Page 29 of Hearts Adrift
I swear it’s his dick. I swear he’s hard, too. I can feel it every time he digs his fingers into my shoulder, causing his body to move and press against me.
He wouldn’t be this bold, would he?
That’s when a new thought hits me. Is he evenawarethat he’s grinding against my back? Is it all in my head? Is he just innocently massaging my shoulder, unaware of the presence of his body against mine and what it’s doing to stir up everything in me that’s laid dormant and abandoned for so long? My dick is so hard, it’s literally crying.
Crying. As in leaking.
In my underwear. Hard and leaking. Just from the way he makes love to my shoulders with his thumbs.
Fucking hell, he really is making love to them.
And I’m a second away from letting out my pleasure in an embarrassing, body-trembling moan.
And the fact that I’m admittedly sleep-deprived has my dreamy mind in such a state of between-realities, I cannot say with confidence what’s even real.
“If you want,” he murmurs—his lips are so close to my ear, and the tingles of delight his voice casts over my body is so unfair—“you can lie on the couch and I can give you a much better massage. Trust me, I’ve got a few techniques up my sleeve, and three of them involve myelbow…”
I’m not even kidding. I might come.
I should go. I should seriously go. This isn’t right. For me to be enjoying this so much.
That’s what’s happening, right? I’m enjoying this?
“I-I think I’ll—”
“I can definitely feel the knot.” His thumbs dig in. For a second, it’s genuinely painful and I suck in air, wincing. The next instant, pleasure pours over my muscles as I rock my eyes back with a sigh. “Want me to work it out better? Feel free to decline. Not pressuring you into feeling bliss. It is, however,freebliss, yours to accept or pass on. And ifIhad the chance to accept somefree blissfrom a guy who learned a few tricks involving hiselbowfrom a sweet pair of ladies and one very adorable guy inThailand…”
“Okay,” I whimper.
His fingers stop. “Okay?”
“Yes. Okay. I’ll …” I swallow hard. “I’ll try the elbow thing. It sounds really … interesting.” Why isn’t my brain working? Interesting? That’s all I can come up with? “You are a man of many talents,” I go on, rambling now. “And I am one lucky guy to be at the receiving end of … of …”
Receiving end.
Now I’m just thinking about sex.
Body grinding. Dick grinding. Butt grinding sex.
River comes around the chair and extends a hand. I must look like a spooked cat when I look up and lock eyes with him. I take his hand—his warm, soft, capable hand—and rise from the chair. He gives me this cute, charming, lopsided smile that causes my heart to dance everywhere—before his eyes flick downward, then back up to my face. It’s such a quick thing, I barely notice it, and before I’m able to give it any thought, he’s led me over to the couch to lie down on my stomach.
I’m still thinking about the strange flicker of his eyes when he takes his phone off the coffee table and mumbles somethingto himself. “What is it?” I ask, turning my face, partly muffled by the couch cushions.
“Was talking to my friend Anya earlier and … I don’t remember ever hanging up. Odd.” He sets the phone back down, then crouches next to the couch. “You ready? You have no idea what you’re in for, by the way.”
My nerves are electrically charged. I’m jumping inside like it’s my birthday. “Is that so?” I manage to sound calm and cool, suppressing my excitement. “Talking up a big game, huh? What if your technique is a total letdown?”
“Oh, that’s not even a possibility.”
I’m about to make another teasing comment when his elbow gently presses into my shoulder, and whatever funny words I had are long gone, spilled out of my head like they were never there. What comes next is a sensation that digs so deeply into my muscles, I feel like his elbow just took a dive straight into my pain and converted every ounce of it into an intoxicating ambrosia I instantly want more of. It’s now that I finally cannot hold back the moans. River has won. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say his elbows have.
It doesn’t seem like much on the surface—his elbow drawing circles into my shoulder, now and then applying more pressure. Maybe it’s a rhythm thing. Or how he goes from quick to slow, making me anticipate the brief spurts of pressure. But I can’t hope to lift a muscle off this couch, for as effectively as he’s melting me into it.
“Been a while,” I hear him quietly murmur.
My eyes pop open to ask, “A while since what?”
That’s when I realize his crotch is right in my face.
