I clear my throat. “Lance Romero?”
He doesn’t move.
Bernadette, the receptionist, gives me a meaningful look.
I clear my throat again and call his name a second time. He jolts awake and the hood falls back, exposing his face. It’s not in good shape. He has a black eye and bruises on his left cheek. There’s a fly bandage across one eyebrow.
Sadly, he’s still hot.
He blinks a few times, yawns, and smacks his lips, his tongue touching the split in the bottom one. His gaze sweeps the room and finally lands on me. Heat explodes in my cheeks and courses through my limbs, warming me from the inside out as he starts at my sneaker-clad feet and roams up over my yoga pants to my company-issued T-shirt before stopping at my face. I can’t look directly at him for more than a couple of seconds. I sincerely hope he doesn’t remember me. I cannot go there and also be professional.
I’m sure the smile he gives me has melted many a panty off a slutty bunny. Mine stay right where they’re supposed to, wedged up my ass.
I force a polite, professional veneer. “I’m ready for you now.”
He pushes slowly out of the chair, a tic in his left cheek indicating some discomfort.
I extend a hand when he’s close enough. “I’m Poppy. I’ll be your massage therapist this afternoon.”
I note the newly formed scabs on his knuckles and how warm and wide his palm is when it envelops mine. I try not to think about that night a year ago. About the way it felt when he put that hand on my back and led me through the crowd to the bar. About the feel of his lips against my ear when he asked my name. How it was too loud to hear, and I didn’t correct him when he got it wrong. How Kristi got in between us and hijacked him less than a minute later. How I let that happen, even though I didn’t want to.
I doubt he remembers any of it. He was drunk. Everyone was. Even I was tipsy, which isn’t something I do all that often. I’m typically not a much of a drinker at all. Still, the entire horrifying night is clearer than polished glass in my memory.
His sleepy eyes stay on my face long past what’s comfortable. He wets his bottom lip and smirks. “If I sniff you, will I get high?”
I hold his gaze, not returning his flirty grin. It falters, and he blinks a few times. When I try to free my hand from his, he grips it more tightly and cocks his head to the side, as if he’s trying to place me. I look away, afraid he’s going to see through me.
Eventually he allows me to pull my hand free. I spin around, calling over my shoulder, “You can follow me.”
Oh yes, this is going to be an unpleasant hour for sure.
My palms are sweaty as I lead him down the hall. After we left the bar that night, it was almost like I didn’t exist. It had felt a lot like high school, except with more R-rated activities. God, this is humiliating. Hookerslaw. My face is hot, which means it’s definitely red. Mortification is hard to hide as a freckly redhead.
I inhale deeply as I open the door to my therapy room—a bad idea because Lance smells delicious—and motion him inside. He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. He glances at me, and then at the massage table.
“You can go in. I promise it’s not a torture chamber.”
He makes a sucking sound with his teeth and looks me up and down—not in a sexual way, but in an assessing-whether-I’m-serious way. He seems a little edgy.
Eventually he steps inside, but he doesn’t go very far. I have to slip in behind him because he takes up so much space. My arm grazes his, and he jerks out of the way, muttering an apology. Jeez, he’s as tense as I am.
I close the door and pat the massage table. “You can have a seat. I’d like to go through your profile and discuss the purpose of your treatment today.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.” He hops up on the table with a grimace.
Based on his beat-up face, I assume the purpose is to work out whatever knots or aches the fight he was in has left behind. Hockey season hasn’t even started, so I’m curious what happened.
I review his medical history, which is vague. He gives short responses while his knee bounces.
“Are there any particular areas you’d like me to work on?” God, I’m nervous. Maybe because he seems nervous, which makes no sense. People have their hands all over him all the time. Bunnies to be exact. And my former friend Kristi.
“Um, I don’t know?”
“Are there any areas that are particularly tense? Neck, back, shoulders, arms, or legs?” I prompt.
“Sure?”
“So all of them?”
“Yeah.” His knee stops bouncing, and he replaces it with finger tapping while I check them all off.
“Are there any areas you’d like me to avoid?”
“Avoid?” Now he looks confused.
It’s almost like he’s never had a massage before. Which is unlikely. These guys must have regular massages all the time because their job is so physically intense. If anything, they need the treatment.
“Any areas that are uncomfortable as a result of your injuries?” I motion to his face. “Or areas you prefer me not to work on? Some people would rather I avoid their feet.”
“Oh aye, my sneakers probably stink, so you should steer clear.” A hint of Scot creeps in.
“Okay, then. No feet.” I smile at his look of revulsion. “Anything else?”
He taps his lip with his fingers before dropping them to his lap. “Uh, nope.”
I give it a few more seconds, because it looks like he wants to say something, but then he just stares at me, so I point to the chair beside him. “You can leave your clothes there and then lie face down on the table.”
“Like, all of them?”
Please don’t blush, please don’t blush, please don’t blush. Or imagine him naked. “You can leave your underwear on if you prefer.”
“Uh, I’m not wearing any.”
“That’s fine.” The memory of Lance stripping off his shirt on his way outside to the hot tub at his place punches me in the proverbial face.
And then he pulls his shirt over his head and the memory becomes a reality. Except this time I’m not just looking at fantastically chiseled muscles and the massive cross tattooed on his back that reads Forgive me my sins.
“Oh my God.” I cover my mouth with my hand, because that’s not an appropriate response, even as shocked as I am. “Are you okay? Have you seen a doctor?”
Lance runs a hand over his ripped stomach. “It’s not that bad. Just a few bruises.”
It looks like way more than a few bruises. I’m instantly angry at the person who did this to him. The purple on his ribs indicates the hits were aimed at the kidneys, with the intention of causing pain. He kicks off his shoes and hooks his fingers into the waistband of his sweats. Oh my God. Is he going to drop his pants with me in the room? They slide down over his hips, and I get a front-row view of the magic V.
Yes. Yes he is. I rush to the door. Just because I’ve seen him half-naked before doesn’t mean I need the reminder right before I’m about to touch him for an hour.
“I’ll give you some privacy. Lie on your stomach when you’re ready. I’ll be back in a minute.” I catch a glimpse of his bare ass before I can close the door.
“Get it together, Poppy,” I mumble as I hurry down the hall. I step into the bathroom and wash my hands, checking my reflection in the mirror. My face is a terribly bright shade of red.
“It’ll be fine. This will be fine,” I tell my reflection. “He’s going to be face down for the next hour. He doesn’t remember you. Dammit.” I splash a little cold water on my face, then heat it back up and run my hands under the hot stream.
I don’t think my pep talk has done much, but honestly, it’s just an hour. I should be able to handle it.
Once my hands are warm, I return to my room, knocking before I enter. “Ready?”
“Aye,” comes the reply.
I open the door to find Lance lying face down on the table, as instructed. Except
he’s not lying under the sheet; he’s lying on top of it in all his naked, hockey-playing hotness. The huge cross spanning the width of his shoulders shifts with his breathing. Instead of putting his face in the cradle, his head is turned to the side, so he’s looking right at me, rather than at the floor.
I avoid making eye contact and head straight for my supply of sheets, draping one over his body—his incredibly amazing body that’s covered in bruises. I might get a good look at his ass before it’s covered by the sheet. It’s unreal. Like beyond fantastic.
But it’s just a body. I’ve had plenty of naked, attractive men on my table. And plenty of unattractive ones. Most of the time I can compartmentalize those thoughts. Usually I don’t get to see quite so much of them all at once, though. I need to keep it professional so I can get through this. It’s one hour. One favor. Then he’ll go back to seeing his regular massage therapist, and I don’t ever have to see him again.
“Can I get you to move up so your face is here?” I tap the cradle.
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He mumbles something else, but I don’t catch it. The tips of his ears go red, as if he’s embarrassed. He shifts around, and his shoulders tense as he gets into position.
His split eyebrow and black eye might not feel too good like that. “If it’s too uncomfortable—”
“It’s fine. Let’s just do this thing.”
“Let me know if any area I’m working on is too painful, or if I’m using too much pressure, or not enough.”
“Okay.”
I prepare myself to put my hands on him in a way that is nothing like what Kristi did all night in the privacy of his locked bedroom a year ago. Because like the pushover I can sometimes be, I backed down the second she made it clear what she wanted. It’s also not the way I put my hands on him more than ten years ago when Lance came crashing into my world and turned it upside down.
He tenses as soon as I touch him, even through the cover of the sheet. I can’t decide if it’s the situation that has him so on edge, or me. Or both. So far I’m managing to keep my swoon in check, but then my hands aren’t on his skin, yet.
“I’m checking alignment before I get started.”
“’Kay.”
Telling him what I’m doing doesn’t seem to have the desired effect. His muscles are all bunched up. I have a feeling his hands are balled into fists. Maybe once I start the actual massage he’ll ease up.
I lift the sheet and fold it down, exposing the broad, defined expanse of his back again. Up close, I can make out the intricate details in the cross tattoo. Quinn is written inside it, along his spine. That must have hurt a lot. I stop when I reach the dimples that tell me if I keep going I’m going to get an eyeful of hockey butt again.
Since there’s nowhere to anchor the sheet on Captain Commando, I pull it a little lower, intending to tuck it under his hands. As predicted, they’re balled into fists. But when I graze his forearm, Lance’s hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, fingers lapping over each other. God, his hands are big. Just like the rest of him. And he’s touching me. That familiar hot feeling from forever ago rushes through me. I freeze as he turns to look at me, panic and uncertainty flashing in his eyes before a wall comes up and they go blank.
“Sorry. I didn’t expect that.” He releases my wrist and resumes his completely un-relaxed position on my massage table. Now that he’s not touching me anymore, I can breathe again.
I give him a few seconds before I move around to the other side. “I’m going to tuck the sheet under your left hand.” I say, to avoid startling him again.
Once the sheet is secure, I move to the top of the table, taking in the bruises along his lower back and the ones that span his ribs. Hovering my palms over his shoulder blades, I take a deep breath, exhaling my own anxiety as he seems to do the same. The energy in this room is thick with emotion—his and mine—and I don’t know what to make of it.
“I’m going to start now,” I tell him.
“’Kay,” his voice holds the same tension as his muscles when I place my palms on his clammy skin. I seem to be in control of my physical response to him this time, maybe because he seems so uncomfortable.
I stay perfectly still, hoping some of it will dissipate, but it doesn’t. “Lance?”
His muscles tighten even more. “Aye.”
“Are you okay?”
“Aye.”
“Does this hurt at all?” I don’t see how it could, considering I’m using no pressure.
“No.”
If his tension isn’t pain-based it must be anxiety-based. I’ll never work out any of his knots if he can’t relax. “Can I get you to breathe with me?”
“Huh?”
“It will help you relax.” At least I hope it will.
“Oh. Yeah. Sure. I guess,” he says something else I don’t catch.
“In and out to the count of four, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Inhale, one, two, three, four…exhale, one, two, three, four,” I murmur.
It seems to work, and after a moment his shoulders feel less like a wall and more like tight muscles. On the third inhale-exhale combination, I move my hands lower, and he tenses all over again.
“Just relax, Lance.”
CHAPTER 5
HANDS
LANCE
I hate it when people touch me. Like, I lose my shit when someone puts their hands on me, particularly if I don’t expect it. A psychiatrist once told me it’s a result of some kind of post-traumatic whatever from when my brother died. He didn’t know my mum also used to use me as her punching bag, or that I’m edgier about it when it’s women, not men.
I don’t like contact even when I know it’s coming. So that explains why I’m tense as shit lying on this massage table, anticipating the hour of torture that’s about to occur.
What makes it worse, or what made it worse until a few seconds ago, is that this woman—this curvy slip of a woman—is likely going to become the star of every whack-off session for the rest of my life.
My massage therapist is a ginger. A strawberry blonde. A redhead. A real one. Like me. Even though I’m lying facedown on the table, I can envision all that long, pretty hair hanging down her back, her sweet body and perfect round ass hugged by black yoga pants. She’s wearing running shoes—I can see them right now through the hole in the face holder—and her feet are small.
I didn’t get a chance to study her face all that well, since I’m busy freaking out about this whole situation. She looks familiar, though. But that’s often the way it is with redheads. We’re all a little familiar-looking to each other, because we’re such a rarity.
I’d been ready to tolerate the physical discomfort of having her hands on me for a prolonged period of time, but my anticipated reaction never comes. I’m tense as her palms and fingers move down my back, because that’s a conditioned response when someone of the opposite sex makes skin-to-skin contact, but the sensation I usually associate with it is absent.
Instead of feeling like there are bugs crawling under and over my skin, all I feel is warm. Warm skin. Warm hands. Warm. And that sensation radiates through me, shooting through my veins and jump-starting my adrenaline. A wave of goose bumps flashes across my skin, and I have to work to suppress a full-body shudder. What the fuck is that about?
“Are you cold? Should I get the heating pad for you?” she asks.
Even her voice is familiar and warm. I feel like I’m being wrapped in it.
“I’m fine.”
I’m actually not fine at all. I don’t know how to deal with this new development, especially while all I can do is lie here and take it.
“If you get cold, let me know.”
“Sure.”
She smoothes her palms down my back and back up again. And then her touch is gone. I’m about to express my displeasure at this when her hands return. This time they’re slick. She starts circular motions up and down my back—a light touch that I want more of. Which freaks me the fuck out, becau
se I never want hands on me.
Not even when I was with Tash. I tolerated her touch because it was expected, but I never liked it. It never felt good—not like this.
I honestly don’t see how this girl can be effective, considering she has to be a foot shorter than me, but she’s strong—like, crazy strong. When she hits a knot, and there are loads of them, she runs her forearm over it, repeating the motion several times. She moves on to my shoulder, and I groan. The aches there are worse; maybe because I deflected a bunch of punches.
“Is that too much?” She pauses, but she doesn’t lift her palm from my skin. I’m starting to feel high from the contact.
“It’s just sore,” I grumble. “You can keep going.”
“If the pressure is too intense, let me know and I’ll ease up.”
I don’t say anything unless she asks me a direct question. I’m too busy focusing on the feel of her hands and how it should be unpleasant but isn’t.
Eventually she moves down to my lower back, which is really sore, probably from landing on the table. I don’t know how long it’s going to take for those aches to go away, but I’m going to need a lot more painkillers over the next couple of days to take the edge off.
“Would you like me to massage your legs?” she asks as she pulls the sheet up over me again.
I don’t want her to stop touching me, and if she’s done on my back I guess it makes sense to hit the lower half of my body. “Uh, sure.”
“Would you like me to include your glutes?”
It takes me a second to understand the question. “You mean massage my ass?”
I hear a puff of breath leave her; it sounds a little like a laugh. She clears her throat before she answers. “It’s a fairly common area for athletes, especially hockey players because of the high level of muscle strain and use.”
When she puts it that way, it sounds much less like she wants to feel my ass up, and more like she’s trying to do her job.
“Right. Sure.” If her hands feel good everywhere else, I’m sure they’ll feel just as great on my ass.
Pucked Off (The Pucked Series) Page 5
