfortable.”
I settle on the bed, which is a challenge now that my cock has definitely decided to join the party. Thank God for a pillow-top mattress. I take one of Michael’s pillows, fold my arms under it, and rest my head on top of it. And then fidget a little more until I’m as comfortable as a man can get while lying on an erection.
Michael joins me. I can’t tell if he’s sitting or kneeling. Hell, he could be standing on his head for all I know—he’s just beyond the edge of my peripheral vision, only his body heat and the slight dip in the mattress giving away his presence.
Now I’m starting to see why Michael wanted to go this route. Not only is a massage fairly benign, lying somewhere in the gray area between platonic and sexual, but it puts me in the most passive, nonthreatening position I can think of. I can’t grab him or overpower him. I can’t even look at him without twisting around.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Whenever you are.”
I close my eyes. The bottle top clicks open, then shut. Skin hisses against skin—he’s probably rubbing his hands together to warm up the oil.
Then the sound stops.
The whole room is still.
Every inch of my skin is suddenly hyperaware of everything, even the ambient air, as if my senses are searching for that first contact, wondering when he’ll make the connection. When, and where.
And if.
What if he’s having second thoughts? If he’s—
There.
Between my shoulder blades.
Fingertips at first, and then more. His touch is tentative, almost ticklish, fingers and palm barely meeting my skin, and my whole body’s hyperawareness instantly concentrates itself in that warm outline of his hand.
Slowly, he traces the length of my spine, taking an absolute age to make the journey from the base of my neck to just above my boxers. The contact breaks, and then his hand materializes between my shoulder blades again, and he repeats the same stroke. Again. Then again.
The motion reminds me of someone petting a dog, and maybe that’s what he’s doing—taking something he does all the time without flinching, and transferring that to human contact. Allowing himself this type of touch so he can move on to massaging and…more.
Take all the time you want. I’m not going anywhere.
He adds his other hand. Starting at my shoulders, he traces the muscles and the outside of my rib cage. “This okay?”
You tell me.
“Feels great.” I turn my head as much as I can without snapping my neck, and hope he can see my smile. “You’ve always been good at this.”
He laughs softly, and the next stroke of his hand is more confident. More pressure, less hesitation, and it feels divine. His hands have always been a bit calloused, and the combination of softness and roughness sliding over my skin feels amazing. Little by little, the explorative touch becomes an actual massage. He presses in, kneads muscles that were tighter than I thought and damn near lulls me to sleep.
I’m not hard anymore, which makes it a hell of a lot more comfortable to lie like this, but it’s not nerves or even lack of arousal. I’m just…that…relaxed.
I need to return the favor. Maybe not tonight—I’m following his lead, after all—but I want him to feel this way. Comfortable, relaxed, completely at ease.
I’m nearly drifting off when the bed dips beside me. Michael’s knee materializes beside my thigh, and then his weight eases down over me.
Though he’s barely leaning on me—touching, to be sure, but holding himself up on his knees—it’s suddenly difficult to breathe. The heels of his hands glide up my back, but it’s that thick hard-on against my ass that has my full attention. Two thin layers of shorts do nothing to temper that solid presence or the heat of his flesh, and lying on my stomach is starting to get really uncomfortable again.
Michael’s hands stop. “Turn over.”
Oh, thank God.
He lifts himself off me, and I roll onto my back. To my surprise, he gets back on top. His hands start just above my boxers, and slide upward, applying almost no pressure at all, just skimming across my skin and forcing all the breath out of my lungs. If having his dick against my ass was maddening, this is unreal. He’s rock hard, straining against the front of his boxers, and every time he so much as breathes, he rubs just right to make my breath catch.
The best part, though, is that I can see him now. So many memories flood my brain, and my mouth waters as I see him sitting like this in the past—on top of me, wearing next to nothing, gazing down with those heavy-lidded green eyes and that smile on his face.
I hear his voice from a lifetime ago: “Stop me if it hurts.”
Years later, “I’ll make you forget that he hurt you.”