With his hand on mine, I give in.
“You’re crazy,” I say, but it’s hardly a protest as I spread my hand wider, no longer pushing him away. Instead, I dig in. I press. And then I drag my fingers down over the hard wall of his pecs.
He feels like coming home.
I wanted to shut him out to protect myself. It’s a natural human response. We are programmed to fight for survival, and he represented pain, a threat to my well-being, the spiked bat that would hurt me.
But I’ve been trained to look at both sides of a situation. To handle either aspect of a debate. To argue the pros or the cons. Those skills rise up in me once more as I consider the other side of his stunt. Yes, he might have embarrassed me. But on the other hand, he’s the one who let down his guard and showed me, in his own very Tyler way, how vulnerable he could be.
Baring all took away the threat of pain. I can no longer see him as a Molotov cocktail for my heart when he’s willing to chase me down the hall without even his skivvies on.
I don’t keep the light on red. I turn it to yellow and proceed with caution.
My fingers travel to his abs, and I trace the top row of his six-pack. My breath hitches. My skin flares with heat.
I have to fight the urge to bend and run my tongue over the grooves. Instead, my fingers do the walking. Down the middle, over the muscles, and to his waist. I don’t look in his eyes. I can’t. I won’t venture further south, either, even though I’m keenly aware of his hard cock, thick and pulsing mere inches from me. A weapon of mass pleasure.
I want to kiss him so badly. Want to touch him everywhere. I want to smash into him and reconnect with this frustrating, brilliant, vexing man I once loved—falling in love with him was like floating in the water under a clear sunlit sky. He warmed me all over.
But there are things to say. “It’s not you being naked that drives me crazy,” I say in a whisper.
He tucks his finger under my chin and lifts my face. “Tell me what drives you crazy,” he says. His voice is an invitation, like my answer matters. Like I matter. And although I felt like I didn’t mean a thing to him when he cut me from his life, I can tell I mean something to him now.
As the pitter-patter of gently falling rain sounds on the speakers and the room nearly hums with this electric energy, I part my lips. “What drives me nuts is that I might seem like a hard-ass.”
He recoils and shoots me a stare like I’m crazy. “Seriously?”
I nod. “Here you are, naked, and gorgeous, and contrite, and asking for one date, and if I say no, I’m the total hard-ass.”
“To who?”
“To anyone.” I point my thumb at the door. “To everyone who said to give you a chance.”
“They’re not here right now. It’s you and me.”
“But I feel like I can hear people saying, ‘Give him a chance. It’s one drink. He’s naked in front of you. Just go out with him.’”
The corner of his smile lifts. “They probably are saying that. But what do you say? Do you say ‘you should give him a chance’?”
A tiny grin tugs on my lips, too. “Maybe . . .” I tease as I drag my nails down his chest once more, and this time I’m rewarded with a groan. A low, dirty groan that sends a wild thrill through me. He inches closer, his thick hard-on pressing against my yoga pants. I fight back every carnal instinct telling me to slide my body against his. To wrap my arms around his neck. To crush my mouth to his.
I don’t know if he’s changed.
But more than that, I don’t know if I have.
All I know is this: he’s more than earned a drink, and that’s not simply because he’s aroused me like no one ever has. “But right now I say you’re getting the hardest deep tissue massage of your life, and you better leave me a great tip,” I say playfully. Then I swat his ass.
Oh, my.
That’s one firm cheek if I ever felt one.
And I want to get a full-on view. Not to mention a hands-on one, too.
I pat the massage table. “Hop on, Mr. Pollock.”
He smiles, doing as told. And there he is, facedown, ass-up on my massage table. The verdict is in. He is the proud owner of a perfect, round bubble-butt—hard, sculpted, and totally squeezable.
I could objectify him all day long.
But I’ve done enough of that. For the next fifty minutes, I focus on my job. Covering him up to the top of his cheeks, I run a hand down his back. A sexy growl rewards me as he shifts his body, adjusting to being facedown on the table.
I step away, reaching for the bottle of vanilla massage oil on the counter and drizzling some into my palm. I press my hands on his shoulders, and I begin there. For nearly an hour, I dig into his muscles. I unknot the tension I find in his right shoulder, above his hip, and along his spine. He sighs, he murmurs, he even drifts off to sleep at one point. I can tell from his even breathing. With him in dreamland under my hands, the rainfall our aural companion, I let myself relax, too, and reflect on the past week.
I didn’t expect to bump into him in the park, obviously.
I didn’t think he’d track me down online, determined to set the record straight.
And I certainly didn’t anticipate he’d send me a salad, deliver a potted plant of lilacs, and chat with me on the phone.
But above all, this is the unexpected. And I find I like it.
More than I thought I would when he strutted into the hall, his hand covering his package.
I might have some explaining to do to my employees. But I don’t have anything to explain to myself. I want to know what happens next.