Page 13 of Gooey

Blushing furiously, I bite my lip. “That means a lot coming from a man as obviously strong as you.”

He catches me checking him out and chuckles. “Being big doesn’t always mean strong, sugar.”

“It’s not just your size,” I admit, shaking my head. “You have strength in your eyes. That’s the first thing I remember when you saved me, feeling how safe looking into your eyes made me feel.”

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he swears, leg bouncing with anticipation while he sits. “A man only has so much control.”

“What do you need a silly little thing like control for, Moore?”

“I’m holding on by the smallest thread here, sugar,” he rasps. “You need rest.”

“Oh, I’m very rested,” I tease. “My legs are pretty sore, though. Would it be too much trouble to rub them for me?”

His spine straightens and his leg freezes. “You want me to rub you?”

“If you don’t mind,” I answer, rocking on my heels. “You can distract me from the discomfort while telling me about this place. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you’re apparently the owner.”

Again he asks, “You want my hands on you?”

“Yes, I do.”

Bravely, I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my pants, gently pushing them off of my hips. The thick fabric tumbles to the ground, exposing my bare thighs. My sweater is just long enough to hide my panty-covered mound.

He sucks in a breath as he watches me, hands fisting the arm rests of his chair. Climbing into his bed again, I stay above the covers, splaying out my fully exposed legs.

“My thighs are the most sore,” I inform him with a played-up pout. “Do you think you can help me, my hero?”

Silently, he gets to his feet—he can’t help himself. It’s like he’s in a trance, mesmerized by my undressed state. He kneels into the mattress, moving up from the foot of the bed. My legs part, making space for him to come closer.

In a daze, his fingers graze the skin of my shins, experimentally caressing me. When his palms touch next, he slowly glides them up to my knees. My scalp tingles at the unfamiliar sensation. The rough, calloused texture of his working-man hands is wonderful against my soft legs.

My mouth waters and roots of my hair feel like a cold breath just whisked through them, like every nerve has just been stroked and he’s nowhere near my head.

“S-so you own this place?” I stutter, feeling his hands retrace his previous movement.

“My family does,” he answers, voice nearly robotic. “It’s mine, but it’s been in the family for decades.”

“That’s nice,” I comment, unable to get a read on how he feels about this topic.

“It’s fine,” he amends with a shrug.

His hands move up to massage the bottom of my thighs, just above my knees. It’s as sensual as it is relieving. My muscles genuinely are sore, after all.

“Does your family work here, too?” He chuckles humorlessly at the question and I frown. “What’s funny?”

“None of them would be caught dead doing manual labor, let alone living in a place like this.”

“I take it they’re more business-like?”

He snorts. “You could say that, sugar.”

Smiling uneasily, I try to catch his eyes with my gaze. “Why do I get the feeling that you came here to get away from them?”

His murky ocean-water orbs find my face. “Not just them, sweetheart.”

My lips turn down into a frown. “I don’t like seeing you sad, my hero.”

“Not sad,” he corrects, softly swaying his head from side to side. “I just haven’t thought about them in a little while. It’s strange.”

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