Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
He didn’t have his shirt off last time we were alone together.
Now he’s practically naked, save for the robe around his waist, the only modest part about him.
“Switch?”
Robotically, I nod. “’Kay.”
twenty-six
dallas
“Never do the same mistake twice. Unless she’s hot.”
– Drake Colter
Now it’s my turn to put my hands on her.
Except, under Ryann’s robe is a sweatshirt, which we all know won’t do if she wants a proper massage, will it?
Nah.
She’ll need to remove it, but I ain’t sure if she’s brave enough.
Brave enough, Dallas? Please. Ryann Winters is made up of piss and vinegar and has bigger balls than I’ve seen on some of my teammates.
She’ll lose the sweatshirt when she wants to.
At first, she only takes off the robe, folding it neatly and setting it across her lap like a security blanket. Makes it more difficult to get certain spots on her body but not impossible, and for a bit she tilts her head this way, tilts it that way; I can tell she’s uncomfortable.
“Everything okay?”
She shrugs. “The material is chafing my skin.”
Knew it would but didn’t want to point that out. She’d probably think I was a creep, and after our last serious conversation, that’s the last thing I want.
“Chafing is no joke,” I tease. “I know all about it.”
If she knows I’m referring to jock itch or ball sweat, she doesn’t let on, instead just dipping her head forward so I can access her neck more easily.
I’m not working on her back for five minutes before she turns her head to the side, trying to look me in the face, wincing. “If I take off my sweatshirt, no funny business.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. “You hate funny business. I already know.” We went through this the last time and fat lot of good that did us—I wound up between her legs; she wound up with KISS ME drawn above her vagina.
I wonder if it’s still written there. Probably since it was in black permanent marker…
Piss. And. Vinegar.
I sit back while she pulls the gray sweatshirt up and over her head, startled to see she’s not wearing a bra. Or a tank top. Or a T-shirt.
Nothing.
She’s wearing nothing beneath it, and all I can focus on now is how badly I wanted to see her bare tits when she was in my bedroom and those nipples of hers were straining against that sheer T-shirt.
When she folds the sweatshirt across her lap, I get a glance of side boob ’cause, well—there’s plenty of it.
Shit.
Okay.
No big deal. This ain’t the first girl you’ve rubbed down, and it won’t be your last, I coach myself as she settles between my spread legs, still on the couch with her back to me.
Ryann might be on the taller side for a girl, but she’s also on the slighter side, and I ease up on the pressure once my hands are back on her flesh, thumbs pressing but not kneading—I don’t want to hurt her.
I find a knot.
Rotate my thumb in circles as she winces, moans, then winces again, the tiny balls being worked out of her muscles.
I stay on that spot for a minute or two before moving on, crossing her back to do the same motions on the other side. Round and round with my thumb until I find the knots, working them out, pushing, massaging.
“You’re so good at this,” she whispers, neck craned to the side.
You’re so good at this…
Nothing sexual, but that doesn’t stop me from hearing it in a low, satisfied moan.
“I’m no professional, but I get by.”
“Can you just run your palms up and down my spine?”
Ryann is pale.
Has a set of three birthmarks on her back, on the right side, near her ribcage. Three tiny dots that look like they’d be a constellation if they were in the sky—I want to connect them with the tip of my finger.
I do as she asks and run my palms over her spine, working my fingers into the vertebrae as gently as I can, watching every space on her skin my hands occupy.
Silky.
Smooth.
Up, down.
Up…
Over her shoulder blades they glide.
My hands aren’t as soft as hers are; I handle a pigskin football hour upon hour during the week—my hands are mangled and calloused, despite the gloves I wear.
Ryann doesn’t seem to notice or care or mind.
She remains motionless.
Breath hitches when I span my hands over her waist, fanning out my fingers to cover more ground—or skin, ha!
My hands are large enough to put around her waist.
The tips of my fingers brush her ribcage; whether it’s intentional or unintentional, I do not know. All I know is I’m being propelled forward by a force called lust—desire. Hunger.
Greed.
Plus, she smells good.
Plus, her skin is bare.
Plus, there’s that side boob.
Feel it when I graze her ribs again, deliberately tracking my hands up as far as they’ll take me before meeting the resistance of her arms.