Page 47 of Scoring Grey

“Your thigh?” I release her shorts and examine her leg. Sure enough, there’s a bruise at the top right where the hem of her shorts sits. “You must have fallen on something. I’m going to touch you in a few spots. Tell me where it hurts more.”

She nods. “Okay.” I lift her shirt enough to expose her lower back, and when my fingers touch her skin, she flinches. “Your hands are cold.”

“Oh, sorry.” I pull them back and blow hot air into my palms before rubbing my hands together to warm them up.

This time, when I bring them back, she doesn’t quiver.

“Better.” I lightly press the tips of my fingers into her ribcage, working my way to her sides.

It isn’t until I get to her hips that she hisses. “That’s tender.” I gently work my way to the middle of her back, and she squeaks again before saying, “It hurts a little.”

Running my thumbs up her spine, I let my palms slide over her ribs, ensuring I feel no bumps or dips. “Does it hurt to breathe?”

“No. Why? What does that mean?”

“That’s good. If breathing was hard, it could mean you popped a rib out of place, but I think we’re dealing with nothing more than a hard fall. See that amber bottle on my nightstand?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a mix of cypress oil and sandalwood. I use it to help with inflammation and swelling when I get sore. It will help relieve the tension. Right now, I can feel your muscles slightly spasming every time I slide over a tender area. That will help. I’m going to rub it on your back and your thigh, and after that, you can lie on the heat for fifteen minutes.”

I get off the bed and untie the heating pad, then plug it behind the side table and prepare it for when I’m finished with her massage.

“Cal, I’m not sure about the oil.”

“Why?”

She gives me a knowing look.

“You don’t think I can keep my hands to myself?” I tease, kicking my shoes off and climbing onto the bed before she can respond. “Can I pull your shirt up more?”

She tenses from the question alone. I’m making her uncomfortable, but I know it’s not the bad kind. If she wants all of this to stop, all she needs to do is say the word, but I want her to enjoy the massage.

“Let me make you feel good, blondie. In hockey, trainers are constantly using oils to relieve muscle aches. I promise I’ll keep it PG.”

She takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she relents.

I squirt the oil into my palms and rub them together, warming it before starting high on her back. My hands have made no more than two circular motions before I hear the tiniest of moans. She likes it. I stay there a little longer before slowly working my way down toward the tender areas I know won’t be as pleasurable. “If it’s too much, tell me,” I say as I lightly squeeze her hips before delicately applying pressure with my thumbs and working my way to her spine. She hisses, and I ask, “Do you want me to stop?”

“No, it’s okay. It hurts, but I can feel the oils relaxing my muscles.”

I dip my thumbs below the band of her shorts, following her spine until I hit the dimples that rest high on her back above the swell of her round ass. I move my thumbs in circular motions, which draws out a low, sultry moan, and my cock can’t help but notice. I let my hands linger, losing myself a little to the scene unfolding before me. She’s covered in oil beneath my hands, in my bed. Fuck. I pull my hands away, and she whimpers.

“Why did you stop?”

I grab my dick and count to three.You’re almost done. You’ve kept it PG. You said you’d make her feel good, and you’ve kept your promise.“I’m going to move to your thighs…” My voice cracks as I try to stifle my desire. I clear my throat. “Our nerve endings run down our legs, and since your right thigh is bruised, I’m sure there’s tension that needs to be rubbed out.” I shake my head when I hear the unintentional double meaning in my words. Idiot. I reach for the oil, and as I pour more into my hands, my eyes trail over her long, lean, toned thighs, and my good intentions are tested. I told her I wanted to make her feel good, and the devil sitting on my shoulder is grinning from ear to ear, chanting, ‘Yeah, you said you’d make her feel good. She’s not wearing panties. Slip those shorts to the side and make her feel good!’

I shake my head to clear the fog and start above her knees, massaging each leg. Her soft skin responds, pebbling after every knead as I gently rub my way up her thighs. The higher I go, the more my better judgment slips away. It’s not easy to be this close to exactly where I want to be, with only a thin piece of silk separating me from heaven. My hands creep higher, and her moans pick up in an intoxicating crescendo. I can’t be sure if she’s lost to the sensations of the massage or if her response is more, perhaps in the same vein as the direction my thoughts have gone, because I’m sure her right leg moved an inch when my thumb brushed over the weight of her cheek as it dipped down between her legs to knead the muscle. I want her to let me in. I know she gave me warnings. She says she’s not ready, but are we ever really prepared? When I told her I wanted her to jump, she said she didn’t know the right time. Maybe she’s figured out what I already know. There’s no wrong time between us.

I repeat the move, my hands massaging the base of her thighs right below her cheeks. It would be so easy to move just a little closer. The thought hasn’t even finished before she’s subtly spreading her legs once more, and fuck me if this time it wasn’t intentional. My right thumb is now on her bare pussy. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I don’t say anything. I don’t want her to get in her head, but I know she’s aware of where my finger is, and she isn’t pulling away.

I keep kneading her thigh just as I was before she moved with my left hand, not missing a beat, but as I do, I let my right thumb dip in closer, so close I can feel her slickness. When she doesn’t protest, I slowly run it down her center, my heart pounding, expecting a rejection. I don’t want her to leave this bed, but I also don’t want to take ten steps back because I read this wrong and she wasn’t ready. I’m a starved man, and right now, it’s incredibly hard not to think with my dick.

My forefinger slides between her cheeks, the tip lightly skimming between them enough for her to know what I’m doing, and she doesn’t stop. I dip my finger lower, and it’s immediately slickened by her wetness. I tease her entrance, running it along her lips, waiting for her to tell me to stop, and when she doesn’t, I slide in. My God, she’s so soft, so warm, so tight. But all that is nothing compared to the way she clenches my digit. She wants it. She wants me. I use my other hand and continue kneading her thigh, keeping up the massage act as I slowly start to pump her with my finger.

With every stroke, her greedy pussy clamps tighter. The thin fabric that had been covering her falls to the side, and I catch sight of her juices covering my finger. My cock strains hard against the zipper of my jeans. I add another digit, and her soft moans return, drawing my hooded gaze to her face. Her eyes are closed, her pretty mouth is parted, and her hand is fisted in the blankets beside her face. She wants this, and that’s when I find my words.

“Does it feel good?”

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