The Hot One

“I’m your ten a.m. massage, and I’m here to say I’m sorry.”


“You booked a massage?” she asks, like that statement makes the train puzzler even more confusing.

I nod. “I sure did. A massage and an apology for the way I cut you out of my life.”

She runs a hand through her hair, still processing the riddle of me. And, for the record, two trains can enter that one-way tunnel without colliding—one goes in at noon, the other at midnight.

She parks her hands on her hips. “You know, Tyler. That really hurt,” she says, and I can hear the pain in her voice. The sound of it hooks into my heart.

I nod. “I understand why it would, and it was something I thought I had to do. But I can see now that I could have handled it a lot differently. In so many ways.” I hope she can hear the honesty in my voice as I pull the loose tie from around my neck. Her eyes follow my every move, drifting down to the green silk in my hands. She nibbles her lip, a tell if I ever saw one. “Your favorite color. I wore it for you,” I say, trying to get our flirt on again.

“I love ties.” Her words tell me one thing, but her delivery says another. She bites out each word like they cost her something. “And I can’t believe you had the audacity to wear my favorite color.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Audacity is my middle name. Besides, why would I wear anything but your favorite color?”

She snaps her gaze away from me. “I can’t even look at that tie right now.”

I shrug and toss the tie on the stool in the corner of the room. “Out of sight. Out of mind.”

Slowly, she turns back to me. “Good.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s out of my mind, too.”

Time to put something else in her mind then.

And so, I undress for her. Because sometimes you’ve got to give it your all. Show a woman you’re willing to bare your heart for her.

And, let’s be honest, your body.

Look, you’ve got to play to your strengths when you’re negotiating. You need to know what your opponent wants. And sometimes you need to give them what they can’t resist. I’m in excellent shape, fit as a fucking fiddle, and I work out hard. Delaney used my body as her playground once upon a time. She loved getting naked with me.

Let’s do this.

Off goes one sleeve, then the next. I toss it behind me. My hands reach for my belt.

“Tyler,” she says, but her voice hardly sounds like a protest. She sounds half turned on, half pissed.

I focus on the first half. Glass half full and all. “And I listened to you. You said I needed to do it properly and to mean it. So, I’m taking a chance, like I did when we met in college and I kept asking you to go out with me,” I say, unhooking the belt buckle.

She arches a brow. “Like that time you showed up at the snack bar, plopped down next to me, and asked what it would take to get me to finally go out with you?”

“And you said, ‘An ice cream sundae with chocolate sprinkles.’ The snack bar didn’t carry sprinkles, so I went out and found some. And then you said yes.”

She shakes her head, like she’s all discombobulated. “That was different than this,” she says, waving her hand up and down my body.

“But do you want me to stop? I could get chocolate sprinkles this time, too, if that helps.” I yank the belt from the loops and let the leather fall to the tiled floor.

Her lips part, and she stares—simply stares at my hands poised above my zipper. No answer comes, so I trust she wants me to do the opposite of stop—she wants me to keep it up.

I slide open the button on my pants.

She inhales sharply. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you I’m sorry. Meaning it. And asking you out one more time.”

Her eyebrows knit together. A tiny smile tugs at her lips. But then she erases it, pointing at me. “You can’t just come in here and strip.”

“But isn’t that what I’m supposed to do before a massage?” I tilt my head like I’m trying to remember. “I’m pretty sure fully clothed is not the proper attire.”

“You know damn well that fully clothed isn’t the proper attire. But you also know stripping isn’t how it’s done, either.”

I furrow my brow again. “How else would I get down to the appropriate state of undress then?” I ask, tossing the question back at her.

She heaves a frustrated sigh. “Mr. Pollock. You’re completely ridiculous.”

“Yes, I am. But I was a persistent bastard in college, and I got you to go out with me. I’m hoping it will do the trick again.”

And the rest goes quickly. I unzip my pants, push them to my hips then down, and her eyes pop wide.

“What. The. Hell?”

I shrug casually, then shove the pants to my ankles and step out, leaving them on the floor.

She squeezes her eyes shut for a second, opens them and lets her gaze drift down to my boxer briefs. Black and snug. I’m not sporting a raging boner. C’mon. I’m apologizing. It’d be a little tacky if I was pointing in her direction. Not right away, at least. But she is fine as sin, and as sexy as she’s ever been in those black yoga pants and a black V-neck T-shirt. A thin silver chain with a turtle charm hangs around her neck, and her blond hair is pulled into a ponytail. A tremor of lust rattles me as I remember how she liked me to pull her hair.

And the one-quarter in my shorts turns into a semi.

Her eyes stray to my chest, like she’s taking me in.

Good.

I’m not saying relationships should be built on the physical. But it can be one hell of a fantastic foundation. The way she looks at me tells me she likes what she sees. And I like the way she stares with heat in her dark eyes.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” I say, because I can’t not.

Her hands flutter and seem to dust across her breasts. They’re not big. They’re small but firm and perfect. Perky, too. “Thank you,” she answers, but she’s not giving in yet. So I keep going.

“And you said I need to mean it. Here goes. I’m stripping for you, but I don’t want your brain cells to evaporate. I just want you to say yes.”

I strip off my boxers, let them fall to the floor, and stand naked in front of her. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips. She looks at me, and yeah, I do have a hard-on now. No semi anywhere—the full monty deserves a full monty. Her chest rises and falls, and I love that I can tell she’s fighting with herself.

She purses her lips, then she brings her fingers to her forehead like she’s shocked I did this. Like she can’t even process it. “I don’t know what to say,” she says, taking time with each word. “You’re naked at my work, and I can’t even think.”

“I’m supposed to be naked.”

She lifts her head and points wildly to the massage table. “You’re supposed to be naked under the sheets, not standing here at full mast, showing off your rock hard body and perfect dick. I can’t think straight when you look like this.”

I rein in a grin.