Chapter 9: White GlovesAlright, I’m touching him now. My last shred of professionalism. It’s crumbling like a biscuit in my morning tea—I thought it was solid until I reached to grab it and now it’s gone—sunk to the bottom of my murky mug. It’ll choke me on my last sip, but at least it will taste delicious.
I’ve never been good at metaphors.
But—I touch him now. In the morning, I mean, when he’s sleeping. I glide my hand across his back, or his hip, or his leg, sometimes, if it’s sticking out of the covers. I haven’t been bold enough to touch the softer parts of him—the more vulnerable parts that he’ll lay out for me when he’s half-awake and aware of me. His abs—the inside of his thigh—his arse.
I give him a massage a few times a week, but I wish it was more. Hell, I wish it was two or
