Page 57 of If You Never Come Back
The soft sound of Wes’s frustrated exhale hits my ears. “No, I mean like you should see a massage therapist. I think that would help a lot.”
“Business is going well, but I’m not made of money. I can’t pay a massage therapist to rub my wrist and ankle every day.”
Another frustrated sigh. “Then how about I do it?”
“Wes, a massage isn’t exactly staying within the confines of friendship, especially for exes.”
“I’m just trying to help you recover in the safest way possible.”
“Do you offer Colin or any of your other friends massages when they’re hurt?”
“No. But we’ve definitely gone above and beyond more times than I care to remember.”
“Like how?”
“Let’s just say there have been nights of hard drinking where we’ve had to help each other get cleaned up, undressed, washed up vomit, that sort of thing.”
“You mean…”
He sighs. “I’ve helped Colin and my other friends remove their vomit-soaked clothes and get them into a shower. They’ve done the same for me.”
I laugh. “That definitely counts.”
“A wrist and ankle massage doesn’t seem so awkward now, does it?” He smiles and shrugs.
“I guess not.”
He helps me over to the couch and takes a seat at one end while I sit on the other. I stretch my legs out to his lap. Gently, he pulls my sock off and presses his thumbs against my ankle.
I wince at the pressure, then hum a second later when the muscles release.
His eyes dart to me. “Sorry, did that hurt?”
“No, it actually feels good. Like, a tension release.”
A gentle smile stretches across his lips. “Good.”
He resumes and the tightness slowly melts away. I hum my satisfaction.
“That good, huh?” He laughs.
“You were right. I definitely needed this.”
His touches turn firm, dialing up that hurt-so-good feeling I crave.
I peek up at him through half-lidded eyes. “What do I have to do to make you turn this into a full-on foot massage?”
There’s a pause, and his eyes turn serious. “Just ask.”
There’s an edge of intensity to his expression. It makes my mouth go dry and my heart beat faster.
This is such a couple-y thing to do, sit on the couch and indulge in a foot massage. We should know better. Wedoknow better. But it just feels so damn good.
“Please?”
“Please what, Shay?”
His tone matches mine in softness and edge. His hand stills.
