The vest itself seemed to be made of black leather and had some patches on the front that were difficult to read in the limited light. But one she could make out easily since it only consisted of four letters.
OZZY.
It didn’t seem to be the typical vest someone wore while working a job, like at a retail store or pharmacy. Or a vest that housekeeping might wear at a motel.
No, it didn’t seem to be that kind of vest at all.
She gasped and her attention was pulled from those rectangular patches when he grabbed both of her feet, one in each of his large hands and began to work the soles with his strong thumbs.
She couldn’t stop the low groan that escaped her next. This time it wasn’t from pain, it was from pure, unadulterated pleasure.
Holy smokes.
She sounded as stoned as if she had smoked that joint, when she whispered, “You do this often?” Not only massaging random women’s feet, but feet in general.
“Nope.”
Well, he was a freaking expert. As his thumbs dug deeper, hitting all the sore spots, a shiver slid down her spine and woke up her nipples. She lifted her heavy eyelids and turned her gaze from his lap where he was creating heavenly bliss, to his face. He was no longer looking at her feet, either, he was staring at her with his face unreadable.
A stranger was massaging her feet. A stranger who was not a licensed professional.
Maybe he had some sort of foot fetish.
At the moment she didn’t care. What he was doing felt way too good and she was letting herself be selfish and enjoy it without trying to overthink it.
Don’t overthink it, Shay. If you do, the possibilities of why he’s doing what he’s doing may creep you out.
Just sit back, enjoy it and let yourself have this. Don’t say anything to ruin it. When was the last time a man massaged your feet?
Let me remind you… Never.
Not once.
She dropped her gaze back to his lap and his magical hands, and searched for the glint of a wedding band. Here she was overthinking it anyway and about to ruin it. “I see you’re not wearing a ring. You’re not married, right?”
Please say no.
It wouldn’t be appropriate for someone else’s husband to be rubbing her feet. If he was married, she would stop him immediately and give up the ecstasy she was experiencing.
Even if regretfully.
He put her right foot down in his lap, “Keep it there,” and began to work on the left one… With. Both. Hands.
Holy fucking smokes.
This was better than sex.
Please say you’re not married. Or engaged. Or in some sort of relationship where this would be so, so inappropriate.
“Ain’t married.”
“Engaged?” she squeaked when he hit a particularly tender spot.
“Ain’t nothin’.”
She had to disagree with that last answer. “You’re something all right.”
He snorted and planted the sole of her left foot on his chest and worked on the top of her foot and in between her toes.
Holy shit, she might orgasm!
But as high as her leg was raised, it had worked her black pencil skirt higher up her thighs. She quickly tugged it back down as far as she could so she didn’t give him a peep show. It might be dark but she still preferred if he didn’t get a good view of the floral pattern of her panties.
Or a glimpse of the dampening of her panties solely from his expert touch.
“Are you looking to get married?” she asked breathlessly, because if he said yes while she was in this boneless, euphoric state, she just might drag him to the courthouse.
Thankfully it wasn’t open until Monday morning so she was safe from that potentially rash decision.
“Fuck no.” He grinned, and put her left foot down and repeated the same orgasm-worthy massage on the right. “Musta left early. Nobody else has come back yet.”
“Ooh…” she moaned.
Wait, what? Oh, the reunion. That was right. That was why she was here in Manning Grove, staying at this motel and had met this man. “They were having,” she blew out a shaky breath to gather her thoughts, “an after-party at the hotel bar in town.”
She quickly went over in her head what she just said to make sure she didn’t slip a “Marry me!” demand somewhere in her answer.
“Didn’t wanna go?”
“Had enough fun for the night.” And this right here was so, so much better.
“Night’s early yet.”
He dropped the foot he was massaging back into his lap and began to rub both calves. She should stop him. What he was doing seemed too intimate.
She should…
She didn’t. She tipped her head back and rested it on the chair back, not caring at the moment how personal his touch was. Luckily, he didn’t push it and go higher than her knees.
Though, for a second, she kind of wished he would.