I move lower along his back, trying very hard not to think about how good his skin feels under my hands.
Which is impossible. Because he keeps reacting.
Every time my fingers dig into a knot he makes another sound.
A groan. A sigh. A quiet curse.
“You’re doing things to me,” he mutters.
“That is literally the point of a massage.”
“You know what I mean.”
No, I absolutely do not want to know what he means.
My hands move along his sides and I feel his muscles flex under my palms.
Good lord. It feels like massaging a brick wall. Except a very warm, very attractive brick wall.
“f**k,” he groans suddenly when my thumbs press into a tight spot near his shoulder. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
I freeze for a second because the sound that just came out of his mouth should honestly be illegal
