He continues to meticulously chase away the discomfort that has been plaguing me all day. Once he’s finished with my neck muscles, his hands travel the length of me, spending time on those parts of my body that have been especially bitchy lately.
My groans of delight and hisses of pain guide him, no doubt encouraging him to keep going. “I might need to start calling you Golden Hands.”
His fingers glide to my butt muscles, and my breath hitches. The muscles clench, and then relax, not wanting to give him a reason to skip them. The gap between my legs silently pleads for his fingers to drift off course, to call on my pussy.
Nope. Not happening. We agreed we’re not going there. Kissing only.
“How’s that?” he asks once the massage is finished and I’m a content limp noodle on my bed. Averycontent limp noodle.
“Much better. Thank you.” I make a move to roll onto my back, but the fabric of my tank top doesn’t get the message that I’m moving. It accidentally shifts to the side, and I inadvertently flash a naked tit.
The world goes momentarily still, all the air in the room sucked out. Neither of us moves. Or breathes. Or speaks.
Then mortification kicks me in the ass, and I jerk the fabric back to where it should be. It’s not enough, though, to hide my nipples, taut from having Garrett’s hands on my body. They press perkily through the cotton.
Garrett rears up as if a venomous snake is coiled next to me, keeping him in his place. “That’s good. I…I should get going. I have a few more hours left of writing to do tonight.”
“Right.” I push to a sit, my legs dangling over the side of the bed, and I cover my chest with my arm, blocking his view of my eager nipples. “Good luck with that.” I fashion my voice so it sounds relaxed, upbeat. Perhaps a little too upbeat. But if Garrett notices, his expression gives nothing away.
“Thanks. And good luck…good luck with your eye problem.” The last part is rushed out so fast, I almost laugh at how adorably awkward he sounds. And maybe I would have if that hidden part of me wasn’t shaken to the core.
The apartment door clicks shut, and hollow silence packs the space Garrett recently filled.
34
GARRETT
Thursday morning,my words flow onto the page—a mountain stream fed by the early spring melt-off. That might have something to do with Safina—the Zara-inspired character—being in the scene.
It’s a steamy scene—as steamy as it can get when I’m the one writing it.
I hadn’t intended for it to unfold as it had. But I couldn’t get the picture of Zara’s naked breast from three days ago out of my head. The perfect fullness of it. And the hard, rose-brown nipple that has since fueled my lust-filled dreams.
And the next thing I knew, while writing this morning, the argument between Safina and William had shifted directions, and clothes started flying. Their clothes.
For some reason, the scene felt right. Correction. The scene felt like it fit, but I have no idea if I used the right words or if it came out sounding cheesy.
Maybe Zara could check it out and give me feedback.
I rub my hand down my face, imagining her reading the scene, only for her to burst out laughing. But better her than a reviewer or a reader. They won’t be laughing…unless it’s so bad, it’s funny.
A text pings on my phone.
Tyson: Deploying next week for twelve months. Hoping to bring family to visit you once I’m stateside again.
Me: Looking forward to it. Can’t wait to challenge your ass on the local trails.
I’m sure he’ll whipmyass on them—not that I’ll admit that to him.
I return to working on my novel.
A giggle outside the window a few minutes later yanks my attention from the laptop screen to my daughter. Athena is blowing bubbles while Peony tries to catch them. But the breeze keeps playing games, pushing them away, preventing Peony from touching them.
I could use a brief break from writing, so I put my laptop on the desk and join them in the backyard.
“Hey, you two. What are you doing?” It’s a rhetorical question.
Peony points to the bubbles floating up. One bumps into a branch and bursts. “Pop!” Peony’s toothy smile grows wider.
