Page 59 of Embrace Me Forever

“Wait. Are you ticklish on your shoulders too?”

She giggles but doesn’t admit anything.

I add, “If they’re sore, the massage will hurt. In a good way. It definitely won’t make you ticklish.”

That innocent reaction lingers, infused with a shyness that makes me wonder if she’s ever experienced this before.

“Come on, turn around,” I coax her to come closer to the edge of the bed. She sits cross-legged, her back turned to me. Her body stiffens under my touch, her muscles tight with anticipation. “Relax.” I lean in, soothing her with a few kisses and a brush of my beard, something I know she likes.

My T-shirt hangs so loosely on her that I can easily slip my hands under the neckline to reach her shoulders. I start kneading. “Is this good?”

A muted ‘uh-huh’ is all she can manage, and I carry on. At times, she whimpers when I hit a particularly sore spot.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” I murmur, easing the pressure a bit.

Georgia-May lets out a small sigh, her breath mingling with the scent of her that I haven’t discerned before. “That’s better,” she whispers, her body starting to unwind beneath my fingers.

I wrap my palms around her shoulders. Skin to skin, my warmth spreading to her like balm. She reaches back and scoops up my left hand lightly, her fingers tracing the contours of my palm.

She pauses, feeling the uneven surface. “They must’ve hurt.”

“They’re just old scars,” I reply, sidestepping the full story. They’re marks of duty. Not something I’m ashamed of, but they’re not exactly my favorite topic, either. “Do they bother you?” The scars aren’t deep, but she’s so perceptive. Or maybe I held her too close, making them impossible to miss.

“No, your hands are perfect,” she murmurs, her voice laced with seduction. She lets go of my left hand, moving to cradle my right between her shoulder and neck, her touch grazing over the similar scars. Gradually, her body leans against mine as if completely absorbed in our connection, letting the question drop.

I breathe in. That scent of her grows stronger and more arousing. As the massage progresses, her whimpers turn into sated moans.

“Take off the T-shirt, baby,” I whisper, my lips grazing her bare nape. By now, she must feel how hard I am.

Wordlessly, she removes it, and I follow suit, discarding mine.

I maintain my kisses on the back of her neck while my fingers work on her muscles, now tensed with a new anticipation. Hersighs deepen as my hands glide over the peaks of her shoulders, approaching her chest.

“You missed a few spots,” she complains.

“Where are the spots, sweetheart?”

She invites my hands to dip lower, guiding my fingertips along the delicate curve of her breasts. Closing my eyes, I feel the silky fabric of her bra beneath my touch as I massage the contours of her cleavage.

“Lower,” she murmurs.

I reach her nipples. The absence of visual cues intensifies the experience, as I’ve yet to witness her bare form. The sensation of their hardness, the feeling of her squirming at my touch. It’s fucking exquisite torture.

“Lower,” she provokes once more.

Now fully cupping her breasts, I knead them wildly, rubbing against her ever-tautening nipples. “Have I got the spots?”

She releases a breathy whisper, fracturing my thinning self-control. My erection strengthens, painful and throbbing. And she gives it no reprieve, pressing herself against me, her movements demanding.

I groan, holding back the force in my manhood that’s eager to break free. Not wanting to relinquish her voluptuous breasts, I unclasp her bra with my teeth. Not an easy feat, but I take advantage of my effort, letting my lips explore the curve of her back, occasionally grazing her velvety skin with my tongue.

Her supple breasts spill, cascading into my hands. I press them, massage them, lift them. Consumed by arousal, she reaches my cock beneath my briefs, squeezing it with vigor. I can’t bear to be without the sight of her mesmerizing gray eyes.

“Georgia-May…” I turn her around.

I’m met with a woman consumed by intoxication, as if she has downed numerous shots of whiskey and engaged in relentless foreplay. Her breasts protrude, bouncing prettily asshe tilts her head up. Yet, her whisper is steady, like an angel sent from heaven. “You are a beautiful man, inside and out. You don’t have to prove it to me.” Her fingers trace a path to rest over my heart. “I’m yours if you want me.”

“I want you, Georgia-May,” I respond. “You should know that.”

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