Page 111 of Friendzone Hockey
“Please tell me I get to wash you,” he says, opening his eyes.
I stare for too many heartbeats, not-so-subtly raking my eyes over his body before finally nodding. Something’s changed. Shifted.
His heated gaze never leaves mine as he reaches for the loofa and bar of soap. He drops to his knees so fast, I don’t register he’s done it until his hands grip my left thigh. It’s like I’ve jumped out of a plane. My stomach drops, flips, and lands pressed against my diaphragm.
Dash gets close, unbearably close to my special places. If only his fingers would walk just a little higher. Is he waiting for permission? Or trying to show me he can be trusted? I’m paralyzed; feet rooted to the tiles while my dick cries in silent agony.
“Lift,” he says. I shift to one foot, and he painstakingly washes every toe, in between and under the sole. I didn’t know I’d like my feet washed so much, but it might be because it’s Dash. A soft moan falls from my lips, and my cock jerks and a faint ache makes itself known in my nuts. He sets my foot down and repeats the same to the other side.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? Now you know why I’m always moaning and groaning when you massage me. Hope I measure up.”
“Your hands are fucking incredible, Dash.” My voice comes out all croaky.
Careful fingers wash behind my knee and then he works his way up, prodding around the bottom of my ass where cheeks meet the backs of my thighs. Did I swallow my fucking heart earlier? Cause that’s where it fucking beats as his finger pads press into the sensitive skin under my ass cheeks.
C’mon. Just a little further north, sweetheart. Sink those fingers inside …
He doesn’t dip inside where I’d like him to, and his loofa-clad hand swipes over my abs, missing my cock completely. I let out agroan of sheer agony when he stands, rolling my forehead on the shower tiles where it seems to have landed. When did I do that?
He gets to my shoulders, abandoning the loofa—which he barely fucking used, for the record. And that’s a sign, right? You’d only use a loofa if you actually wanted to wash someone, but it’s a great pretense because a loofa is a barrier between my skin and his. Using fingers and palms is a thousand times more sensual than that scratchy-ass fucking thing. His knuckles dig into the meat of my shoulder, and I moan again.
“Why do we have a loofa?” I want to burn all the loofas. Just his hands touching me from now on. I don’t care if I never get clean again, let me stay dirty with his hands.
“One of Jack’s dads sent ‘em in a care package. We have every color of the rainbow stuffed in that cupboard over there.” He bends over to snatch up the one he abandoned. He waves it at me. “Pink.”
His favorite.
“I love these things,” he says unaware of my vendetta against them. “I love the way they feel over my skin.”
Ugh. Dammit. Guess I can’t burn ‘em. But then maybe it wasn’t the signal I thought it was? This is what it’s come to for me, reading Morse code via loofa.
Hurts my fucking head.
It’s bad enough that all I’m gonna think about from now until forever is Dash in here, soaping himself up with that loofa. I don’t miss that the pink one was here when we stepped into the shower. He already does it, doesn’t he?
Does he like the way it scratches over his cock?
I return my forehead to the tiles. For once, I let Dash give me whatever he wants without restriction. He drags that pink loofa over my body, leaving trails of soap the shower rinses away. I don’t know if worship’s his intention, but that’s what bleeds intome. I have a weird reaction. It’s the equivalent of a thread pulled loose. Something crawling under my skin.
It hurts, but it’s welcome.
Because it’s him. Dash.
It’s welcome because it’s Dash.
Holy shit. He’s the only one I’ve let in since Mom died. Yeah, my brother to some degree, but I keep him at least an arm’s length from anything about me that has even a whiff of vulnerability attached to it. So I don’t worry him. I almost let Coach Cannon in. I thought about it anyway. That was scary enough and then he was gone, proving why keeping hidden beneath the layers is imperative.
But I can’t keep Dash out. Don’t want to. He’s the keeper of the other half of my soul.
A few hidden tears stream over my cheeks, nicely meshing with the waterfall from the showerhead. But they’re a release rather than a tightness around my heart.
Dash’s hands fall away, his arms wrap around me. Can he tell what just happened?
He feels you, dumbass. Of course, he can.
Like when I was grieving over Coach.
“Should we, um, should we see if anyone’s started breakfast?” I ask.
