Page 52 of One Billion Reasons

“No way,” he mutters. “We need to keep up the ruse. You good?”

“Yep.” No. I’m not. You’re doing this for show, but I want to touch you. And I want him to touch me. Even if it’s a terrible idea, which I know it is.

I bite my lip nervously as the kind masseuse introduces herself as Ana and sets us up in a massage room.

“Lane, why don’t you go first?”

“Oh, um, sure.”

“You can leave your robe on the hook. Just slip under the cover and when I knock, let me know if you’re ready. Miles can stay if you want. I’m sure it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.” She smiles at us, gently, and closes the door. She’s trying to make this calm and normal. And I’m sure most couples that come here have seen each other naked a thousand times. A massage is nothing. But the thought of disrobing in front of Miles… My stomach clenches and my pulse pounds. It’s everything.

I pull at the ties of my robe, and Miles turns quickly, nearly tripping in his haste.

I clamber onto the table and get under the cover. When Ana knocks, I let her know I’m ready.

“Alright. I’m going to fold the cover down. We’ll start with the back and then the legs. I’ll show you what to do, and then I’ll leave you to it.”

Oh, god. She won’t be here the entire time. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse. I hear faint murmuring, and the scent of warm oil fills the air. Her hands smooth down my back and then she kneads into my shoulders.

She murmurs instructions for Miles as she presses. “Make sure you get her whole back. See what I’m doing with my hands. All the way down to her hips.” Her hands press into my lower back, and a soft huff of breath escapes from my mouth.

“And then fold the cover over one leg. Work your way up from her foot. Start with gentle sweeping strokes. See what I’m doing?”

Miles makes a sound of agreement and Ana continues, all business, unaware of the tension in the room.

Finally, she deems Miles sufficiently ready and leaves us with the statement that we can take our time and enjoy.

The first touch of his hand on my back feels like I’ve made contact with a live wire. I tense. His palm is warm and a little slick from the oil.

He runs a finger down my spine. “I’ve never seen the full tattoo before. It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I murmur.

His thumbs dig into my shoulders, and I melt into the bench with a soft groan. He inhales sharply. Strong hands sweep over my sides, down my back, to the base of my spine, where he presses, the way Ana showed him. And then lower. Oh, god. He’s so close. He kneads the side of my butt, and I will the sheet to slip. One pass, another, his hand slipping a little further under the sheet each time.

His breaths are harsh in the silence, but his hands are steady. He folds the sheet back to expose my right leg, and I wriggle, just a tad, until I can feel cool air on my butt. His hands sweep up my leg. His long fingers are firm and sure, not ticklish or hesitant. He stops partway up my thigh each time, and I hate it. I’m drowning in need. Each time he reaches the crease of my butt, my stomach tightens. I squeeze my eyes shut and picture each stroke edging higher, higher, until he brushes between my legs. I want that. Please, Miles. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, but I can’t be the girl who begs him for more than he’s willing to give.

He’s moving up my calf now, avoiding the back of my knee where he seems to know I’m ticklish, and then up the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. He gets right to the point where he stops each time, pauses, and—oh, fuck this. I move down at the exact moment he lifts his hand, and his thick index finger slides between my legs. We both groan into the silent room.

“Lane, I’m sorry,” he says at the same time as I hiss, “Yes” out between my teeth.

I freeze, scared to move, scared I’ll push him away. I forget to breathe while I wait for him to shove away from me. Instead, he strokes his finger through my folds, hesitating just for a moment, and I shudder. That single finger is everything. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop. One stroke, stopping just shy of where I need him. Then another. I chase his hand with my hips, and he huffs a laugh. Finally, he circles my clit, and I moan into the sheet.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t.” He strokes me again, and pleasure spreads in tingles through my body. “But I can’t stop. You’re so wet.” His words are hoarse. “Were you picturing this?”

“Yes,” I gasp.

The low sound he makes in response is pained and longing.

“Do you know how fucking wrong this is, Lane?” He teases me with gentle strokes. I want to cry. I need more. I push my hips back into his hand.

“I don’t care. Please, Miles.”

“I’ve wanted you for so long. So fucking long.” The words make something warm settle in my chest. He sounds angry, and longing, and like his control is on a very short leash. “We can’t.” His swallow is audible. “But I can tell you. Do you want to know what I’d do to you?” His raspy voice is low, seductive in the dark, between our panting breaths.

“Tell me,” I gasp, as he brushes against my clit. “Tell me, and stop teasing.”

“First, I’d get you ready. I want you wet and needy for me. But you’re already there.” He presses against my clit again, and I tremble with pleasure. “Then, when I’d edged you as far as you could go, I’d flip you over so I could see your eyes shut with pleasure while I press into you. I want to watch you fall apart while you take me.” He pushes one blunt finger inside of me in time with his words and it feels delicious. Delicious and not enough. “It’s so hot that you want this. I never imagined you’d want me too. And the thought that you were getting turned on by my hands on you. Fuck—”

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