Until We Touch (Fool's Gold #15)(21)

At first he thought she meant his erection. While ignoring it made the most sense, a part of him felt a little snubbed. Only then he realized she was talking about the kiss.

The one that had rocked his world and left him hard for the rest of the night. Kissing Larissa had been an impulse—one he couldn’t regret. Not that he would repeat it. Because that led to yet another dangerous place.

“You’re right,” he said. “Ignoring it would be best.”

“Good. Then let’s get on with it.”

She politely turned her back, as she always did. He shrugged out of his robe and hung it on the back of the door, stepped out of his shower shoes, then walked to the table. He stared at it for a second.

“I want to start on my back,” he said.

“Sure.”

He figured he would have a better shot at staying in control during the first half of the massage, when he wasn’t so relaxed.

“I want you to really dig in on my shoulder.”

“Is it bothering you more than usual?”

“Yes,” he lied, hoping the pain she inflicted would help.

He got on the table, faceup, and draped the sheet over himself. Larissa moved next to him. She already had the moist pack out of the hot water. She draped it across his shoulder, then tucked it under. The warmth immediately went to work. He began to relax.

“Should I leave the sheet on or put on a towel?” she asked.

Because she always draped a towel across his groin, he thought. “The towel is fine.”

She crossed to the cabinet and pulled out a towel. He closed his eyes and thought about the last offensive play of the regular season game during the 2010 season. The Stallions had been on the twenty yard line with fifteen seconds left. They’d been down by three and—

She pulled off the sheet. Truly pulled it so that yards and yards of warm, soft linen rode against his penis. It was like silk, he thought, enjoying the sensation. Not as good as Larissa touching him, but still nice. What would make it better was if she was pulling it away to crawl in next to him. Then they would—

He swore silently and opened his eyes. Larissa draped the towel across him, then turned away. She pumped oil onto her hands, as if she hadn’t felt anything. Which she hadn’t, he reminded himself. He was the only idiot in the room.

He forced his brain back to the game, reliving the entire play. He’d thrown a perfect pass to Kenny who had caught it, scoring the winning points. As he remembered the elation of the moment, Larissa slid her hands across his chest.

She’d done it a thousand times before, to stay connected as she moved from one side to the other. It was normal and expected and not in the least bit sexy. The only problem was the light touch was just enough to get his blood pumping a little too fast.

No way, he thought, grinding his teeth together. He would not be controlled by his dick. He was a bigger man than that. Only thinking the word bigger wasn’t his smartest idea.

Sports, he thought frantically, as his blood heated and the familiar growing ache began. Ah, a game they’d lost. Right. Against Dallas. He’d been intercepted in the third quarter and it had all gone to shit after that. He relived the play and the subsequent disaster. It seemed to be enough to cool himself down. He breathed a little easier.

She massaged both arms. She would do his right shoulder before he turned over, so it made sense that her next move was his legs. She walked around the table and put her hands on his left thigh. As her thumbs dug in, her fingers slid along his skin and by the time she got to his knee, he was hard as steel. He had to give Larissa points. She never faltered in her work. Even though his dick formed a good-size tent in the towel. Heat burned in him—half from arousal, half from humiliation.

“I’m ignoring it,” he said at last.

“Me, too.”

He couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed like her voice was a little strangled. Humor or mortification? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know which.

She continued to work her way down his leg before circling the table and starting on his other leg. She half turned to reach the oil. As she moved, the towel got caught or something because he suddenly felt it sliding off. He opened his eyes and started to sit up. Instinctively he reached for it, just as she did the same. He grabbed and she stretched and their hands met, right on his erect penis, her hand trapped beneath his, his long, hard shaft below that.

For the first time ever, Jack got the real appeal of a “happy ending.” In that split second, all he could think was how much he wanted her to touch him there. With her hands or her mouth—he didn’t much care which. As long as they stopped before he came so he could please her as much and then they would finish the whole thing with some old-fashioned intercourse.

Which was not to be, he thought, instantly releasing her hand and half expecting her to jump back and shriek. She didn’t jump or yell, instead she studied him.

“If you want to go take care of that, I can wait,” she said.

It took a second for the meaning of her words to sink in and when they did, he deflated like a popped balloon.

“Excuse me?”

She shrugged. “It would solve the problem.”

She expected him to go masturbate? Like some kid? “No,” he said firmly, gathering the towel and his dignity as best he could and sliding off the table. “No.”

He crossed to his robe and pulled it on. Only then did he let the towel drop to the floor. He slid into his shoes and stalked out of the massage room.