Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(16)

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He mumbles something else, but I don’t catch it. The tips of his ears go red, as if he’s embarrassed. He shifts around, and his shoulders tense as he gets into position.

His split eyebrow and black eye might not feel too good like that. “If it’s too uncomfortable—”

“It’s fine. Let’s just do this thing.”

“Let me know if any area I’m working on is too painful, or if I’m using too much pressure, or not enough.”

“Okay.”

I prepare myself to put my hands on him in a way that is nothing like what Kristi did all night in the privacy of his locked bedroom a year ago. Because like the pushover I can sometimes be, I backed down the second she made it clear what she wanted. It’s also not the way I put my hands on him more than ten years ago when Lance came crashing into my world and turned it upside down.

He tenses as soon as I touch him, even through the cover of the sheet. I can’t decide if it’s the situation that has him so on edge, or me. Or both. So far I’m managing to keep my swoon in check, but then my hands aren’t on his skin, yet.

“I’m checking alignment before I get started.”

“’Kay.”

Telling him what I’m doing doesn’t seem to have the desired effect. His muscles are all bunched up. I have a feeling his hands are balled into fists. Maybe once I start the actual massage he’ll ease up.

I lift the sheet and fold it down, exposing the broad, defined expanse of his back again. Up close, I can make out the intricate details in the cross tattoo. Quinn is written inside it, along his spine. That must have hurt a lot. I stop when I reach the dimples that tell me if I keep going I’m going to get an eyeful of hockey butt again.

Since there’s nowhere to anchor the sheet on Captain Commando, I pull it a little lower, intending to tuck it under his hands. As predicted, they’re balled into fists. But when I graze his forearm, Lance’s hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, fingers lapping over each other. God, his hands are big. Just like the rest of him. And he’s touching me. That familiar hot feeling from forever ago rushes through me. I freeze as he turns to look at me, panic and uncertainty flashing in his eyes before a wall comes up and they go blank.

“Sorry. I didn’t expect that.” He releases my wrist and resumes his completely un-relaxed position on my massage table. Now that he’s not touching me anymore, I can breathe again.

I give him a few seconds before I move around to the other side. “I’m going to tuck the sheet under your left hand.” I say, to avoid startling him again.

Once the sheet is secure, I move to the top of the table, taking in the bruises along his lower back and the ones that span his ribs. Hovering my palms over his shoulder blades, I take a deep breath, exhaling my own anxiety as he seems to do the same. The energy in this room is thick with emotion—his and mine—and I don’t know what to make of it.

“I’m going to start now,” I tell him.

“’Kay,” his voice holds the same tension as his muscles when I place my palms on his clammy skin. I seem to be in control of my physical response to him this time, maybe because he seems so uncomfortable.

I stay perfectly still, hoping some of it will dissipate, but it doesn’t. “Lance?”

His muscles tighten even more. “Aye.”

“Are you okay?”

“Aye.”

“Does this hurt at all?” I don’t see how it could, considering I’m using no pressure.

“No.”

If his tension isn’t pain-based it must be anxiety-based. I’ll never work out any of his knots if he can’t relax. “Can I get you to breathe with me?”

“Huh?”

“It will help you relax.” At least I hope it will.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. I guess,” he says something else I don’t catch.

“In and out to the count of four, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Inhale, one, two, three, four…exhale, one, two, three, four,” I murmur.

It seems to work, and after a moment his shoulders feel less like a wall and more like tight muscles. On the third inhale-exhale combination, I move my hands lower, and he tenses all over again.

“Just relax, Lance.”





CHAPTER 5


HANDS

LANCE

I hate it when people touch me. Like, I lose my shit when someone puts their hands on me, particularly if I don’t expect it. A psychiatrist once told me it’s a result of some kind of post-traumatic whatever from when my brother died. He didn’t know my mum also used to use me as her punching bag, or that I’m edgier about it when it’s women, not men.

I don’t like contact even when I know it’s coming. So that explains why I’m tense as shit lying on this massage table, anticipating the hour of torture that’s about to occur.

What makes it worse, or what made it worse until a few seconds ago, is that this woman—this curvy slip of a woman—is likely going to become the star of every whack-off session for the rest of my life.

My massage therapist is a ginger. A strawberry blonde. A redhead. A real one. Like me. Even though I’m lying facedown on the table, I can envision all that long, pretty hair hanging down her back, her sweet body and perfect round ass hugged by black yoga pants. She’s wearing running shoes—I can see them right now through the hole in the face holder—and her feet are small.