“Sit down,” he said as he spun one of the seats at the table around. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m not looking for help.”
“No, really?” He clasped his hands to his chest. “What a reversal. I’m reeling over here. You, turning down aid?”
Mae smiled a little. “You’re crazy.”
“Maybe, but I know what I’m doing with shoulder injuries.” He patted the chair. “Come on, what are you worried about? That I’m going to kiss you?”
Mae blinked. And thought, No, I’m worried that if you do, I’m going to ask you to do it again. And again. And again—
“No.” To prove the point, she went over and planted her butt in front of him. “Do whatever you like.”
Just as she was about to qualify that with a “shoulder only” chaser, she felt his broad, warm hand slide over the spot in question. Bracing herself, she got ready for him to pull some chiropractic move and snap her in half—
“Ohhhhhh . . .” she groaned as he massaged the top of her arm.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No, that’s amazing.”
He was gentle but firm as he worked the tension-filled cords that ran across the side of her neck . . . and God, the way the warmth from his palms translated into her skin, her muscles, her bones. And that weave of heat wasn’t contained to just where he was touching. The connection between him and her body flowed everywhere, from her head to her feet.
The next thing she knew, she wasn’t just sitting in the chair, she was relaxing into it. And after that, she noticed that her breathing was slowing and the persistent ache she’d had behind her right eye was also getting up and leaving—its presence registering because of its sudden absence.
So much stress over the last couple of weeks, winding her tighter and tighter. But with every subtle squeeze and rotating touch, Sahvage was taking it away from her, giving her a temporary peace that she knew was going to last only as long as he was massaging her.
But damn it, she was going to take the respite were she found it.
“Here, I’ll come around and do the clavicle,” he said.
She barely noticed Sahvage moving, but then he was in front of her and his thumb was pushing into the hollows above and below the bone that had been broken and healed wrong.
The second she winced, he stopped. “Too much?”
“No, it’s wonderful,” she murmured. “Please keep going.”
There were a pair of cracks from his knees as he knelt down, and he was so big that his face was in front of hers even though the rest of him was on the floor. And as he fell into a rhythm of pressure and release, her torso moved back and forth, becoming a wave, as opposed to an intractable I-beam of stress.
It was hard to say when relaxation turned to awareness.
When she started to focus on how close he was to her.
When her eyes, which she hadn’t been aware of closing, slowly reopened.
Sahvage was staring at her face instead of where he was rubbing, and his harsh features were a mask, showing nothing. His stare, though . . . it was full of heat.
I take lives against the will, but never females.
“I think you’re good,” he said as he dropped his magical hands.
In the silence, he didn’t rise to his full height. He didn’t move in to get closer. He just stayed where he was, showing her nothing and telling her everything with his obsidian eyes.
And that was when she realized . . .
“Not black, but blue,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Your eyes.” Her voice got huskier. “I’ve been thinking they were black. They’re a very dark blue.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“How can you not know what color eyes you have?”
“Because I don’t care.”
Their voices were low and soft in the silent cottage, but not because either of them was worried about waking up Tallah. At least that wasn’t on Mae’s mind. No, to her, they had created a separate space from the entire world, and there was no reason to speak any louder than it took to cross the infinitesimal distance between them.
“How can you not care?” she said.
“I don’t like to look at myself.” He reached up and brushed a strand of her hair back. “Mirrors are not my friend.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I can’t stand my reflection.”
Her hand lifted of its own volition to his face. The second she made contact with his cheek, his breath seemed to catch—which seemed strange given how powerful his body was.
With careful fingers, she traced his jaw . . . and lingered at his chin. “You have a five o’clock shadow.”
“Do I.”
“Do you shave without a mirror?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “How?”
“I do it in the shower.”
Sure as if he had implanted the image in her mind, she pictured him under a cascade of water, his head tilted back, his hair slick from the moisture . . . his naked body the peaks and valleys the spray traveled over. Glistening. Glossy.