The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

Magically, a bottle of lotion is produced, tossed on the comforter next to her. She stretches like a cat waking from a long nap. “For real, this is so exciting.”

“You’re the easiest person to please, I swear.”

“Basically.” Anabelle raises her head. “If I don’t fall asleep, I’ll return the favor, promise.”

“You better not fucking fall asleep—I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone massage my back.”

This interests her immensely and she perks up. “Wait, you’ve never had a back massage?”

“No?”

“Ever?”

“Nope.”

“Well, what the hell, Elliot? How can I, in good conscience, lie here letting you rub my back when you’ve never had anyone rub yours?” She scoots over, pointing to the mattress. “Lie on your stomach, I’ll do you first.”

I wave my hands in front of me in protest. The last thing I need is her warm hands roaming my body. “No, no, you don’t have to. It’s not a big deal.”

“Are you crazy? Back massages are the best—like, better than an orgasm. You’re first, so lie down.”

“And you call me the bossy one?”

“Quit stalling and get on the bed, St. Charles.”

Obediently, I climb to the middle of my bed in nothing but a pair of gym shorts, legs hanging off the side. Next to me, the mattress dips, Anabelle on her knees, approaching my side.

A finger glides down my spine. “It will be easier for me to do this if I’m sitting on you. Hope that’s okay.”

“Is that the approved method?”

“No, but my arms will get tired if I have to lean over you the whole time.”

“Do whatever then, I don’t care.”

I stiffen when Anabelle swings one leg over my body, straddling my ass. Warm palms at my lower back.

“You’re so tense, Elliot. Try to relax,” she coos, making it worse. “Tilt your head to the side, that’s it.”

I hear the lotion bottle snap open. Click closed. My roommate’s palms rubbing together, warming it up. “Sorry, I don’t have any actual massage oil. This will have to do.”

When her hands make contact with my back, I almost groan it feels so fucking good. Warm. Smooth. Pressure in all the right places, pushing gently into my muscles.

Slowly.

Slower still, caressing along my shoulders, thumbs and fingers working together to soothe the burning on my right side.

“Doesn’t this feel great?” Her soft voice cuts into the silence. “You’re loosening up. That’s good.”

I feel her leaning as her hands move up and down my spine until they stop, hovering at the base of my neck. Thumbs stroking the skin below my hairline, back and forth.

Kneading.

Her torso dips, hands maneuvering my arms, placing them at my sides. Palms slide up and down my biceps.

For several minutes, she rubs my arms and shoulders. Then she skims down my ribcage unhurriedly, in no rush, making little humming sounds inside her throat.

I know I’m not imagining the feather-light way her hands drift down my spine. I remain still, letting her touch me, basking in it.

Remain still when her lips kiss the tender spot of my shoulder where it meets my neck, nose nuzzling behind my ear, her breasts rubbing against my back and what the fuck was that all about? What does she think she’s doing, trying to drive me insane?

“Okay! Done!” Just like that, her hands are gone and Anabelle is sliding off my body like she didn’t just kiss me, innocent doe eyes widening when I glance up at her. “I’m sorry that was cut short but I’m dying for my turn.” I watch as she lies down next to me, facing me, grinning. “Ready when you are.”

I rise to my haunches, unsure. “You don’t expect me to sit on you, do you?”

I’m afraid I’ll crush her if I do.

She shoots another smile across at me. “You can if it’s easier. You won’t smother me. I trust you.”

Right. She trusts me, and what better way to affirm that than my erection digging into her ass crack?

Yeah, don’t think so.

Reaching for her bottle of lotion—it’s shea butter—I squeeze a decent amount onto my palm, imitating the way she rubbed her hands together before starting her massage on me.

Get ready to place my hands on her back, pause. “Hold up, I just realized I have all this lotion on my hands.”

“Yeah?”

“Where do I put it?” She’s wearing a top, and now I can’t lift the hem or it’ll get it dirty. “Do I just rub my hands along your arms or what?”

Anabelle laughs, burying her face in my quilt. “No you goof, you put them under my shirt.”

Under her shirt. Sure. “Got it.”

Her tank top is threadbare, the hem sitting at the base of her spine, skin already playing peekaboo. Poising my fingers along the edge of the fabric, the pads press gently on her exposed flesh, tentatively.

Sheepishly.

“Don’t be shy—a little lotion on my tank won’t hurt anything,” my roommate whispers, eyes already closed, smile playing on her lips. “Just rub my back, don’t worry about the technique.”

Jeez, I suck at this.

“Okay.”

I have no choice but to hook the fabric with my forefinger, making room for my hands, giving them berth to glide their way up, under her top. They catch the cotton once, smearing. Twice, fighting their way up, awkwardly.

Anabelle chuckles. “Should I just take my shirt off?”

“What?” I can’t have heard that correctly.

“Maybe I should take my shirt off. It might be easier—your hands are so big.”

My hands are big.

Her skin so soft.

Smooth.

Warm flesh.

Perfect spine.

I marvel at it, under the incandescent lighting of my bedroom. Marvel at how intimate this moment is, how much faith and trust Anabelle is placing in me.

I haven’t had a girlfriend in a really long fucking time, but I don’t recall a single instance as intimate as this, not even the sex.

Transfixed, I watch when she turns away for privacy and peels away her shirt, tossing it aside. Settles, once again on her stomach, chin resting on her hands.

Sighs, content.

“Let me know if my hair is in the way.”

“It’s not.” It’s piled atop her head, a few loose wisps of the baby-fine hair escaping; I imagine it’s tickling her neck.

Her waist is narrow, ribcage peach perfection.

Her breasts are flattened, side-boob creating a glorious distraction as I finally lay my hands on her skin, firmly rubbing her back.

“That feels amazing.” She’s quiet a few seconds. “Can you do me lower, right here?” Her left hand reaches back to grip my wrist, dragging it down, right at the waistband of her sleep shorts.

I place both hands on her obliques. Her iliac crest, just above her ass.

“Here?”

“Yes. Oh God, that feels good.”

I can’t tell if she’s doing it on purpose—the moaning—but regardless, it’s turning me on. This whole massage is, from Anabelle’s bare flesh, to mine, to the little sounds she’s making as she lies motionless beneath me.

I have no idea how low to go or where I’m allowed to put my hands. So, I play it safe, staying above her waist. Gently caressing her teres major, her deltoids and trapezius, all the places I’m learning about in kinesiology, but this is different than practicing on another student or a prop.

This is a woman I’m growing desperately attracted to.

This is my bed.

My room.

Our house.

Her skin.

“Elliot?”

“Hmm?”

“Is everything okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“You stopped.”

“Oh.” I move my hands to the base of her neck, kneading. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I can hear her smiling into the pillow. “Should we stop and watch a movie?”

“I can keep going if you want me to, it’s no big deal.”

She wiggles her ass. “You’re sweet, but I can tell you’re getting tired.”