Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends #2) - Sara Ney Page 0,40

me think. Gets me…all…kinds…of…

Something.

He trusts me one hundred percent.

It’s a strange but good feeling, this new sensation. I feel like we’ve just become friends, but—I selfishly also want to feel his hands on my skin under the guise of a back massage. Don’t get me wrong, my shoulder does hurt and could use thumbs digging into the muscles, but it’s not like I can’t wait.

He’s right, though, about me being honest; I would tell him.

“Fine. I’ll tell you if I get turned on.” I roll my eyes despite the fact that he can’t see my face and raise myself up, shucking off my shirt, knowing no decent rubdown can really happen through a cotton barrier. Just not the same.

The giant t-shirt comes off and I drop it next to the bed where I’ll be able to easily retrieve it later. Then flop back down onto the cool, crisp bed sheets, pretending to be nonchalant about the whole thing.

I hold my breath.

Try not to, waiting.

Tense, but not from repulsion or dread. I’m tense because the anticipation is killing me, the thought of those giant, talented hands on my skin making me warm all over.

What am I doing, having him rub my back? Am I insane? A glutton for punishment? What kind of hell am I going to subject myself to, lying here pretending not to lik—

“You need to relax.” Fingers graze the skin on my shoulder, hot hands, singeing where they roam. “You’re so tight.”

So tight? I want to quip. If you think my skin is tight, you should feel my vagina.

But I don’t.

Instead, I squirm, loving every second of this torture, knowing my panties are going to become wet in record time.

Buzz knows what he’s doing, thumbs kneading into my trapezius muscles—and I only know the technical term because for a hot minute in college, I thought I might want to be a sports trainer. Mostly to make my dad happy.

Dodged that bullet, but I won’t be dodging the tingling in my lady parts.

Shit.

It’s already happening and he’s only been touching me for thirty seconds.

Pushing. Kneading. Rubbing.

I can feel the heel of his palm digging, making slow circles over my flesh. Trails down to my rhomboid. Pushes. More pressure, around and around and around, causing my eyes to become half-lidded and drowsy.

“Mmm,” I moan, purely by accident.

“What was that?” His hot breath warms the crook of my neck, just below my ear. “That distinctly sounded like a moan of, oh—I don’t know…pleasure?”

“Dream on, pal.”

Buzz presses his fingers into my back, releasing a few knots. Again. Again. Again. “Wow, you really needed this. You should make an appointment with someone who knows what they’re doing.” He leans in again. “I could set you up with the team’s trainer—he does private massages on the side.”

“Uhhh…” Another moan escapes my mouth. “I’m g-good.”

“You sure?” His voice is a melodic hum or maybe I’m imagining it?

My neck tilts, loving the vibrations from his chest against my back every time he makes a sound.

“How does this feel? Too much pressure?” All fingers of both hands are squeezing gently, the tension in my shoulders loosening as the throbbing between my legs gets worse.

“It’s good. A good amount of pressure,” I respond dumbly. What’s he saying? All I can hear is the sound of my crotch telling him to do it harder—I can handle more.

Massaging. More massaging.

Definitely only more of that.

My brain stops working. His hands haven’t stopped moving. My panties are no longer dry.

I arch my back.

Tip my head forward, hair hitting the mattress, giving his roaming hands better access. My boobs begin to ache.

Buzz’s hands skim my rib cage, one hundred percent out of massaging bounds. Down my hip, skimming the waistband of the mesh basketball shorts I’m wearing, then up again.

He can’t see it, but I bite my lower lip.

I want his hands all over.

My breasts, my ass, between my legs.

No, Hollis—if you give him the cookie, you’ll never hear from this guy again. That is what guys like this do. Give him what he wants and he’ll ghost you.

So what? I argue. You don’t want to date him anyway. You want him out of your life, remember?

Do you though? Do you really want him out of your life?

You wouldn’t be lying in this bed beside him if you did, you liar.

I’ve always been good at lying to myself. Stop trying to stop me, bitch.

Whoa. Cool it with the internal babble, you psychopath.

Oblivious to the ramblings inside my head, Buzz Wallace—the best closer in