Chapter 29
Ophelia
Imust have lost my mind completely. First I practically offered to kiss his ass, then I almost propositioned him. Henry must have thought me out of my mind or too bold or... or maybe he liked it, because he was pretty excited about the massage. I’d meant to kiss him again or offer to trade something in exchange for the knitting needle poke, but I wasn’t brave enough. I’d chickened out.
And then he asked if the massage was full body. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing in disbelief as I balanced on my knees next to Henry’s prone form. He was just as much a tease as Evershaw, that was for damn sure.
He was every bit as intimidating, too. I could hardly breathe as I spread some scented oil on my hands and stared down at the broad expanse of his back. He was covered in scars—slashes and divots, what could have been burns, maybe a gunshot or two. I cleared my throat as I leaned over him and slid my hands up his spine. “What happened, with all of this?”
“Got knocked around a lot as a kid,” he said gruffly, and his grip on the headboard tightened.
I tried not to groan. Of course. He’d already said how miserable his childhood was and what a bully his stepfather had been, and there I went, bringing up the past. Best massage conversation ever. I concentrated on the feel of his skin against mine and almost immediately flushed. He really was all muscle, all coiled danger and strength. It made it hard to breathe.
I worked at the knots in his shoulders, humming a little under my breath. I didn’t mind the quiet as much anymore, not when the maelstrom of doubts and worries in my head had settled down with Deirdre’s lessons. It wouldn’t be easy, she’d been right about that, but knowing what the problem was was half the battle.
“How did you perfect your technique?” he grumbled, his chest expanding in a deep sigh. More tension ran out of him and the knots in his muscles loosened.
I smiled to myself, pleased that it seemed to be working, and maneuvered to straddle his thighs so I could drive my thumbs into the tension in his lower back. “I took some classes after high school and figured it might help me learn to control the magic. All the incense and meditation and relaxation aromatherapy stuff seemed like it might calm things down.”
“Did it?” He groaned in a low rumble that made heat kindle low in my stomach. He made the most unbelievable sounds...
I wondered what he sounded like during sex. I sucked in a breath at the thought and almost fell off him as he shifted around on the bed. Henry reached back to catch my side, squeezing my hip as he lifted his head and peered back at me. “You okay?”
“Yep,” I said, and tried to sound confident and totally with it. Like I was absolutely the kind of girl who’d done this sort of thing before, giving a guy a massage in his bed, covered in oil and half-dressed, and hoping for a little more than just a massage. I cleared my throat a few times before I managed to remember his question and whether I’d already answered. “It didn’t help the magic, but it’s a handy skill to have, I guess.”
“No complaints here,” he said. His one arm remained back, his hand resting casually on my thigh, and periodically he caressed the sensitive skin and made me want to grind down against his ass.
“I’m sure there aren’t,” I muttered, and he laughed.
And once again he almost bounced me right off the bed. I worked my elbow into a particularly tough knot and was rewarded by another groan, and I ignored that I almost lay full-length on top of him. “You carry a lot of tension in your back, you know.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
I thumped the knot to make my point, and he grumbled, his fingers a little bolder as he explored the hollow behind my knee. He sent shivers through every inch of me, until I forgot to rub his back and just sat there with my head tilted back and my eyes closed. Henry shifted his weight again, lifting his hips a touch, and I held onto his sides as the air in the room grew hazy and close.
I ran my slick palms up his ribs, reveling in the feel of him. Reveling in the power I held, touching him and watching him react to every motion. Squeezing my thighs against his had Henry tensing up again, and his other hand released the headboard so he could hold onto me with both hands. It grew tough to swallow.
“A lot of tension,” I whispered. “Must have a lot of stress in your life.”
He made another grumbly noise. “The only thing causing me stress is right here,” he said, and squeezed my ass with both hands.
I squeaked in surprise, and braced my hands on his back. “Wh-What? A massage is supposed to be relaxing, I thought.”
Henry laughed so hard he had to catch my side and maneuver me off his legs and over to the mattress, and he moved to his side, facing me. And it immediately became clear how much he’d enjoyed the massage. A lot. Like, a lot.
He caught my hands in his and didn’t bother hiding his grin. “Relaxing isn’t quite the word I’d use, but I loved every second of you crawling all over me, covered in oil.”
My whole face caught fire. “That isn’t—”
He chuckled and abruptly dragged me to him so he could kiss me, working his hand into my hair to keep my head close. I tensed, suddenly wary and not wanting to get oil all over his sheets, but as he took his time with the kiss, I started to relax. Henry bumped his nose against mine and toyed with the hem of my T-shirt. “Maybe I can return the favor.”
“I don’t think you have the concentration necessary to—”
And again he laughed, ducking his head to bury his face against my shoulder. I smiled in spite of not really knowing what he thought was so funny, simply because he had an amazing laugh. I wanted to hear more of it. I didn’t think for a second that he was laughing at me, or that it was mean-spirited. He just found a lot of joy in life.
Henry tilted his face up to kiss me again, then nuzzled behind my ear. “I want to touch more of you, Ophelia. Want to take off your shirt and get a little oily?”
It was my turn to laugh, though it was mostly nerves, and I looked down at where he played with the T-shirt. I suddenly wished I’d worn something nicer to bed—not that I had expensive lingerie or anything that would have impressed a guy—instead of a dingy T-shirt and ancient pajama pants with hearts on them.
