Page 41 of The Legend Next Door
Please, God, don’t let Ben Stirling be the kind of man who makes sex noises when he gets a massage.
Please.
Oh fuck. Kill me now.
He is.
My dick throbs at the sounds he makes. My mind wanders, drifting, dipping in and out of consciousness and coming to land in a vacant, distant place where nothing exists but Ben and me.
His body, my hands.
His skin glistens from the oil, flecks of gold glitter dancing over the mounds and valleys of rock-solid muscle. He reacts to my touch, clenching and arching his spine when I find a sensitive spot.
He groans softly as I rub it out.
The sound travels up my spine and makes me aware of each bone in my vertebrae.
I move around the table robotically, back bent a little more than usual to keep my wayward boner from jutting into any part of him because, believe me, the situation I’ve got going on in my pants can’t possibly be confused as anything other than what it is.
Arousal.
Excitement.
Desire.
Want.
My palms tingle and my entire body heats as I work.
Ben is so beautiful it’s impossible to ignore. It’s impossible to touch him and only see him for what he is: a friend, a neighbor who has come to me for massage therapy. Instead, I see every curve, every hard angle. Every line that makes him the hottest man I’ve ever seen.
I keep rubbing.
Kneading.
Massaging.
At a certain point, I realize I forgot to put music on for Ben’s treatment and start to panic about that. I consider saying something about it, but what? I don’t think you could get a word of sense out of me right now if you questioned me under torture. I dive headfirst into a free fall, spiraling awfully because of the silence. Spinning with anxiety about the fact that it’s so quiet, I can hear my own breathing. It’s fucking loud and raspy and completely out of keeping with the level of physical exertion at play, and I can’t stop it.
Can he tell it’s horny breathing?
If so, what do I do?What do I do?
Maybe I should just put some music on now, even though the treatment started ages ago. Maybe he won’t notice. Better late than never, right?
Shit, my hands are covered in oil, and if I attempt to convince Siri to do me a solid using a voice command, obviously, I’ll have to use my voice, and we’ve already established that that’s a no-go.
As I roll my thumbs in big, slow circles down the small of Ben’s back, it occurs to me that I also forgot to set a timer for the treatment.Dammit.His skin pleats as I strengthen my motion. Fine lines appear when I apply pressure and disappear when I release it. I do it again. And again.
I’m mesmerized. Not just by how it looks to see my hands touch Ben’s body but by how it feels to be touching him. Like the rightest of right things I’ve ever done.
I use my thumbs, the heels of my hands, and the undersides of my forearms and team it with my body weight.
I look where I’m touching him only. My hands. His back. I do it for as long as I can. I swear to God, I do.
Then I don’t.
I can’t because Ben’s jeans are low-slung. They’re a little loose around his waist. He told me once that he lost weight when Liz died, and he’s struggled to put it back on. There’s a band of pale skin showing above his waistband. Paler than the rest of him. And the slightest, slightest hint of two mounds with a cleft between.
