What am I doing, having him rub my back? Am I insane? A glutton for punishment? What kind of hell am I going to subject myself to, lying here pretending not to lik—
“You need to relax.” Fingers graze the skin on my shoulder, hot hands, singeing where they roam. “You’re so tight.”
So tight? I want to quip. If you think my skin is tight, you should feel my vagina.
But I don’t.
Instead, I squirm, loving every second of this torture, knowing my panties are going to become wet in record time.
Buzz knows what he’s doing, thumbs kneading into my trapezius muscles—and I only know the technical term because for a hot minute in college, I thought I might want to be a sports trainer. Mostly to make my dad happy.
Dodged that bullet, but I won’t be dodging the tingling in my lady parts.
Shit.
It’s already happening and he’s only been touching me for thirty seconds.
Pushing. Kneading. Rubbing.
I can feel the heel of his palm digging, making slow circles over my flesh. Trails down to my rhomboid. Pushes. More pressure, around and around and around, causing my eyes to become half-lidded and drowsy.
“Mmm,” I moan, purely by accident.
“What was that?” His hot breath warms the crook of my neck, just below my ear. “That distinctly sounded like a moan of, oh—I don’t know…pleasure?”
“Dream on, pal.”
Buzz presses his fingers into my back, releasing a few knots. Again. Again. Again. “Wow, you really needed this. You should make an appointment with someone who knows what they’re doing.” He leans in again. “I could set you up with the team’s trainer—he does private massages on the side.”
“Uhhh…” Another moan escapes my mouth. “I’m g-good.”
“You sure?” His voice is a melodic hum or maybe I’m imagining it?
My neck tilts, loving the vibrations from his chest against my back every time he makes a sound.
“How does this feel? Too much pressure?” All fingers of both hands are squeezing gently, the tension in my shoulders loosening as the throbbing between my legs gets worse.
“It’s good. A good amount of pressure,” I respond dumbly. What’s he saying? All I can hear is the sound of my crotch telling him to do it harder—I can handle more.
Massaging. More massaging.
Definitely only more of that.
My brain stops working. His hands haven’t stopped moving. My panties are no longer dry.
I arch my back.
Tip my head forward, hair hitting the mattress, giving his roaming hands better access. My boobs begin to ache.
Buzz’s hands skim my rib cage, one hundred percent out of massaging bounds. Down my hip, skimming the waistband of the mesh basketball shorts I’m wearing, then up again.
He can’t see it, but I bite my lower lip.
I want his hands all over.
My breasts, my ass, between my legs.
No, Hollis—if you give him the cookie, you’ll never hear from this guy again. That is what guys like this do. Give him what he wants and he’ll ghost you.
So what? I argue. You don’t want to date him anyway. You want him out of your life, remember?
Do you though? Do you really want him out of your life?
You wouldn’t be lying in this bed beside him if you did, you liar.
I’ve always been good at lying to myself. Stop trying to stop me, bitch.
Whoa. Cool it with the internal babble, you psychopath.
Oblivious to the ramblings inside my head, Buzz Wallace—the best closer in the entire professional baseball league—strokes my skin and gently traces his fingertips along my spine, slowly moving over every bump. Every curve.
I shiver.
I feel his pecs crowd my back. “Are you turned on yet?”
“What was that statistic you gave me before?”
“Ninety percent of all massages lead to sex.”
I softly laugh. “That is not what you said.”
“I’m close though, give or take a few percentage points.” He waits a few more seconds, hands treading perilously close to my side boob. “So? Are you?”
I want to groan, but that will give me away. I want to deny it, but that would be lying—and I promised I’d be honest. Instead, I go with a half-admission. “Sort of.”
“Sort of? You are or you aren’t. Which one is it?”
Are.
Am.
“Yes.”
Buzz laughs. “Hollis, just admit you’re turned on or I’ll remove my hands from your body.”
Shit—I don’t want him doing that! It feels fantastic, and it’s been forever; Marlon never rubbed my back or did anything but squish my boobs, thinking that was adequate foreplay.
Wrong!
Then Trace whispers, “You know you want to take your pants off.”
Ugh, why did he have to go and say that! Admitting I’m wet and turned on is like admitting I want him to feel me up—which I do! My pride is a brutal mistress, rearing her ugly head, causing the words to get trapped in my throat.
My head twitches. Nods.
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you. Are you saying you’re turned on or that you want to take your pants off? Either way—it’s a win-win for me.”