Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(39)

“I think you need to stop.”

“I’m so sorry.” I attempt to drop my hands, but he’s holding them in place. His breathing is heavy, as if he’s anxious. My thumb is below his bottom lip. That full bottom lip I was just thinking about. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He clears his throat. “Yeah. That’s not the problem.”

“I don’t underst—” The words get caught in my throat as I lift my gaze. The white sheet covering his body has a lump below his waist. A very obvious, ample lump.

He releases my hands, and they slide down either side of his neck. The action makes his erection twitch.

“Oh.” It comes out a squeak. I place my palms on the table on either side of his head.

“Oh is right.” He sort of cough-laughs.

“You really aren’t compensating at all.” I slap a hand over my mouth, because it’s probably the most inappropriate thing I’ve ever said to a client. “I’m so sorry,” I say from behind my hand.

This time Lance snorts.

I try to reclaim professionalism. “That’s a totally normal reaction.”

“Oh yeah?” Lance is looking at me with an expression that borders on amused, except there’s an accompanying hunger that I recognize. That look was only trained on me for a few seconds last year, but I’d felt it, and I feel it now—in all the wrong places. Or the right ones, depending.

“I’m going to give you a few minutes. Just, uh, tell me when you’re dressed.” I roll back my stool and tear my eyes away from his massive erection. I’ve been staring this entire time.

I go directly to the kitchen and turn on the tap. I pump soap on my hands, scrubbing away the oil and what I imagine is the scent of Lance’s cologne. At least I have the restraint not to be a total loser by sniffing them first.

I try not to envision him getting dressed, tucking that hard-on away. I wonder if he’s in my bathroom relieving himself. I wonder if he’s still hard.

“Stop it.” That I’m talking to myself again is a real issue.

I’m worried that I’m crossing lines I shouldn’t by treating him, especially here. It’s too personal, intimate in a way it shouldn’t be. Or maybe that part is all in my head because I have these memories he’s unaware of.

Either way, I don’t think I’m doing a good job of compartmentalizing him as a client. Here I am, treating him in my living room, and now he’s got a raging hard-on because of a face massage. My face massage.

I grip the edge of the counter, weighing my options. I should pass him over to someone else as a client. Marcie could work. Plus she’s older, and not really attractive, so maybe he’d be less likely to get hard for her.

Not that it’s me he got hard for. It’s just the physical contact. It has to be; the other possibilities are too out-there to entertain. And even if I am the reason for his hardness, it’s not like he’d want anything from me other than physical release. I’ve seen enough online to understand Lance isn’t a guy who dates. Wishing that wasn’t the case is another reason I should probably let someone else treat him.

“Hey.”

I look up to find him standing in the doorway of the kitchen with his hands in his pockets. I keep my eyes at chest level. “Oh! Hey.” I turn off the water and force what I hope is a natural smile.

“Got my situation all sorted out.”

“What?” I cough, and this time I look directly at him.

“Oh, fuck.” He raises his hands in the air. “I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t whack it in your bathroom or anything.”

“Right. Okay.” I try not to let that image become more than vapor in my head.

He continues to explain. “I thought about dead kittens and old, wrinkly boobs, and the situation resolved itself.”

“Gotcha.”

“Sorry. That was probably a lot more information than you needed. I’ve been hanging out with Violet too much lately.”

The twinge of jealousy over another girl’s name is as much a problem as my fixating on Lance’s hard-on.

“Is that your girlfriend?” I want to crawl into the sink and stay there for the rest of my life.

Lance laughs. “No. Violet’s my team captain’s wife. She’s nuts, and she has zero filter. She’s fun to be around, but a little crazy.”

“Oh.” I’m annoyed by my relief. “Can I get you something to drink? A glass of water?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. That’d be good.” He looks around my kitchen. “This is a nice place.”

“It’s old school, but I like it.”

“It’s comfortable. It must’ve been a nice place to grow up.” He leans on the counter and rearranges the apples in my fruit bowl. “My house is huge. Sometimes I don’t like it. Like, there’s too much space just for me. I try to fill it up with people, but that makes it worse a lot of the time.”

“What do you mean?” I pass him a glass.

His fingers graze mine when he takes it. I can’t tell if it’s intentional or I just want it to be.

“There isn’t balance, I guess. Like, it feels empty when it’s just me, but then when all the people are there, things get out of hand and I make bad decisions.” He straightens and chugs the contents of the glass before setting it down on the counter. “It’s like how I know I should know you, and I keep trying to find you in here.” He taps his temple. “But I was probably wasted as shit, and everything’s a big black hole.”