plan. Not tonight. This night is all yours. You just need to tell me about that treatment.” He was pouring himself a glass of wine, his long fingers strong and somehow … clever. A wide receiver would have to have hands like that, though, and Harlan was a very, very good wide receiver.
“Mm,” she said as he leaned back beside her. “My treatment.” Another sigh. “You know what it was, because you chose it. How did you know it would be perfect?”
“I asked,” he said. “What would be good for a woman who was extremely sore. A massage, now, when you’re that sore …” He took another sip of wine. “It works, not saying it doesn’t, but it’s not too comfortable, especially if you’ve got some bruises. I figured you’d been uncomfortable for about three days, and that was long enough. So tell me about it. Describe it to me.”
Another mouthful of rich, red wine, and oh, did she enjoy it. “They called it a hot towel infusion. You’re lying down in this cozy little room with another of these fireplaces, and they give you a sleep mask, so it’s really dark behind your eyes. And they play this music, a guitar and a flute. I think it must be Indian music. Hopi, maybe? It sounds like it, if I knew what Hopi music sounded like. Peaceful. Just from that and a hot shower, I was already getting more relaxed, lying on my back under this warm sheet, except that I still hurt everywhere, so I couldn’t actually relax. And then this lady came in and put these … these hot, wet, rolled towels and some kind of weighted hot packs, I guess, all around me and over me, so it all sort of sunk in. It smelled amazing. Sage and cedar and things, like the desert. A little like you right now. I like how you smell, too.” Another sidelong glance at him, and he was smiling just a little.
He had a very good smile. He had a very good mouth.
“Yeah?” he said. “Keep going. I’m liking this.”
“I guess it’s forty-five minutes on the front,” she said, “because then she has you roll over and puts more of those heavy hot packs on the back of you and around your sides for a whole long time more. The back of your neck. Your arms. Your legs. Your butt. I swear, that felt the best of all. It’s like it all seeps in there, and all those muscles that were knotted up, they just … get all soft, like you’re wax, and you’re melting. You get to stay there forever, and the feeling of it goes all the way down to your bones. You don’t have to move, and you can feel your whole body un-knotting. It’s like you loosen. I bet I’m taller now. My discs are loosened. It was the most amazing experience of my life. Better than sex.”
“Hmm.” His voice was a low, deep hum. “You sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure. So much better.”
“The boyfriend not much good there, then?”
She smiled, slow and lazy, that second glass of wine, the scent of him, the warmth making her boneless, and barely managed to turn her head to him. “Nope.”
“A little selfish?” he asked. His glass was on the table, not in his hand, and now, he took hers from her and set it down, too.
“A little. Though he said I didn’t communicate enough. That I didn’t tell him what I wanted, or do … enough myself to make it better. I’m not much good at … initiating. Or at saying. I never knew if … Anyway. Two sides to every story.” She was still relaxed, but she was also getting a little breathless.
“That can help,” he agreed. “Though his side isn’t convincing me. All a guy really has to do is slow down and pay attention. When she leans into your kiss. When she sighs and closes her eyes. Or later on, when her thighs start tensing up. Oh, yeah. Good times. Or a guy could just ask her …” He sent his hand out, stroked the back of it down her cheek. “To tell him when it feels good. Nothing he should like better than hearing you say, ‘Oh, yeah. Please. Do that some more.’ That’s music to a guy’s ears.”
“Then I’d be the one being … selfish, though.” She managed to get the words out, but barely, because his hand was moving down the side of her neck,