Page 58 of If You Never Come Back
“Please can you massage me some more?”
Another moment passes with no words, just our stares connected, his fingers on my skin.
“Of course,” he says.
With his thumbs, he applies firm pressure to my instep. I wince through the release, my heart racing as he holds tighter against me.
“Like that?” His eyes are fixed on me, his voice like gravel.
I nod, unable to verbalize. Something in this massage has set fire to our boundaries, to every empty promise we made to be just friends and nothing else. I’m already aching for more.
His fingers slide to the pads of my feet; I bite my lip to keep from moaning.
He catches on. “You don’t have to hold it in.”
His words, his stare, his presence all hit an invisible release button within me. I let out a breath, then moan. Such powerful, heavenly hands he’s got.
Closing my eyes, I lean my head back. I say nothing when he takes my other foot in his hand and begins to rub. This time I don’t hold it. My moan is low and soft, my breath shallow.
I want this more than anything. And I think Wes does, too.
Minutes pass, then his hands still. I peel my eyes open.
His stare captures me. “Come here.”
I climb on his lap, straddling him. My heart thuds faster by the minute. I shouldn’t be doing this. But I don’t care. I want to.
His chest heaves up. A pink flush makes its way up his throat, then his cheeks. I lean forward, pressing my lips against his. The contact is so soft; it barely counts as a kiss. But it’s exactly what I want. The hint of a kiss, soft enough to ease us back into it after months upon months of zero kisses.
He moves his lips against mine and there’s a jolt to my chest. It’s so powerful, I grip the arm of the sofa to steady myself. My chest swells and thumps, and then I freeze.
This can only lead to one thing: a reminder that I loved him once and I’m liable to love him again if I let myself get too close to him…like now.
I jerk away from him, planting my hands on his chest. No matter how many boundaries we invent, no matter hard I try, I’ll always want more from Wes. I was a fool to think otherwise.
I scoot all the way on the opposite end of the couch. He turns to me, his face twisted in confusion and worry.
“I’m sorry…did I…did I do something wrong?” he stammers.
I shake my head, crossing my arms. “No, it’s not…”
He starts to move toward me, but I stop him with a hand held up. “No.”
The struggle to understand plays out in Wes’s face and body language. He presses both hands on top of his knees. I can tell he wants to reach for me, to comfort, to soothe. But I can’t let him. Not ever again.
A second passes with neither of us speaking.
“Shay, please. Tell me what I did wrong.”
“I can’t fall for you again, Wes.”
“But—”
“I won’t work for us. It can’t. We don’t want the same things, remember?”
He opens his mouth to speak but I stop him.
“If I let myself get close to you again, I’ll fall for you.” I swallow, steadying my voice. “And when it inevitably ends, it’ll destroy me to have to get over you again.”
