“Yes, but I think they call them massagers?”
He shrugs. “I could see that.”
“Literally not even the same thing. One of these little guys isn’t going to do shit for a sore muscle.” I laugh, pointing out the facts.
“I’d still rather be rubbed down with a sex toy than a massage gun. Those fuckin’ things hurt sometimes.”
Those fuckin’ things hurt sum-tyme.
He is so Southern.
I’ve met and spoken to people from Texas, and never have I ever met one with such a thick drawl.
My legs aren’t covered anymore. At one point, I got too warm and moved a leg out, knee bent, foot resting on my blanket. I’d shaved today, so my legs are smooth—and I’m tan, too, from the spray tanner I’d rubbed all over myself because if there’s anything I love, it’s warm sun-kissed skin.
Duke’s eyes go to my knee; his hand and vibrator follow.
Lightly, it tickles my flesh on the underside of my leg.
Up.
Down.
Slowly, he drags it, watching my expression. “You ticklish?”
He’s asking so innocently—as if he isn’t aware of how the entire thing is affecting me—but how can a man be that clueless?
10
duke
“You ticklish?” I ask her curiously, the little pink toy vibrating between my fingers.
For such a small thing, it’s got a lotta power, and upon studying it, I find plus and minus symbols hidden on the bottom.
Up.
Down.
If I press the power button twice, the thing pulses.
If I press it three times, it hums.
Interesting…
“Me? No, I’m not ticklish.”
“What? Everyone is ticklish.”
She makes a pfft sound before rolling her eyes. “So what I’m hearing is that you’re ticklish.”
Damn.
She makes a valid point, and yes, I am ticklish, though I can’t remember when anyone tried to poke my ribs or pits to force me to laugh.
Tickling is a form of torture.
I hate it, but that doesn’t make me any less curious, considering I have this vibrating buzzer in my hand.