What He Left Behind(30)

I draw back enough to meet his gaze. “Do you still have that massage oil?”

Michael nods.

I push myself up onto my elbow and trail my other hand over his chest. “Maybe I could give you one this time.”

He smiles. “I’m not going to say no to that.”

I smile back.

He gets up to retrieve the oil, and I sit up too.

My first thought is to have him on his stomach, the same way he massaged me the first time, but as tense as he’s been this evening, I want to tread carefully here. The first night, I was pretty sure Michael wanted to give me a massage because the position I was in meant I was completely passive. That may not be such a good idea with him, so as he comes back to the bed, I get up on my knees.

“Instead of lying facedown,” I say, “sit on the edge of the bed.”

He shoots me a puzzled look but hands me the bottle of oil and does as I suggested.

I kneel behind him. “This way, you still have some control.” I pour oil into my hands and start warming it up. “If want me to stop, you can just say so, but you can also get up quickly and easily.”

He turns so his face is visible in profile. “I was going to say I can’t imagine ever wanting to get away from you like that.” He faces forward again, though not before some color rushes into his cheeks. “But I guess after earlier…”

“That’s why we’re doing this. And I know it’s not me you’re trying to get away from.”

“It never is,” he whispers.

I rest my hands on his shoulders. He inhales sharply, and I don’t move. The muscles beneath my palms gradually relax. I still don’t move. Not until his breathing slows down and evens out.

I only move my thumbs at first. Down slowly. Up just as slowly. Drawing long arcs on either side of his spine. He releases a breath, and more of that tension melts away. Not much, but enough that I can feel it. I’ll take it.

He rolls his shoulders beneath my palms, and more tension disappears. I cautiously start moving, making small circles with my hands, gradually making them bigger until I’m touching all over his back.

Little by little, Michael’s spine liquefies. When I push against him, he nearly slumps forward, so I tug his shoulders back to steady him. When I do, Michael leans against me. Then a little harder, pressing my cock just right to make my breath catch.

“Fuck!”

“Someone’s getting turned on.”

“Of course I am.” I kiss his feverish, stubbled cheek. “My hands are on you.”

“Yeah. They are.” He tilts his head back and turns toward me, and our lips meet. Instantly, whatever I’m doing with my fingers becomes priority nothing. He reaches back, sliding his hand around the back of my neck.

His kiss is gentle but not the least bit hesitant. I can’t rub his back or shoulders in this position, so I wrap my arms around him, and he twists toward me. Parting his lips, he nudges mine apart, and when I slide the tip of my tongue under his, he shivers.

Michael gently grasps my wrist and guides my hand lower. He closes my hand around his cock, taking in a sharp breath as he does, and encourages me into a slow, steady stroking motion. As if I need any encouragement. His kiss, his body, his rejuvenated confidence—there’s nothing I won’t do for him right now.

His neck has got to be cramping, but he makes no move to change position. Sitting back like this, he can’t rock his hips, can’t thrust—all he can do is stay like that and let me do everything. Let me have absolute control. And still, he doesn’t try to rearrange a thing.

Michael breaks the kiss, and his head falls back against me. “Oh God. Don’t…” He whimpers and grabs onto my leg. “Don’t stop.”

I keep pumping his cock. He screws his eyes shut. His whole body tenses, and he holds his breath. His cock gets even thicker in my hand.

He’s so still, so tense.

Please, please, don’t panic. Let yourself go, Michael.

He holds his breath. Every muscle is like steel. He’s braced against me, digging his fingers into my leg, not moving, not breathing, as if he’s gone into suspended animation.

I’ve got you.

Slowly, he’s drawing in a breath.

I promise.

Tense. So tense.

Let go.

So f*cking tense.

Michael, I’ve got—

And then he lets go.

Of his breath. Of my shoulder. Of all that tension.

Hot semen coats my hand and my wrist, and I keep stroking him as he gasps for air and he tries to thrust into my fist. Relief surges through me as if I’m the one who’s coming—yes! Yes, you made it! We can f*cking do this.

Michael sighs and sags against me. “Holy shit.”

I hold him, kissing his neck and letting him enjoy the aftershocks for a moment.

“You’re awesome,” he slurs. “That was…”

I kiss beneath his jaw. “If you think I’m going to get impatient doing things like this, touching you and feeling you come, please allow me to liberate you of that notion.”

Michael laughs and turns to me. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, we just gaze at each other. Then he tilts his head back for a kiss.

Eventually, we separate. I grab some tissues off the nightstand, and once we’ve cleaned off the semen and some of the massage oil, we lie back on the pillows.