Clark looked at Riley as if she’d sprouted an extra head. “I don’t want a massage from you.”
“Aha! Exactly.” She pointed at him. “See? Because you’re attracted to me. And you’re worried you might get overcome.”
“I’m sorry.” Clark recoiled. “You think you have better self-control than I do?”
“No.” Riley smiled sweetly. “I know I do.”
“Fine.” His nostrils flared. “Give me a massage, then, if it’s that important to you.”
“Fine!” Was she shouting? Riley didn’t mean to be shouting. She lowered her voice to a normal decibel. “I will.”
“Great.” Clark reached for the hem of his sweater.
“Whoa. Hey. Whatcha doing?”
“Taking off my jumper,” he said, his voice deceptively harmless. “That way you can access the muscles more directly. Since you’re not attracted to me, I’m assuming that won’t be a problem for you.”
Oh ho ho. He thought he was so slick. As if she would lose her mind at the sight of his bare chest. Or go to pieces because she had to slide her hands down his hot, naked shoulders. Please! Bring it on.
“Of course I don’t mind.” Riley made a pshh sound like a tire with a puncture. “I feel completely neutral, bordering on negative, about your body.”
“Great,” Clark said. “Glad we’re clear on that front.”
Riley made herself watch as he yanked his sweater off, two hands at the back tugging it over his head. She made herself not blink, not look away, from the dark hair below his navel, the mouthwatering cut of the muscles that arced from his hip toward his groin, a single vein jumping just above the top of his jeans.
Riley took a breath, a totally normal, not-at-all-shaky breath, as he revealed the smooth, hard planes of his stomach, the broad expanse of his pecs, small brown nipples, more dense hair, and a collarbone that begged for her teeth.
“Riley?”
She snapped her eyes to his face. “Yes?”
He was done, holding his sweater and staring at her expectantly.
“I mean, yep.” She waved a hand toward his body. “Just as I suspected. You look . . .” Why did her tongue suddenly feel big in her mouth? “. . . bleh.”
“Thanks,” he deadpanned. “Do you want me on the couch?”
Okay, he had to be doing the innuendo on purpose. But that didn’t stop her from picturing laying him flat on his back. Riding him at a gallop. Hands pressed to that chest, holding him down as she carved her initials over his heart with her fingernail, as he panted beneath her, teeth gritted, asking for more.
Jesus. Get your head in the game, Rhodes. This is about showing him you’re stone cold—or better yet, making him sweat!
“That works.” On only slightly unsteady legs, she got into position, kneeling on the seat behind him once he sat down.
She started with her thumbs at the base of his neck, pushing firmly up and out toward his ears. His skin was pink under her hands, almost red and so warm.
Riley inhaled sandalwood and orange and something spicy like black pepper. His soap probably cost more than her weekly grocery bill—he probably tasted like potpourri. But underneath was the salt of his skin, the base of his hairline just a tiny bit damp.
Clark sat stiffly under her hands, back ramrod straight, his breathing low and noticeably slowed—controlled. Good. She hoped he was nervous.
Riley massaged the sides of his jaw with her knuckles. With the way he constantly ground his molars, she figured he needed it. Strange to think that just a few days ago, she’d had her hand on this same skin with completely different intent, melting against him, opening for him, yielding.
She had to work to knead at the thick slabs of his shoulder muscles, calling on the strength in her hands and wrists and forearms. See? She was totally chill. Clark’s was just a body, like any other. Just the body of a man who had thought he could take her down with a few words, an arrogant demand. She dug in her knuckles.
“Is the pressure okay?” He really was tense—his muscles wire-taut instead of supple.
His smooth skin was starting to glisten under her hands. Riley had no idea if he was enjoying this. Or if she wanted him to, even a little.
Clark grunted, the sound rough and guttural, making her belly flutter.
She pressed her thighs together where she knelt, closing her eyes for just a second. It was heady, having permission to touch him, knowing she might grant him some degree of pleasure or relief even as he resented it.
Riley pushed up with her palms parallel on either side of his spine. She was going to win this round. Make him weak.
Leaning forward to whisper in his ear, making sure to scrape her teeth just shy of his skin, “Just let me know if you want it harder.”
Clark bent his knee, crossing one leg over the other. “Feel free to go as hard as you like.”
Using the side of her hand, she worked at a knot in his back, coaxing the muscle to relax, slow and steady. She didn’t have to hurt him to win.
Curse breaking was hard on the body. She knew about muscle systems, about pressure points. What to feel for, how to coax the response she wanted.
After a bit, Riley felt a shift, a release, as she unlocked a sequence down his back.
Clark groaned, letting his head fall forward on his chest, breathing like a wounded lion.
Only because he couldn’t see her behind him, Riley smiled a little. “You okay?”
“Grand,” he said as the tips of his ears turned pink.
She scritched at his scalp in a way that wasn’t strictly about releasing aches, luxuriating as she ran her fingers through the thick, silky strands of his dark hair until Clark sighed, tipping his head back into her hands.
Riley liked him like this, liquid, easy, quiet. It was more difficult than she’d care to admit to keep her thoughts from straying to other noises he might make for her. She squeezed and released where his neck met his shoulder, applying the type of firm pressure he seemed to prefer.
Suddenly, Clark stood up, bringing the couch pillow with him. “I think that’s enough.”
Riley blinked, coming back to herself. “Was there something you wanted to admit?”
She wasn’t born yesterday. Even if he hadn’t reached for camouflage, she could see now that his pupils had blown wide, his bottom lip carrying tiny indents from his teeth. He was affected.
But fuck. Seeing him so worked up was almost a worse temptation than getting to rub her hands all over him. Getting to breathe in the scent of his body.
Suddenly, she wanted her mouth everywhere her hands had been, wanted to strip off her own clothes and press against him, to have him reach back and yank her into his lap, to writhe while he told her she was right, of course she was right, he needed her desperately, had barely been able to sit still, to keep from howling for how much he had to have her.
She didn’t want to stop, Riley realized with mounting horror, even if that meant being right, so she had to get out of here. Now.
“No. Thanks,” Clark said, practically shoving her out the door. “For the massage, I mean. I’m much more relaxed now.”