Page 111 of How to Lose at Love

Incredible.

I’ve never been in awe of a man’s body before. Never seen one like this in person or touched one.

“What’s goin’ on back there?” he rumbles.

I didn’t realize I’d been moving my hands in the same pattern, up and down his arms, until he said something, and I blush to the tips of my toes.

“Sorry.”

Somewhere in the back of my brain, I hear Brennon on the television shouting to see if another baker is using the chill blaster. Another part of my brain wants to move my hands to the front of Dallas’s body and run them over his pecs.

He didn’t have his shirt off last time we were alone together.

Now he’s practically naked, save for the robe around his waist, the only modest part about him.

“Switch?”

Robotically, I nod. “’Kay.”

twenty-six

dallas

“Never do the same mistake twice. Unless she’s hot.”

– Drake Colter

Now it’smy turn to put my hands on her.

Except, under Ryann’s robe is a sweatshirt, which we all know won’t do if she wants a proper massage, will it?

Nah.

She’ll need to remove it, but I ain’t sure if she’s brave enough.

Braveenough, Dallas? Please. Ryann Winters is made up of piss and vinegar and has bigger balls than I’ve seen on some of my teammates.

She’ll lose the sweatshirt when she wants to.

At first, she only takes off the robe, folding it neatly and setting it across her lap like a security blanket. Makes it more difficult to get certain spots on her body but not impossible, and for a bit she tilts her head this way, tilts it that way; I can tell she’s uncomfortable.

“Everything okay?”

She shrugs. “The material is chafing my skin.”

Knew it would but didn’t want to point that out. She’d probably think I was a creep, and after our last serious conversation, that’s the last thing I want.

“Chafing is no joke,” I tease. “I know all about it.”

If she knows I’m referring to jock itch or ball sweat, she doesn’t let on, instead just dipping her head forward so I can access her neck more easily.

I’m not working on her back for five minutes before she turns her head to the side, trying to look me in the face, wincing. “If I take off my sweatshirt, no funny business.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. “You hate funny business. I already know.” We went through this the last time and fat lot of good that did us—I wound up between her legs; she wound up with KISS ME drawn above her vagina.

I wonder if it’s still written there. Probably since it was in black permanent marker…

Piss. And. Vinegar.

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