Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(17)

“Okay, drink that,” I say firmly, pointing to his untouched glass of wine, “and then lay down on your stomach.”

“What?” Grant’s eyes go wider than I’ve ever seen them.

“I’m going to help you loosen up, speed up the healing process,” I say, my gentle voice practiced by years of massage therapy. “You’ll see that I’m very good at this.”

“It’s really fine,” he starts to object, but I’m already on my feet, gesturing for him to get into position.

He needs a massage, and I’m determined to help him in any way that I can. After he’s been so accommodating to me, a shoulder massage is no trouble at all. I try not to think too hard about the excitement brewing low in my belly, my fingers aching to touch this man who seems to be made entirely of firm, yet supple muscle.

He gives me another uncertain look.

“Come on, we don’t have much time before dinner’s ready. I promise it won’t take long.”

Grant’s expression changes to one that’s half amused, half frustrated. He tosses back a significant gulp of red wine and huffs a little before laying his long, lean body across the couch cushions.

From this perspective, I have a good view of his broad shoulders, which taper into his sinewy back and down to his trim waist and muscular butt. The man is fully clothed, but something about the fit of his cotton shirt and sweatpants makes me feel like I’m spying on something entirely indecent.

It’s strange that I even notice since Jason has the body of an athlete too. He’s tall, five foot eleven to my five foot two. But Jason’s midsection was soft—a dad bod, he liked to joke. There’s nothing soft about Grant, though, and he towers over me at a solid six feet, four inches.

“Do your worst,” he says grimly, his cheek squished adorably against the soft fabric of the couch.

I lean my hips against his for support, one leg curled up next to his torso on the couch and the other hanging off the edge, my toes tangled in the wool carpet. I won’t straddle Grant, although that would give me a much better angle to work from . . . that would be crossing a line. With soft hands, I lightly rub his shoulder, focusing on the sore trapezius. I know how firm this guy is, but I’m still surprised when the muscle doesn’t budge under my touch.

“You’re very tense,” I say, my voice low. I work my hands into a deeper, more meaningful press, eliciting a strangled moan from beneath me.

“Fuck, Ana . . .” Grant groans, his eyes fluttering closed.

My cheeks warm even more at the way my name sounds from his lips, his voice deep and guttural. His body remains tense beneath my fingertips, and the warmth of his skin permeates mine. My mind races with thoughts of having my hands on his body, his whole body . . .

Oh my God. What the hell is wrong with me? I need a distraction, fast.

“Do you have any family here, Grant?” I ask, my voice strained.

“No, not anymore.”

“Why’s that?”

“I grew up in Northern California with my adopted parents,” he murmurs, his voice filled with something like . . . trust.

I’m pleased that he’s sharing such personal information with me, because I have a strong feeling that he doesn’t share information about his past with a lot of people. I didn’t know he was adopted. It occurs to me that Jason definitely doesn’t know either, so this isn’t information Grant shares, even with his teammates.

“How old were you when you were adopted?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Six,” he says with a sigh. “You can go harder if you’d like.”

I smirk. Yes, I would like.

I dig my thumbs into his shoulders, now easing both sides of his broad back into a state of deep relaxation. More than with anyone else in my whole career, I’m loving the feel of this giant man melting beneath my fingertips. Maybe that’s the red wine talking.

“I don’t remember much about the foster homes I was in before,” he murmurs. “I was adopted by an older couple, and they raised me right. My dad was a huge hockey fan, so he signed me up for mini-mite camp when I was little. I worked hard at it because I wanted to make him proud. And now here I am.”

I smile, charmed by the unexpected insight I now have into Grant’s life. I dig the heel of my hand into a knot I can feel under his shoulder blade, and he releases another groan. Then I reluctantly give his back a little pat, letting him know that the massage has ended. After a moment, he sits back up, several inches closer to me now than he was before.

“I’m sure they’re very proud of you,” I say, my gaze wandering lazily over his facial features. Dark lashes . . . full lips. A chiseled jaw.

“They were, yeah.” Grant’s eyes are suddenly downcast.

Oh no.

“Were?” I ask carefully as I hand him his wineglass, and his warm fingers brush against mine.

He nods and takes a sip. “They were older when they adopted me. Dad passed six years ago, and Mom followed almost three years ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, my heart aching for this man who has experienced so much loss. Just like me. I open my mouth to tell him about the loss of my own mother, but think better of it. Another time. I don’t want to bring the conversation back to me when I’m just starting to learn more about him.