Page 63 of 10 Days to Ruin

And I have my answer.

I pivot in place and toss my hair over one shoulder. “I’m waiting, Lotion Boy.”

For a second, I think he’ll refuse. Then he dips two fingers into the jar, the cream glistening like liquid pearl.

“Get on the table.”

Gulp again.

I climb up. The leather is soft and cool against my thighs. His shadow falls over me as he straddles the edge, his body heat every bit as hot as the steam billowing through the ceiling vents.

The first swipe of his fingers nearly undoes me. “Jesus!” I gasp.

“Close, but not quite.”

The lotion’s cold, but his hands are furnace-hot. He starts at my shoulders, kneading knots I didn’t know I had, thumbs digging into the hollows of my collarbones. Every stroke is precise. Clinical. Infuriating.

I bite my lip to stifle a moan.

“Too much?” he purrs.

“Barely felt it,” I lie.

His palms slide down my spine. Slow. Torturous. “Your body disagrees.”

He’s right—my skin’s singing, nerve endings sparking under his touch. His fingers skate the edge of my bikini bottom, deliberately avoiding the cleft of my ass.

More teasing. More taunting.

I bury my face in the table’s headrest.Do not arch. Do not whimper. Do not?—

His thumb circles the dimple above my tailbone.

“Sasha.”

“Yes?” He says it all innocently. As if he isn’t turning me into molten glass.

“Your technique sucks.”

He chuckles, low and dark. “Still lying, I see.”

The lotion eventually warms between his palms as he works my thighs. Higher. Higher. My breath hitches when his pinky brushes the knot at my hip. It’d be so terribly easy for him to undo it. Who knows if I’d even stop him? Maybe I’dlethim undo it, undo me, undo this whole silly war I’m waging. It’d be a helluva lot easier than wearing myself to the bone trying to fight the inevitable.

Then he pulls back. “Your turn.”

I jump to my feet so fast the room spins. “Come again?”

He holds out the jar. “Repayment.”

Hell no.“I don’t do back rubs.”

“You do today.” He stretches out on the table face up, all carved muscle and menace. The scars ripple as he folds his arms beneath his head. “But if you’re scared, I understand.”

The dare hangs between us.

Pride cometh before the fall, I think, scooping a dollop of cream.But at least the road to hell will be well-moisturized.

His skin is fire under my palms. I start at his shoulders, mimicking his detached technique. But with every flex of his muscles, every stifled groan, my resolve unravels a little bit farther.

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