The Mrs. Degree (Accidentally in Love 2)

His eyes come open eventually, and he sits up, pulling back from against the tub side and sitting up straight.

“I have an idea. Do you want me to wash your back?”

Wash my back? That sounds more like an invitation to put his hands all over my body.

Do I want his giant, strong hands all over my back? Um, yes. Still, I demur, a bit shy. “You’re the one who’s constantly getting your body beat up. I should be the one rubbing your back.”

His head lolls from side to side as if he’s working out a kink. “Probably, but when’s the last time you had someone give you a back massage?”

It’s been ages, actually. Getting a professional massage is a luxury I can’t afford and would be the last thing I spent extra cash on.

Still.

“How about I wash your back first, then you can wash mine?”

There. That’s a sound, reasonable compromise.

“Alright, if you insist.”

“I insist.”

Jack is massive. His back is broad and muscular. One of those backs you see in a fitness magazine where the person is flexing, the tendons and cords visible. He is a work of art. He is firm but soft too as he sits with his back facing me, my hands beginning at the base of his neck.

My hands are not nearly as strong as his are as they massage, my eyes scanning the tub for the bar of soap I’d set out so I can use it when the time is right.

I knead. Push.

Work his muscles best I know how, unsure if he’s getting any actual benefit from it or if it’s too light of a touch.

Smooth, sexy skin…

My palms graze his flesh, exploring over his shoulders and down his arms, then back up again. Down his spine. Up his spine.

This body has covered mine in the most intimate way.

I’m just playing, really—sadly, there is less massage to this massage and more greedy wandering, my fingers itching to tease.

He is so freaking gorgeous…I would lick him.

Eventually, I grab a washcloth and rub the soap bar around the material, lathering it up, placing it in the center of Jack’s back and caressing his skin with it.

He isn’t dirty at all, but my thoughts about him are…

“What’s going on back there?” His voice interrupts, and I realize I’m just sitting here, letting my mind roam, unable to stop the fantasies and daydreams. “You stopped.”

“Sorry.”

I can see his mouth grinning from behind and bite down on my bottom lip to stop the nervous giggle bubbling up inside my belly.

“I’m not very good at this.” The concentrating part, not the cleaning part.

It’s as if he knows exactly where my mind is at as he glances at me from over his shoulder.

“Your turn.”

I nod, still holding the washcloth and turning my body into position, back in the middle of the bathtub facing him, water sluicing, flirting with the edge and in danger of spilling over the side when he slides his long legs around my body and pulls my back against his chest.

Well okay then, do it your way.

How we even fit in this tub is a mystery, but we do, comfortably.

Everyone is wet, making it easy for his palms to glide over my flesh, fingers kneading at my shoulders, digging but not too deep. They glide to the center, down my spine as if calculating each vertebra, massaging at the base of my back, just above my ass.

My head dips forward, eyes closing so my sense of touch is heightened, and I can feel every movement.

His hands go slow. Deliberate.

They’re calloused but gentle. Firm but skilled.

“I feel like you’ve done this before.” Now, why did I go and say a thing like that? I sound as if I’m digging for information on other women.

Ugh, Penelope.

“What I meant is, it feels like you know what you’re doing.”

I can feel him nodding. “I have a physical therapist and a massage therapist who work on me a few times a week. I’ve picked up on a few things. If this football thing doesn’t work out, I can work as a PT.”

“Someone would definitely hire you.”

“You think?” His voice sounds close to my ear, and I shiver.

“Yeah.”

Jack’s fingers push a few stray hairs to the side so they’re out of his way, then his lips softly trail against my back, his warm breath heating my insides.

I shiver again.

“Cold?”

I roll my eyes. He knows I’m not cold. “Knock it off.”

“You want me to stop kissing you?”

No. “I meant, you know I’m not cold.”

I don’t know how it happens, but his hands are around my waist, pulling me even closer. I’m suddenly hyperaware—as if I hadn’t already been—of the cock pressing into my ass though Jack does nothing more than hug me tight while breathing into my neck.

Lips pressing my skin.

Tenderly.

It’s an embrace filled with emotion, considering we’re in the bathtub, but emotional nonetheless.