“You’re thinking too much again,” he said, sounding amused. At her expense.
“Yeah.” Was that her voice, all breathless and wispy? Good Lord. She shut her mouth and lay down. Facedown. Then she scrunched her eyes shut and pretended she was Alice, going down the rabbit hole.
“I’m not sure what you think I’m going to do to you.” He still sounded quite amused as she felt him slip off first one of her shoes and then the other. “But if you want to be nervous, go ahead and be nervous.” His hands slid beneath her long skirt to her calves, massaging lightly over her tights. “I’ll promise you this, though.”
My God, his hands were heaven, she thought dazedly as he dug into her calf muscles with a gentle firmness.
Leaning over her, he spoke into her ear in that voice that could bring her to climax all by itself. “You’re going to like it. You’re going to like it so much you’ll be begging me for more.”
Even if that were true, she’d never admit it. “I never beg.”
He only slid his hands farther, past the backs of her knees.
“Uh-”
“Shh.” Still higher his hands went, until his fingers hooked the elastic edging of her tights and tugged.
“Jacob-”
“I want to touch bare skin.” After stripping the tights down her legs, he dropped them to the floor. She watched them hit and told herself he’d seen her far barer than this. Just as she also told herself he was going to take liberties that she wasn’t altogether sure of, liberties that would put her far past her comfort level.
But everything about this man took her past her comfort level and she couldn’t seem to get enough.
“Relax,” he said, reaching for the oil.
Right. She’d just relax.
BOTTOM LINE FOR JACOB, he was fascinated by Em and her layers: the way she loved her friends, the way she’d responded with empathy to the story of his childhood, the way she’d laughed when he’d gotten silly and showed off his juggling skills.
Everything about her drew him, and that was quite possibly the most unsettling thing he’d ever felt, because it left him wanting more, more of her, more of this.
More of them.
Just the thought made him wish he had a drink, a hefty one, when he no longer drank the hefty stuff. What the hell had happened to a woman being just like a recipe, something to try and then move on to the next?
Nothing, he assured himself. He was just playing here, and so was she. To make sure of it, he poured the scented oil in his hands, slicked them up and touched her, because touching her made him forget everything else.
He started with her feet, pressing into the arches, rubbing all of the tension out, working his way over her ankles to her calves, which were smooth and creamy. This California girl didn’t tan. She had her legs pressed tightly together, her muscles working overtime to keep them so. For whatever reason, that made him smile as he slowly worked his way past her knees, beneath her skirt to the backs of her thighs.
He wasn’t kidding before. He knew exactly how good he was with his hands, and before much longer, he expected her to cave, and he expected her to beg.
Her soft, helpless moan swiped the smile right off his face, jerking him out of his smug complacency. She was right on schedule and yet he hadn’t expected the sound to reach him.
Nor had he expected that having his hands beneath her skirt, out of view and yet on her bare skin, would seem like the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.
Her muscles were knotted and he worked them, dragging yet another moan from her. Utterly arousing.
“Shh,” he said, not ready to give in to it, in to her.
But as he pressed the knotted muscles high on her thighs, she squirmed and then shifted slightly, her legs no longer pressed so tightly together, allowing him better access.
He took the opportunity, skimming his fingers higher, then higher again so that they just touched the elastic edging of her panties.
Silk.
Aw, man, they were silk and flimsy. One little tug and he’d rip them free. Because he couldn’t actually see them, he wondered what color they were. Black? Red?
She lay on the table utterly motionless, holding her breath, he guessed, and slowly-so slowly he had to grit his teeth-he traced the edging of the panties to the string over either hip.
String bikini. His favorite.
“What color?”
“Wh-what?”
He almost didn’t recognize his own hoarse voice. “What color are they?”
She remained still for a beat, then let out a breathless laugh that shook her shoulders. “I can’t remember.”
He ran his finger over the very tops of them now, drawing a line low on her spine.
Her breath caught. “They might be peach.”
Now it was his turn to hold his breath.
“Or black.” She said this in a whisper.
His body tightened. His fingers wrapped around the material of her skirt and slowly pushed it up, past her knees, revealing a gorgeous set of legs he wanted wrapped around him. Her thighs were every bit as taut and creamy smooth as he remembered from the spa, and his mouth went dry.
Then he pushed the skirt up even farther, to her waist now, and exposed her ass, covered in a silky pair of barely there bikini panties.
Black.
His heart was drumming in his ears, all the blood in his head draining south. Reaching out, he traced his finger over her hip, then curled his finger around the string.
She squirmed again.
One yank, he thought, just one yank…His knees actually wobbled.
“It’s…warm in here,” she murmured very softly, making him realize he’d been staring down at her like a sixteen-year-old virgin with his first glimpse beneath his girlfriend’s dress.
Hell, he felt like a damn virgin, a clumsy one. “You’re wearing a sweater.”
“I could take it off…”
Great idea. Reaching up, he pulled the sweater over her head.
Beneath, she wore a pale pink camisole, spaghetti straps, one of which had slipped off her shoulder. He nudged the other one, helping it to the same position, absorbing her caught breath, getting a surge of possessive desire at the sight of her flat on her belly, gripping the sides of the table, her shirt shoved high, straps off her shoulders, face turned away.
God. He had to stand there and purposely drag air into his lungs. Massage. He was here to give her a massage, and drive her as crazy as she drove him.
And to make her beg. Let’s not forget that. Teeth clenched, he poured more oil into his hands, and with her skirt still bunched at her waist, worked on her bared shoulders, dragging more soft moans from her. “How are you doing?” he murmured, moving inward, to the back of her neck.
“Mmm,” was her only answer, so he took his hands down her shoulder blades, and when the top of the camisole got in his way, he merely tugged it down to her waist.
On her belly, gripping the edges of the table for all she was worth, she gasped.
He smiled grimly and went back to work.
After a stiff moment, she let out a breath and relaxed into his touch, and when he’d removed every bit of tenseness from as much of her back as he could reach, he leaned in, kissed her jaw, and said, “Turn over.”
Her eyes flew open. “Um-”
“Unless, of course, you’re afraid I’ll actually do it.”
“Do what?”
“Make you beg.”
She squeezed her eyes shut again for a beat.
This was it, he thought with mixed feelings of relief and regret. He’d pushed her past her boundaries. She was
