No Damaged Goods

Then she scurries around the coffee table and the long padded…cot? massage table?

Whatever it is, it’s in the middle of the living room. Her hips switch enticingly, the broad flares of her jeans moving in counterpoint rhythm, making me focus on just how tight those bell-bottoms fit against her curvalicious thighs.

Goddammit.

I yank my eyes up from her thighs to her face just as she opens the door with a sunny smile.

I’m so boned.

Worse, she’s got the kind of mouth that’s naturally red like a ripe strawberry, and when she’s not smiling, it looks small and round. When she grins, it spreads nice and wide and lights up her whole face, putting plenty of dangerous ideas in my head of what to do with that mouth.

Her hair’s been pinned back messy in chopsticks, the red parts sweeping at her face, the purple tips spraying out in a colorful fan behind her head.

I don’t know how I never realized how short she was. Not till the moment she looks up at me and has to tilt her head back, her eyes glittering in the shadow I cast over her.

She hardly comes up to my shoulders.

But somehow, she’s larger than life.

All that bright energy bursting out of her takes up a lot of real estate.

Not in an invasive way.

More like she’s warm water, flowing in to fill the cold and empty corners around her till everything is soft and comfortable.

The fuck am I thinking?

I clear my throat, straightening, taking my hand off the railing.

“Hi.”

Her smile brightens. “You came!”

Oh, hell. Here we go.

“What made you think I wouldn’t?” I huff.

Her smile turns teasing, her body swaying back and forth a little. “I don’t know, Papa Bear. Maybe all the snarling you do.”

“God.” I rake a hand through my hair. “You gonna let me in or not? It’s freezing out here. And I thought we had a truce? Stop with the old man nicknames.”

She laughs.

I feel damn old—old and lecherous for almost craving the way she moves, the way she flits, the way she’s the fluttering moth and the dancing flame hounding my dick to Hades and back as she slips inside and holds the door open.

My pride gets the better of me as I follow her inside.

I can’t even fucking bring myself to limp. Even though every attempt at a natural step makes my whole leg lit with white-hot pain.

Fuck.

I don’t want this gorgeous girl seeing how broken I am.

But I guess I can’t hide anything from her.

I barely make it a step inside before she reaches out and catches my hand in both of hers, stopping me in my tracks.

Her fingers are soft and delicate against mine, so warm. My mouth goes dry as I look down at her. Her mouth has gone full and sweet with worry, her eyes dark and liquid.

“Don’t,” she says softly. “Don’t hurt yourself even more. You don’t have to hide it. I’m here to work with your pain, Blake. Not judge it.”

Everything in me wants to rebel with pride.

I fucking can’t.

Not when she’s looking at me like it’d break her heart if I refused her after I came out all this way.

So I just nod, shifting my weight to my right leg, lifting the pressure on my left.

Even that makes pain crunch up in an awful fiery knot. The muscle contracts with the movement, and I can’t stop my hiss, the growl in the back of my throat.

A thunder roll that eases away as she squeezes my hand in hers.

No, it doesn’t stop the pain.

But it makes a dude feel a little better, my chest warming. She turns to lead me toward her massage table, moving slow with her hand in mine and waiting without rushing for me to limp forward one step at a time.

It’s a relief to hoist myself up on the table, wincing as I settle down on the edge.

I promptly choke on my next breath.

Peace smiles at me merrily, twirling her finger.

“Okay, then,” she says. “Clothes off.”

I splutter. There’s a tightness in my gut that has nothing to do with pain or apprehension. “What? Why?”

Her laughter trills, and for a moment, wicked eyes dart over me before she turns her back. “You haven’t ever had a massage before? I can’t do it through your jeans for this kind of deep work. Don’t worry. I won’t look.”

“You’re gonna have to look to work,” I growl.

“Towel.” She points over her shoulder without turning back, before bending over the coffee table and giving me a sweet view of the curves of her ass and the dip of her silky spine. “You can cover yourself up pretty well.”

Good thing I ain’t naked right now.

My jeans are the only thing holding me in.

Fuck.

I tear my gaze away from her and look at the towels folded at the foot of the table.