More Than I Could (51)

“What are you doing?”

“Let me help you feel better.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rough. It strums a taut chord in my belly that I try to ignore.

“I took a massage class in India,” I say, not mentioning that it was one-half hour of instruction five years ago. I remember virtually nothing. “There’s no reason to sit in pain when I might be able to assist.”

Good. That sounded virtuous. He doesn’t need to know I’m so wet that I can feel it on my thighs.

“Having your hands on me feels like I’m asking for trouble,” he says.

“What are you saying? That you can’t control yourself?”

His eyes hood as he watches me stop in front of him. Slowly, he drops his hand, giving me the okay to touch him.

“I can control myself.” Much better than I knew I could. “Besides, I’m an employee doing my job.”

“How’s that?”

“I’m here to make sure that Kennedy is taken care of,” I say. “And what happens if you can’t go to work next week and then can’t afford food? I would’ve failed at my job.”

He chuckles.

“Sit on the floor,” I say. “Let me sit on the couch behind you.”

Chase does as he’s asked. My breathing is ragged as I sit, placing one leg on either side of him. I block out the proximity of his head to my sex. Don’t go there, Megan.

He leans his head to the side, offering me access to the area that hurts. It’s slightly swollen.

“You should probably see a doctor,” I say.

“I’ll take another anti-inflammatory. It’ll be all right.”

Holding my breath, I reach for him. Blood races through my veins as I drape my hands over his shoulders. I slide my hands all the way down until my thumbs rest on the top of his trapezius muscles.

Holy shit.

The contact causes an explosion inside my body that settles in the apex of my thighs. My brain screams that this is a very bad idea. What am I doing? But my body doesn’t stop touching his.

He sucks in a breath, and his head tilts back as if he’s absorbing the same hit of adrenaline as I am. It gives me a full view from his Adam’s apple to his lap. I’m convinced he was crafted by God, and God knew this would punish me someday.

Because I can’t really touch him.

I draw his muscles upward with gentle pressure, hoping my hands aren’t shaking. Pressing the tips of my fingers into his shoulders, I squeeze and lift the muscle toward his collarbone. I find a rhythm, scaling the length of his shoulders. Kneading and pulsing against his skin, I focus on the areas that seem to get the most response.

“Damn, Megan,” he hisses. “That feels fucking good.”

“You’re tight. No wonder it hurts.”

“Right there.” He groans, moving his neck around as I work on him. “Maybe now I can sleep tonight.”

I ease the pressure. My palms skim across him and take in the dips and ridges of his muscular body. I allow my fingertips to drift from the side of his neck and down his shoulder, breaking contact just before his triceps.

My mouth goes dry, and my chest constricts. Having him in my hands makes it terribly hard to remember where the line is drawn. Or if there is a line because the longer I touch him, the more uncertain I become.

I want him. I want him so freaking bad that it hurts.

My sex throbs, begging for contact—for relief. I need to be touched. I need to rid myself of the swell of lust that’s been building since I saw him climb out of his truck almost a week ago.

Chase leans back and rests his head against the couch. The sides of his head press into my inner thighs moments before he tilts his chin. He looks up at me.

His eyes are filled with the same feeling, the same desire—the same need filling me. It’s raw and unfiltered. It’s hot.

I force a swallow and stare down at him, my hands resting on the top of his chest.

He doesn’t say anything. Still, he manages to ask me a question—the one I want him to ask, but the one he shouldn’t. Do you want to take this further?

I’m torn. I want to say yes. I want to lose myself in him for as long as it takes to get this merciless need out of my system. But I know why we agreed not to. I need to make sure that he’s thought this through …

My breathing grows ragged. “There are a hundred reasons we shouldn’t.”

“No. There’s only one.”

Right. “Well, that one reason is bigger than a hundred others could be.”

My heart slams against my ribs, and I wonder if he can hear the raucous. I wonder if he can hear the rush of my blood or the way my lungs fill and release quicker than usual. Can he feel the heat of my body?

“I knew this is how we would end up,” he says, his long lashes blinking.

“How’s that?”

“With me fighting myself about you.”

I force a swallow, knowing he’s right. This was his concern, and it was obviously justified. I don’t want to look like I’m pressuring him or trying to wiggle my way into getting what I want.

But as I shift my weight, his head wiggles against my thighs, and I think I might die.

“We agreed not to go there,” I say, forcing the words to come out of my mouth. “Yes, I initiated this tonight, and maybe I overestimated my ability to touch you and walk away. But I can’t let you forget why this is a bad idea.”