Page 112 of How to Lose at Love

I sit back while she pulls the gray sweatshirt up and over her head, startled to see she’s not wearing a bra. Or a tank top. Or a T-shirt.

Nothing.

She’s wearing nothing beneath it, and all I can focus on now is how badly I wanted to see her bare tits when she was in my bedroom and those nipples of hers were straining against that sheer T-shirt.

When she folds the sweatshirt across her lap, I get a glance of side boob ’cause, well—there’s plenty of it.

Shit.

Okay.

No big deal. This ain’t the first girl you’ve rubbed down, and it won’t be your last, I coach myself as she settles between my spread legs, still on the couch with her back to me.

Ryann might be on the taller side for a girl, but she’s also on the slighter side, and I ease up on the pressure once my hands are back on her flesh, thumbs pressing but not kneading—I don’t want to hurt her.

I find a knot.

Rotate my thumb in circles as she winces, moans, then winces again, the tiny balls being worked out of her muscles.

I stay on that spot for a minute or two before moving on, crossing her back to do the same motions on the other side. Round and round with my thumb until I find the knots, working them out, pushing, massaging.

“You’re so good at this,” she whispers, neck craned to the side.

You’re so good at this…

Nothing sexual, but that doesn’t stop me from hearing it in a low, satisfied moan.

“I’m no professional, but I get by.”

“Can you just run your palms up and down my spine?”

Ryann is pale.

Has a set of three birthmarks on her back, on the right side, near her ribcage. Three tiny dots that look like they’d be a constellation if they were in the sky—I want to connect them with the tip of my finger.

I do as she asks and run my palms over her spine, working my fingers into the vertebrae as gently as I can, watching every space on her skin my hands occupy.

Silky.

Smooth.

Up, down.

Up…

Over her shoulder blades they glide.

My hands aren’t as soft as hers are; I handle a pigskin football hour upon hour during the week—my hands are mangled and calloused, despite the gloves I wear.

Ryann doesn’t seem to notice or care or mind.

She remains motionless.

Breath hitches when I span my hands over her waist, fanning out my fingers to cover more ground—or skin, ha!

My hands are large enough to put around her waist.

The tips of my fingers brush her ribcage; whether it’s intentional or unintentional, I do not know. All I know is I’m being propelled forward by a force called lust—desire. Hunger.

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