by Penny Reid
“Yes?” I turned to face her, prepared to explain that Rebecca—the owner of the studio—had given me approval to interview customers when we’d spoken on the phone earlier in the week.
Her gaze slid to Matt and lost some of its hardness as her eyes moved over him. “Are you the walk-in?”
He nodded, extending his hand toward her. “Yes. I’m Matt.”
She gave him a small but genuine smile, accepting his handshake before her gaze moved back to me. Like a switch, her features arranged themselves into a mask of intense irritation.
“Come with me,” she said, spinning on her heel.
Matt and I glanced at each other, but did as we were told, following the woman down the hall, past a series of doors. I glanced into the three rooms we passed, finding one was a break room and the other two looked like bedrooms.
Giselle was waiting for us at the end of the hall, her frosty gaze moving over me as she opened the door to an office, revealing a man with long black hair speaking on the phone. He was also shirtless and barefoot, wearing red loose-fitting pants that resembled a billowy sarong. And he was impressively muscled. With tribal tattoos.
He looked up at our arrival, did a double take, then frowned at Giselle, holding his finger up as he said to the caller, “Okay, we’ve got you down for Monday at three. Thanks for calling. Okay. Bye.”
Upon hanging up, his attention lingered on Giselle and then skipped to me. “Marie?”
I nodded. “Jared?”
“The owner, Rebecca, isn’t here right now, she had to go pick up her son. But she’s going to try to return before you leave.” His face split with a smile as his eyes moved over my body. “So nice to meet you.”
“I’ll bet it is,” Giselle mumbled, crossing her arms.
Jared’s attention shifted to Matt, and he blinked. “You’re the walk-in?” Jared was looking at Matt askance, making no effort to hide his displeasure.
“Yes. I am.” Matt looked at my cuddle partner and then glanced down at himself, as though searching for what offended the man.
Jared scoffed, blinking rapidly and turning a plainly furious face to Giselle. “Well, that’s just great.”
She crossed the threshold into the office, saying to us, “Give us a minute, would you?” and then pulled the door mostly shut behind her.
“Really? You’re giving me grief about him?” we heard her ask. “Look at her. She’s all tits.”
Matt and I shared another glance, his eyes flickering to my chest and then back up.
“Real nice, G,” Jared said, sounding equally furious.
“And her hair? She’s exactly your type. I should know.”
Matt grimaced, but it looked like he was trying not to laugh.
“I’m not the one who has a history of being unprofessional,” Jared could be heard saying in a hushed tone. “Keep your hands out of his shirt.”
“They like it when I stroke their stomach.” It sounded like she was speaking through clenched teeth.
“You only stroke stomachs with six-packs and we both know it.”
Matt’s eyes widened almost comically, a mixture of shock and panic behind his gaze as he pointed to his torso and mouthed to me, I don’t want her touching my stomach.
I gestured to my chest and mouthed back, I don’t want him touching my tits.
A hastily repressed laugh erupted from Matt and he clapped his hand over his mouth to stop it. Despite his valiant effort, the sound drew their attention and the door opened, revealing a furious Jared.
“Is something funny?” Jared was now aiming daggers at Matt.
“No.” Matt shook his head as though to strengthen his denial. But then abruptly began nodding, his eyes swinging to me and narrowing. “Actually, yes. There is something wrong.”
My lips parted, maybe to refute his claim, maybe to agree with him, I’ll never know. In the next moment, Matt had wrapped his arm around my shoulders and addressed our would-be cuddlers. “The truth is, we’re cuddle virgins. And I think—no, I know—I speak for Marie when I say that we’re nervous. So we’ve been talking and we think maybe it would be best if Marie and I cuddled with each other—”
I snapped my mouth shut, my gaze dropping to the floor.
“—and you two could take us through the positions. Teach us how to cuddle. Be our cuddle sensei,” Matt finished, his tone beseeching.
Giselle and Jared shot each other a look of confusion as she asked, “And we’d still get paid?”
“Of course.” Matt nodded, his hand sliding from my shoulder to my arm, his big hand warm on my bare skin.
Jared glanced at me, asking softly, “Are you sure that’s the experience you want, Marie?”
“He just said it’s what they want,” Giselle snapped. “You just want to cuddle with her,” she added in a harsh whisper.
I winced, realizing I would get nowhere with these two. Evidently, they were dating, or involved, or something. And also evident, they had some major jealousy issues to work through. I wasn’t going to get an authentic cuddle experience either way. But at least with Matt as my cuddle partner, I didn’t have to worry about Giselle stabbing me in the middle of the session.
Plus, per Matt’s anti-relationship tirade just moments ago, I was fairly certain his interest in cuddling was purely academic.
“It’s what I want,” I rushed to declare, hoping to cut off a rekindling of Jared and Giselle’s tiff, my arm lifting to wrap around Matt’s torso. “As long as one, or both of you can guide us through it.”
9
Siri
Works as an intelligent personal assistant and knowledge navigator, part of Apple Inc.'s iOS, watchOS, macOS, and tvOS operating systems.
Source: Apple Computers, Siri
I changed into the shorts and tank top I’d brought for the cuddle session, then met Matt and Jared in one of the rooms I’d spied earlier. It looked like a nondescript bedroom, with a double bed in the middle of the space and a single side table. A solitary candle in a glass holder was burning, and provided the only source of light in the room other than the window.
“Marie.” Jared made a bow to me, his expression open and friendly. “I’ve arranged your partner on the bed. He’s ready for you.”
“My body is ready,” Matt called from his position.
I peeked around the man who would be our cuddle instructor to find Matt lying on one side of the bed, facing the door, a droll expression on his handsome face. I blinked once, slowly, mentally preparing myself for what was to come and reminding myself this was all in the name of journalism.
Taking a deep breath, I approached the bed. “Should I just mirror him?”
“That’s right.” Jared waited until I lay on the bed, facing Matt, before he gave further instruction. “Okay, now I want you two to tangle your legs together, with Matt’s staying on the mattress, one of Marie’s between Matt’s legs, and Matt’s upper leg between hers. That’s right. And Marie, lay your head on Matt’s forearm. That’s it. Marie, try putting your hand flat against Matt’s stomach, to create a connection, but over his shirt. Unless, that is, you’re both comfortable with skin-to-skin touch.”
“Over the shirt is fine,” I said, and Matt nodded his agreement. No need for things to get too personal.
We did as instructed while Jared launched into a monologue.
I tried to pay attention, but I was beyond distracted by the solid wall of maleness in front of me. And his leg between my legs. And his ridged abdominal muscles beneath my fingertips.
Men who were perpetual kids never made it on my radar. Up until now, Professor Simmons had come across as a big kid—specifically his tendencies to be oblivious, blunt, and stubborn. Yeah, he was handsome, funny, terrifyingly brilliant, but I hadn’t been particularly attracted to his personality.
But now, being this close, he felt . . . hot. And bigger. Stronger. Imposing. Manly. I caught myself swallowing nothing as I had no saliva left in my mouth.
He might’ve acted like a big kid, b
ut he didn’t feel like one.
“As a general rule, a cuddler and a cuddlee should never touch each other in the bathing-suit zones. No touching the front of the chest, the buttocks, or the pelvis. Basically, anywhere a two-piece covers on a woman or a bathing suit covers on a man.”
A subtle yet sly smile settled over Matt’s features, his brown eyes dancing as though thinking of a secret joke.
“What?” I whispered, suspicious, still fighting my flare of hormones.
Or, more precisely, whoremones.
That’s what I called my hormones when they betrayed my good sense. Sandra said I was slut-shaming my body’s appreciation for the opposite sex. I told her I was okay with that if it meant I remained free of STDs.
Matt inclined his head forward so that our noses were almost touching. His breath smelled like peppermint—not overpowering, just enough to betray that he’d snuck a mint—and he whispered, “I wear Speedos when I swim.”
I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh, but ended up laughing silently anyway as he resettled back into his original position. Trying not to laugh was becoming a habit around him.
And thank goodness for his joke, because it helped dispel my sudden case of sexy-nerves. Physically, I was beginning to see him as just too ridiculously attractive. Good thing he told you he’s allergic to commitment, otherwise you might do something whoremone-y.
I could do this. I could snuggle with Matt’s large, powerful, hard body and remain focused on documenting the experience for my story. Focus on the story.
My mind began to settle.
Meanwhile, Matt gave into his grin, his eyes dropping to my mouth. He had a really nice smile. I liked it when he smiled, how his eyes lit up with inner brilliance and tangible enjoyment.
“Now don’t be alarmed if one or both of you experience arousal,” Jared continued evenly. “That’s not abnormal, but it doesn’t happen every time. If it does happen, feel free to call for a break. Either of you can end the session at any time. Cuddling must be, at all times, purely platonic . . . ”
Matt’s smile dwindled by degrees and the mischief dimmed, replaced with something else. I decided it was sobriety. Then growing distance. And then, eventually, careful detachment.
Gathering a deep breath, his dispassionate gaze moved over my shoulder, and he stared at the wall behind me. I considered him, his sudden mood shift, while trying to listen to Jared’s instruction.
“Eye contact can be important in this position, but isn’t necessary. Don’t be afraid to move your hands, stroking your partner with an open palm if he or she finds it comforting. You can do it on the arm or leg, over the shoulder, down the back. Petting can be very comforting.”
Matt’s jaw flexed. His eyes still affixed to some spot behind me.
“Fingers in the hair, massaging the scalp or threading in the hair itself, is a technique we use. Matt.”
Matt flinched, frowning, his eyes darting up to Jared. “Yes?”
“Try playing with Marie’s hair.”
Matt didn’t immediately move. In fact, he held perfectly still, but I could feel the tension in his stomach muscles beneath his shirt. Eventually, he cleared his throat and swallowed, and his eyes cut to mine. His expression still distant.
I twisted my lips to the side. “Don’t worry, I washed my hair . . .”
“Good,” he said distractedly as he lifted his hand even with my temple.
Just before he touched me, I said, “. . . last month,” giving him a sinister grin. “But don’t worry, the lice are friendly.”
I was pleased to see my teasing had made a crack in his detached demeanor. He twisted his lips to the side—like he was fighting his own smile—and dropped his hand on my face.
And when I say he dropped his hand on my face, I mean he dropped it, like it was dead weight. Right on my face. With determinedly ungraceful movements, he shoved his fingers into my hair and straightened his arm, like he was trying to flick my hair from my scalp.
It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t feel good either. And he looked ridiculous. When I caught his expression, which was equal parts smug and silly, I started to laugh.
Matt’s laughter soon followed and he mimicked his earlier hair flick, making it even more ludicrous by twisting my hair and throwing it in my face.
“Like this?” he asked, unable to keep the laughter from his voice.
Jared huffed. “No, Matthew. Don’t put her hair in her face.”
“I think she likes it,” Matt said, making me laugh harder.
Jared made another sound of disapproval and peripherally I saw he’d caught Matt’s wrist. With Jared holding one hand captive and the other trapped under my head, I took the opportunity to poke Matt in the ribs, making him jump and squirm.
“Hey!” Matt protested.
“Okay, wait.” Jared’s tone firmed. “Tickling is allowed, but you have to obtain the consent of the other person first.”
While Jared spoke, Matt wrenched his hand free and moved it to my side, tickling me in earnest. “Let’s see how you like a taste of your own medicine.”
“I don’t need any medicine!” I tried to retaliate, but I couldn’t, because I am and always have been remarkably ticklish.
“Circle, circle, dot, dot . . . ” he said, laughing. Not maniacal laughter, more like he was really enjoying himself and was lost to the moment.
“Oh my God.” I laughed, twisting, trying to block access to my stomach.
He moved his attentions to my side, but his fingers weren’t painful or harsh. They were adroit, applying just the right pressure to make me squirm.
Matt rolled me on my back, freeing his other hand and pushing my legs down as I tried to bring my knees to my chest.
“Sorry, Marie. Can’t have your pointy knees near the yarn bag,” he said, not sounding sorry. His use of the phrase yarn bag made me laugh harder.
Soon he was straddling my hips, his hands deftly finding new spots at my neck, under my arms, and our laughter was the only sound I could hear.
“Okay! Okay! Truce, truce!” I bowed forward, tucking my arms close to my sides, my hair now wild around my shoulders.
Matt’s movements stilled, one hand at my neck, the other behind him, wrapped around my thigh at my knee as though poised to tickle the back of my leg.
I glared up at him, smiling. He glared down at me, smiling. Both of us were breathing hard.
“Truce?” he asked, his chest rising and falling, his gaze dipping to my mouth.
“Yeah.” For some reason, my eyes also dropped to his mouth, and I had an incredibly odd thought at that moment.
I wonder what his lips taste like.
Whoa!
Just stop right there.
It must’ve been our proximity, how we were touching each other as though we were familiar. Perhaps my body was confusing proximity with actual intimacy because I’d never touched someone like this without it.
“So. As I was saying,” Jared said, effectively pulling me from my meditations on Matt’s lips and to our instructor’s frustrated visage, “tickling is allowed, but must be approved ahead of the session first. Matthew, remove yourself from Marie, please.”
My attention cut back to Matt, who was still straddling me. His eyes were on his hand where it wrapped around the side of my neck, his thumb pressing against the indent at the top of my sternum.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, swallowing stiffly, and shifted his weight to one side to climb off my middle.
“Thank you,” came Jared’s curt reply. “Let’s try a traditional spooning position, with Matt being the big spoon, and Marie the smaller one. Okay, on your sides.”
I released a quiet breath. I still felt a little disoriented by the decidedly un-platonic turn of my thoughts, and lay on the mattress, facing away from Matt. For some reason, every sound seemed louder, especially if he caused it. How the springs of the bed squeaked when he moved into position, his soft breaths, the friction of his jeans against the sheets.
&nb
sp; “Try to get as close as you can, Matt. There should be no space between you. That’s right, put your leg between hers,” Jared instructed.
Soon his front was plastered against my back, the hard muscles of his upper thighs cradling my bottom, his firm stomach at my lower back, his chest against my shoulder blades. One arm draped over me, his hand limp, not touching my body. But I could feel him still moving behind me, as though trying to get comfortable.
“What do I do with this arm?” I heard him ask, his voice gruff, edged with impatience. “It’s superfluous.”
“Good question.” Jared leaned over us and I sensed he’d taken Matt’s wrist again. “I wouldn’t recommend trying to fit it between you, that creates distance and is generally uncomfortable for the small spoon. Instead, you can bend your elbow—like this—and Marie can use your arm as a pillow. Or, you can use it as a pillow yourself. Or, you can straighten it and place it under Marie’s neck, like this.”
Jared encouraged me to tilt my head so Matt could slide his arm beneath me. This idea didn’t quite work, as Matt’s upper arm was a little too big to fit in the space left by the curve of my neck.
“Hey, wait.” I grabbed Matt’s arm and positioned it so I was using his bicep as a pillow.
“Oh, good. Then maybe put your hand like this, Matt.” Jared took over and bent Matt’s elbow again, leading his hand to my upper arm, so I was wrapped in his embrace. “And your other hand can rest on her thigh, like this.” Once more, Jared moved Matt until the hand that had been draped limply was flat on my upper thigh.
Jared stepped back, tilting his head to the side as he considered us. “Maybe bend your leg, Marie. Yes, that’s it. Is that comfortable?”
I nodded, because it was comfortable. I felt like I was tucked in the cozy embrace of a big, muscular bear. Matt’s warmth surrounded me on all sides.
“I like this,” I heard and felt Matt mutter, the rumble of his chest reverberating through my back where we were pressed together. The words were bemused.
“Why do you sound surprised?” I whispered.
“Like I said, I’m a cuddle virgin.”
