Lauren tosses her shopping bags next to mine and drops her backpack on the floor. “You sure you want to? We could just crash.”
I scan her body, the tight set of her shoulders. “I’m still all wound up from the car ride. I could use some time to let my muscles loosen up. Plus, I napped, so I’m kind of awake.” If she won’t admit she needs to relax, then I’ll take the blame. I don’t mind.
She nods. “Yeah, okay. I need to use the bathroom and stuff. If you get changed before I’m out, just go on ahead. I’ll be right down.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” She opens her backpack and pulls out a makeup case, setting it on the bed while she checks inside a couple of shopping bags before picking one up. “I want to wash my face and take my makeup off before getting into the hot tub. So I’ll probably be a few minutes.”
“Alright. I’ll see you down there. You remember where to go?”
She gives me a condescending look. “Yes. I’ll be able to find my way. It’s not that big of a hotel.”
“Right.” I wait for the bathroom door to close, and the distinct snick of the lock engaging before laying down my suitcase and unzipping it, rooting around to find my swim shorts.
Once I’m changed, I debate waiting around for her anyway. The toilet flushed already, and the water’s running. How long could it take to wash her face, after all? But she was pretty clear that I should go on without her, so I grab a key card, leaving the other one on the desk for her.
I rap on the bathroom door and call over the water. “Your key card’s on the desk.”
A muffled, “Thanks!” drifts through the cheap wooden door, so I head down.
Since Lauren was in the bathroom, I couldn’t grab a towel. Hopefully they have them in the pool room.
An older couple wrapped in towels and leaving drips of water on the carpet holds the door open for me when I get there. I nod my thanks and breathe a sigh of relief that the place is empty.
Not that I need more alone time with Lauren.
That’s not it.
I’m just not in the mood to deal with random strangers.
I strip off my T-shirt and leave it on a lounge chair near the hot tub with my key card and phone tucked inside it, my flip-flops on the floor underneath and out of the way. Then I slip into the warm water.
It’s not as hot as I’d prefer, but it feels good. When I told Lauren I needed to let my muscles relax, I’d mostly been saying it for her benefit. But now that I’m in here, I realize I was actually telling the truth.
I don’t have to wait long before the door opens, and I turn to see Lauren walking in, a towel wrapped around her.
“They have towels here.” I point to the stack of white towels with a wide blue stripe folded neatly next to the door.
She glances at it. “Yeah. I kinda figured. But I didn’t have a cover-up with me, and I didn’t want to wander the halls in just a bikini.”
My mouth goes dry. She bought a bikini?
And when she drops the towel, leaving it in a pile on a lounge chair next to the one holding my stuff, I almost swallow my tongue.
Tiny triangles of fabric barely cover her important bits. Her nipples poke out, like tiny beacons calling for my attention. Her waist nips in below her rib cage, flaring out to a pair of round hips that are the perfect shape for handholds if she’s bent over—
I clear my throat and drop my gaze, cutting off that train of thought in its tracks.
Nope. Nope. Definitely not going there. Too many reasons to list why I shouldn’t.
Even though I can’t think of a single one right now.
She slips into the water silently, settling on the bench a few feet away, and I try really, really hard not to notice the way the perfect globes of her breasts float in the water.
I want to touch them, watch droplets of water sliding over the smooth skin, feel their buoyancy for myself.
She lets out a sigh.
And I’m done. Done.
I need to be the one to make her sigh like that.
Closing my eyes tightly only makes it worse, because now images of her naked and spread before me, sighing just like that as I impale her with my rock-hard dick flash before my eyes.
I pop my eyes open, glancing at her to see if she’s aware of my distress. Expecting a cool look and that arched eyebrow.
What I see instead is her resting her head on the tile behind her, her lips parted on another sigh, her cheeks flushed, her breasts bobbing in front of her.
Holy fuck. What was I thinking when I insisted on this?
Since her eyes are closed, it’s not weird that I keep my attention firmly fixed on the ceiling. I tried looking at the wall across from us, but I’m facing a bank of windows, which provides a muddled reflection of the two of us sitting in the hot tub. The fact that it’s not very crisp doesn’t diminish Lauren’s unassuming sexiness in any way.
Because as much as I accused her of being a non-stop flirt earlier, there’s no way that’s what she’s doing now.
A flirting girl in a bikini would deliberately press her breasts together, trail her fingers across the bare skin of her upper chest, press up against my side, anything to draw attention to herself.
Lauren’s practically ignoring me. And I’m doing my damnedest to ignore her.
“Thank you,” she breathes after several minutes.
“For?” It takes supreme effort for the word not to come out sounding choked.
“Suggesting this. I figured we’d just pig out on the junk food we bought and try to get some sleep, but this is way better.”
I risk a glance at her and see she’s pulling her head from one side to the other, a grimace on her face.
“What’s wrong?”
Giving up, she looks at me and lifts a hand to the surface of the water. “The warm water is relaxing, but the jets are all too low to hit where I really need them.”
I’ll hit where you really need it. No. Stop. Dammit. I grunt instead of voicing any of the innuendo-laden thoughts running through my brain.
“Hey, uh, now that you mention it, I think I am really hungry. And tired. I’m, um,” I jerk my thumb awkwardly in the direction of the door. “I’m going to go back up. Rinse off. Have a snack.”
She sits up straighter, her brows drawn together. “Oh. Okay. Um, I guess I’ll come with you.”
Standing, I gesture for her to stay put. And I have to force my eyes away from her breasts, because looking down at them is even better—worse?—than looking at them when I was sitting. I have to get out of here before she spots my boner. “Nah. Stay and relax. I’ll see you up there.”
“Oh. Really?” She looks confused, her lip caught between her teeth.
“I insist.”
Amusement enters her expression. “Alright. If you insist.”
I make sure to keep my back to her so she can’t see my wet shorts clinging to the outline of my hard-on as I grab a towel, then collect my things.
Hopefully I won’t run into anyone on the way back to the room. But just in case, I wrap the towel around my waist and ball it up in my hand in front, toss my shirt over my shoulder, and carry the rest in one hand.
I turn and give Lauren a chin lift by way of goodbye and then head for the door like I’m fleeing for my life.
This is going to be a long road trip.
Chapter Thirteen
Lauren
From the way Brendan makes his escape, I’d think he’s a virgin who’s never seen a chick in a bikini before.
There’s no chance of that, though.
And I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted by his insistence that I stay, but I guess I don’t have much right to be upset since I made him come down here by himself to start with.
I just didn’t think heading down together with me in the tiniest swimsuit I’ve ever worn was a good idea. At least the place is empty. How awful would it be if there were a family with little kids around?
Skimming my hands back and forth in the water, I let my
thoughts drift for a few minutes. But I’m bored here by myself. And in that weird state of being overly tired but not ready for sleep yet, with my brain still whirring away.
I’m kind of hungry too.
My shoulders feel a little better, but I have a giant knot in one of my shoulder blades, and unless I go completely under water, there’s no way the jet will ever get to it. It’s a weak little jet anyway, so it’s not worth trying to hold my breath.
I wish I had a tennis ball. Or something I could press between the knot and the wall. Because if it’s bugging me now, I know it’ll only get worse over the next couple days of driving.
Now that the thought is in my brain, I want to go see if I have anything that’ll work. Or maybe see if Brendan does.
When I get back to the room, Brendan’s on the bed eating one of the pseudo-healthy protein bars and watching TV, still shirtless, but with a pair of charcoal gray sleep pants on. His hair’s wet and messy, like he just got out of the shower.
I give him a little wave, an awkward wiggle of my fingers, and he watches me without saying anything. “Um, I’m going to rinse the chlorine off real quick. Do you have anything hard and round I could borrow?”
His eyes widen, and he seems to choke, setting off a coughing fit. “Excuse me?”
I sigh, putting a hand on my hip. This causes his eyes to travel over my body, lingering on my waist and then my bare legs showing beneath the hem of the towel wrapped around me. Ignoring his perusal, I continue, “I have a knot in my shoulder blade. At home I’d press a tennis ball against it to get it to release. I don’t have it with me. You have anything I could use?”
His eyes finally make their way back to mine. “Uh, maybe? I’ll check.”
With a nod, I turn for the bathroom. After a quick shower, I come back out, once again wrapped in a towel, but only a towel, because I didn’t think to bring my PJs in to the bathroom with me. Brendan glances up from rummaging through his suitcase, his eyes hot and hungry when he takes me in.
I don’t say anything, just snag my backpack from the floor and scurry back to the bathroom. When I come out this time, clad in the camisole and comfy pants I tend to sleep in, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.
He glances at me, then down at the floor, then at the wall above the TV and clears his throat. “Um, I don’t have anything like a tennis ball, but …”
I set my bag on the floor at the foot of the bed and cross my arms, waiting for him to finish. His eyes flick to me and away, then his jaw clenches, a muscle ticking with the movement. “But?”
He clears his throat again, his hand going behind his neck. “Uh, I could try to work it out for you.”
I wait, wondering if he’ll look at me, but he doesn’t. “For real?”
His nod is more of a jerk, and he’s clearly conflicted about the whole thing. At this point, though, if he’s willing, I’ll let him try to help. I’ll just ignore anything that … pops up. It hurts too much to get hung up on minor issues like attraction and uncontrollable physiological reactions.
“Where do you want me?”
That makes him close his eyes and clench his jaw again. Interesting reaction. I fight down a smile. I don’t need to make this any harder on him than it obviously already is. Pun intended. Ha.
“Do you want me to sit in front of you or …?”
He gestures at the bed. “Lie down. I’ll get some lotion.”
He carefully avoids touching me as we pass each other, me to climb on the bed, him to the bathroom to get the tiny bottle of complimentary lotion. I don’t hold back my snort of amusement. Does he realize he’ll have to touch me to rub my shoulders?
The bed dips with his weight as he sits beside me, on the side where I can’t see him. I wish this were a real massage table with the face cutout so my head isn’t turned to one side, but this’ll have to do.
His voice is hesitant when he speaks. “Uh, I’m going to just … the lotion might be kinda cold. Sorry.”
It is a little chilly when he first touches me, but the warmth of his hands soon takes over, soothing the muscles. He starts at my shoulders, kneading with his thumbs, relieving the tension more than the warm water could ever hope to do. Hot tubs are great, but nothing beats a massage.
He spends time on my neck, telling me to turn my head to the other side so he can get both sides equally. He seems to have gotten over his initial hesitation, and I close my eyes and enjoy the way my muscles turn lax under his strong hands. The tension from the long, treacherous drive slowly leaches away. I feel muzzy and sleepy and cared for, and I’m not willing to question that feeling too closely. It’s been too long since anyone did anything like this for me. Especially someone who wasn’t a professional.
As he works, he eventually turns so he’s mostly on his knees leaning over me, really digging in, following the muscles along my spine until he gets to the knots inside my shoulder blades.
I hiss in a breath when he pushes on one.
“Oh yeah, that’s nasty,” he murmurs. His voice is as soothing and relaxing as his hands. He works on the knot, then lets out a grunt. “Uh, Lauren?” The hesitation is back. Weird.
“Yeah?” My voice is muffled by the pillow and the fact that I don’t want to speak right now.
“Do you mind if I, uh, like, straddle your legs?”
“Uh, sure?” I don’t mean for it to come out a question, but I kinda figured we’d end up like this. “Do what you need to do.”
It sounds like he mutters something under his breath, but I don’t know what he says because the rustle of him moving on the comforter covers it. I don’t care that much, either. My road trip partner is taking care of me. He can mutter whatever makes him feel better.
His knees settle on either side of my thighs, close enough that his warmth envelops me even more, and he goes back to work on the knots lining my shoulder blades.
“Holy shit, woman,” he says when he finishes my right side and starts on the left. “Are you always like this?”
“Uhhh, kinda? Occupational hazard. Plus, I hold all my tension in my shoulders.”
“Yeah. I noticed,” he says drily.
I keep expecting him to claim that his hands are tired and leave the job half done, but he doesn’t. Surprisingly, he painstakingly works out all the knots, rubbing them gently, then pressing harder, causing me to moan in pain as the tension releases.
Damn, he’s good at that. What else are his hands good for?
I swat that idle thought away.
Much as I might like to find out, I’m not going there. Guys like him—ones that know how hot they are and use it like a weapon—are bad news. Not that he’s used his weaponized good looks on me. Yet. They never do to start with.
Noah didn’t. I fell for his charm in less than a day. He’s a trombone player, one of the other counselors at the music camp I worked at last summer. Hot. Smirky. Bantered with me just like Brendan does. Kissed me by the end of the second night. Convinced me to sneak into the woods with him after the kids were in bed a few nights later so we could “make love under the stars.” Screwed me over the next day, when I overheard him announcing in front of all the counselors after our morning meeting that he’d been the first to bag a chick.
Apparently it had been a bet with the other guys.
It made interacting with the other counselors hell for the rest of the week. The other girls all hated me for being a slut. And the guys … I was an easy lay, after all. They wanted a piece too.
Too bad for them that they’re all wrong.
The one good thing that came out of that was a renewed focus on my music. Instead of spending my free time hanging with the other counselors, I spent it practicing. Perfecting my skills.
And I have to stick to that. Cling to that. Because I can’t handle another round of being the slutty slut. Girls called me that in high school because I constantly had a boyfriend. But I figured it was just high school jealousy. To have it aimed at me in college, at a place where we were all supposed
to be working toward the same goal—helping kids become better musicians while trying to do the same—it was too much.
So no guys. Not even Brendan. Even if he is the hottest guy I’ve met in a long time, that means nothing. He’s pretty scenery, just like the mountains. And the only dream he’ll be making come true is the one where I skate at Rockefeller Center at Christmas.
Then we’ll both return to our lives, probably never speak again, and … that’ll be that.
The thought makes me inexplicably sad, but I chalk it up to being overly tired and overly relaxed. It’s like drinking when I’m already tired. It’s more likely to make me maudlin. Apparently a hot tub followed up with a massage does the same thing, making normal expectations appear melancholy.
Brendan rubs his thumbs up and down my shoulder blades a few times. “Better?”
“Yes. Much better.” My voice is still muffled, but firmer. Less slurred than my earlier responses. I need him to stop touching me.
Like now.
Because my musings about his hotness, the fact that I haven’t kissed anyone—much less done anything beyond kissing—in almost six months, and the very real reality that I’ll be sleeping in the same bed as said hot guy tonight, are all combining into a frothing stew of arousal and lust.
Arousal and lust that I’ve promised myself I won’t act on.
Which, of course, only makes it worse.
At long last, he slides back, moving off me and onto his side of the bed. Without looking at him, I roll to my side and sit up, blinking as the blood rushes back out of my head. “Thank you,” I say quietly to the wall. “I feel so much better.” And so much worse, but that’s not his fault. He didn’t rub my shoulders to try to sex me up. He did it to be nice.
Which somehow is only more frustrating.
If he were trying to make a move on me, I could turn him down, things would be awkward, but everything would be clear and defined.
As it is, we’re sitting in a stew of sexual tension and unfulfilled desire.
Or at least I am.
I’m probably just projecting.
Standing, I pull back the covers and slip into bed, letting out a big yawn that I don’t have to fake at all. “I’m wiped. Hopefully the roads will be better tomorrow.”
Overtones (Songs and Sonatas Book 6) Page 6
