Page 30 of The Season
Guilt churns in my stomach at the sight of his broad shoulders slumping as he retreats down the hallway. His door snigs shut, and I let out a breath, rubbing my battered face between my palms.
God, he probably felt so left out, sitting there by himself while the three of us chatted away in French. Especially after he told us he didn’t speak any other languages.
“You okay, Lily?” Seth asks. He rests his hand lightly on my shoulder, his palm warm through the thin fabric of my T-shirt.
I nod, but shoot him a worried look. “I think we hurt his feelings,” I murmur. “I think he felt left out of the conversation.”
Seth’s brow furrows in worry at my words, his thumb rubbing absently at the muscle between my neck and shoulder. My lips part in a gasp at the intense pain and pleasure that surges through me at his touch, and my arms go limp at my sides.
“Oh wow,” I say, half gasping, half laughing at my own response. “Shit, that feels really good.”
And it does. My muscles are so sore from days of training, from my fall, from a poor night’s sleep on an air mattress, that even the barest hint of a massage is enough to turn me into a puddle of need.
Seth chuckles, the couch dipping beside me as he bends to put his now-empty bowl on the floor. “Turn around, I’ll give you a massage.”
Uncertainty flickers in my mind, the hesitation born of a lifetime of self-censorship. But then his hands grip my shoulders as he gently nudges me over, angling my body so that my back is to him, and I find myself following his guidance with languid complacency.
The move has me facing Antoine, meeting his eyes just as Seth starts to knead the aching muscles above my shoulder blades. My mouth falls open on an exhale, and Antoine’s eyes widen imperceptibly, their green depths flickering with some unreadable expression.
“Is that okay?” Seth asks, his breath whispering against the back of my neck. “Tell me if it’s too much pressure.”
I nod, a wordless garble of agreement escaping me.
“Ant, do you have enough room?” Seth asks, his fingers relentless as they find each painfully knotted muscle. “Do you want us to move over?”
“It’s Antoine,” he replies, his long fingers absently fluttering the pages of his book where it rests on his lap. “And I’m fine.”
“It was nice speaking French with you,” Seth continues conversationally. His thumbs circle rhythmically along the outsides of my spine, drawing a hum of pleasure from my parted lips. “I don’t get enough opportunity to speak it.”
“Yah…” I agree, my voice breathy. “It… was… ugh… it was really good.”
Antoine bites his lower lip, the amber skin of his cheeks darkening. “I… uh, I enjoyed it too…” His gaze flits to where Seth’s fingers are working, expertly kneading the muscles above my shoulder blades, then to Seth himself. “And I appreciate what you said.” He clears his throat, his piercing green eyes dropping to the book on his lap. “About you being Ace, and not judging. I.. um… I’m not straight either.Évidemment.”
His full lips quirk up into a smile—one of the first I’ve seen from him—and even though it’s aimed at Seth, the sight of it has something warm building in my chest.
Seth’s hands work down the length of my spine, stopping about halfway down my back because of the slightly awkward angle of the couch. My eyelids flutter shut, a moan catching in my throat. I can barely think around the pleasure coursing through my body, but I feel like I need to say something. Like it would be dishonest to not reciprocate when Antoine and Seth have both been so open about everything.
“I think I might not be straight either,” I admit, the words breathy and tugging at my split lip. It’s easier admitting it with my eyes closed, with Seth and Antoine’s own admissions hanging over me, like lanterns in the darkness. “I’m not sure what I am.”
Neither of them answers, and Seth’s hands continue working knots from the muscles alongside my spine. I open my eyes to see Antoine staring at me with unabashed curiosity.
“I don’t think I’m ace, but I’m not normal either,” I admit, then bite the inside of my cheek and internally curse myself for my choice of words.Normal. What the fuck, Lily?
Antoine’s lips curl with a hint of mirth at my obvious discomfort.
“No one is normal, Lil,” Seth chuckles, the sound deep and vibrating against my back. “And if anyone tells you they are, steer clear of them, they’re obviously a psychopath.” He stops his massage, then pats me gently on the shoulders. “If you lay down, I can do your lower back as well. There should be room if Antoine scoots over a bit.”
“Okay.” I shoot Antoine a questioning look, but he’s already moving over, giving me enough space to lay face down on the couch, my knees bent, feet resting on the armrest. Seth climbs over me, carefully positioning himself so that he’s sitting across my thighs, his weight resting on his knees on either side of my legs.
“Now, tell me all about how you’re not normal,” Seth drawls, his voice light with amusement.
There’s nothing light about his touch though, about the way his strong hands are working my aching muscles and drawing gasps and moans from me. I press my lips together and attempt to stifle a particularly loud exhale into the musty fabric of the couch.
In the back of my mind, I’m vaguely aware that it’s not completely normal to let a person I’ve just met give me a back massage, but it feels so right. Maybe it’s because this is something my friends back home would do—especially Henry, who is training to become a massage therapist. Or maybe it’s because there’s nothing uncomfortable in the way Seth is touching me—nothing that would make me think he’s got ulterior motives. And Antoine doesn’t seem bothered by it.
“I’ve been attracted to guys before,” I admit, my words muffled by the couch cushions. “At least a couple times…”
I swallow back the familiar pain that comes whenever I think about Steve, and I squeeze my eyes shut against feelings of self-loathing, of shame, of embarrassment at being so thoroughly taken advantage of.
