Page 40 of The Ground Beneath Our Feet
When I went down to breakfast, I had two problems.
The first problem was: how could I face Mikey after my dark confession last night.
And the second was:ow!My body ached.
As far as the first problem, Mikey handed me a cup of coffee when I walked in, and kissed my cheek. “Morning.” Apparently we weren’t going to discuss those things in the light of day.
Fine by me.
Although, I wondered what kind of addict he was?
As to the second problem, I carefully sat down in a chair at the kitchen table and wondered if I would ever get up again, or if it was simply enough to stay here for the rest of my life.
Mikey went back to the counter and started whipping egg whites, but at my grimace, he glanced over at me. “You okay?”
I shook my head. “No. I hurt everywhere.”
He smiled. “That means the exercise is working, but you should move, to get out that lactic acid buildup. And maybe take a hot bath or get that massage.”
“A bath sounds good. I’ll go soak. But that would require me to move, and I can’t do that right now.”
He put down the whisk and walked around behind me. With firm, even pressure, he started massaging my neck.
“That feels good. I’ve never in my life had a massage. Did you know that?”
“You haven’t lived, baby. Go get one. Or I’ll give you one.” He paused and flashed me his dimples. This time, though, there was a gleam in his eye. “Though if I give you one, you might get a happy ending.”
My stomach dropped with excitement.
Did he really say that?
And I suddenly got a vision of those huge, rough hands stroking between my legs. When was the last time that had happened?
Never. But I came close a few nights ago when I was thinking about him.
I needed to remember who this man was.
A manwhore.
I’m sure he said that to every girl.
And I didn’t know what to think about what he said last night about him being an addict. I didn’t know what kind of drugs he used to use. I was just glad he didn’t do them anymore.
He was just Mikey—someone helping me.
Someone extra sexy who helped me.
Someone who this morning, now that I’d had a few sips of coffee, looked especially rough. He had extra stubble on his cheeks and his hair was a little longer, so he had bedhead. As usual, he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his sweatpants hung down low on his hips.
And I could see what was under those sweatpants.
Jeez, I couldn’t look at him anymore. I couldn’t do this. I wasn’t getting together with him. And he certainly wasn’t giving me a massage.
I shrugged up my shoulders, and he stopped. “I think you should get a professional massage. It’ll help you.” Grabbing his phone from the counter, he said, “I bet you could get into that place my mom said today.”
Three hours later, I walked into the spa. Mikey had told them over the phone that it was his treat, no arguments, so I had a gift of a massage. Tip included.
But I wasn’t sure about it. I wasn’t used to people touching me. While Mikey touched me all the time—and I liked it—I was more like his cat Sniper. Just out of reach. I wanted to be touched, but I didn’t let many people.
