Weird.
Hollis is flopping around like a dead fish and it’s turning me on.
Wow, have I gotten easy.
Not having sex in forever will do that to ya.
Sure, when I met Miranda—Noah’s girlfriend—I hit on her. It was a joke, the way I was joking when I hit on Hollis, my words mostly trash talk and bravado. All talk and no action.
Because I am done with casual sex and that is all anyone seems to want.
“How many kids do you want?”
“I’m not sure I want kids.”
Hollis isn’t sure she wants kids? Does. Not. Compute.
“Well if you did, how many would you have?”
A loud sigh. “I’m not sure—maybe give birth to one, then adopt one? Or two? I’m open to it, but only if it’s the right person. Four seems like a lot. I also like vacations, so who knows—maybe I’m selfish.”
“Hollis Westbrooke, you strike me as anything but selfish.”
She groans. “I feel like I am sometimes.”
“Do your parents want grandkids?”
I feel her shrug. “My mom, maybe. Dad? Highly doubt he gives a crap, unless it’s one more person who can run the family business. He doesn’t spend time with his own children—he isn’t going to spend time with a grandkid, but it would look nice on a holiday card.” She sounds a smidge bitter about it.
“You have siblings?”
“Yes—a sister and a brother. They both work for my dad.”
Dang. I didn’t know that.
Hollis yawns. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“Typical,” she mutters. “But seriously, I have this knot in my shoulder—can you maybe…”
“Rub it out? Sure. Which shoulder is it?”
She rolls in the dark, presenting me with her back, reaching behind me to grapple for my hand, placing it in the center, on her spine. “Here.”
I spread my fingers wide and present her with some statistics. “Did you know seventy-five percent of all massages end in some form of sexual activity?”
“Are you making that up?”
“Probably. I’m guessing the number is actually higher. You should google it.”
“I’m not going to get turned on while you’re rubbing a knot out of my back, trust me on this.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Pfft. Yes.”
12
Hollis
“Wanna bet?”
“Pfft. Yes.”
Famous last words of someone who knows they’re going to lose. How do I know this? Easy—I’m already half turned on by our conversation, and he hasn’t touched me once. Plus, I’ve had men massage me before and know what can happen. Me, wet.
Still.
I have a horrible knot from sleeping the wrong way last night and a strong set of hands at my disposal, ergo: massage.
“I’m pretty sure I can resist the temptation, but thanks.” I sound cocky and confident.
“Bet me then.”
“I don’t have to make a bet to prove you’re not going to get me all hot and bothered. In fact, you’re probably going to give me one of those half-assed, wimpy, limp-handed jobs that leave me frustrated.” Wait. That sounded horrible. “That’s not what I meant. I meant you probably suck at massaging.”
Buzz makes a grunting sound deep in his throat. “I’ve had my shoulder rubbed out enough that I assure you it will not suck. And, you are going to be turned on.”
“Will not.”
“You’re adorable when you’re clueless.”
Whatever. “Fine. If I get turned on, I have to…take off my pants.”
“You should take your shirt off too, if you want me to do this right. It’s dark—I can’t see your tits.”
Tits.
I blush at the word; he says it so casually.
“So you want me to take my shirt off now, then if I lose the bet, I have to take off these shorts, too? How will you know I’m turned on and have lost?”
“You’re going to tell me.”
That makes me laugh. He sounds so sure. “You trust me not to lie?”
“Yup. I trust you one hundred percent.”
Well.
Well.
That…
That gives me pause. Makes me think. Gets me…all…kinds…of…
Something.
He trusts me one hundred percent.
It’s a strange but good feeling, this new sensation. I feel like we’ve just become friends, but—I selfishly also want to feel his hands on my skin under the guise of a back massage. Don’t get me wrong, my shoulder does hurt and could use thumbs digging into the muscles, but it’s not like I can’t wait.
He’s right, though, about me being honest; I would tell him.
“Fine. I’ll tell you if I get turned on.” I roll my eyes despite the fact that he can’t see my face and raise myself up, shucking off my shirt, knowing no decent rubdown can really happen through a cotton barrier. Just not the same.
The giant t-shirt comes off and I drop it next to the bed where I’ll be able to easily retrieve it later. Then flop back down onto the cool, crisp bed sheets, pretending to be nonchalant about the whole thing.
I hold my breath.
Try not to, waiting.
Tense, but not from repulsion or dread. I’m tense because the anticipation is killing me, the thought of those giant, talented hands on my skin making me warm all over.