Naked With You

Part 2

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Sloan

How could a man that smells of whiskey and regret have me completely off my game? I push down on his shoulders from behind, trying so hard to ignore the way he watches my body work over his. Every exhale of his I breathe in and it feels like I'm being filled with him. His muscles resist the stretch and I move my palms beneath his neck and start from the top again.

His eyes look into mine and I consciously don't look away because I don't want him to see how flustered I am in his presence. I know he's someone important because I had to sign the nondisclosure form that was shoved in my face as soon as I was given his room number. He doesn't look away so I move my eyes to his strong shoulders and read the ink that covers his body. It's a map of a life lived fully on a body of a young man. Small symbols here and there and words fill in the space between.

His pulse throbs beneath my palms and I focus on the ease with which my hands slide over his skin. I have to keep reminding myself where I've already touched because my greedy hands want more, but I only have an hour. When my hands chase each other down his arm he turns his head slowly in my direction. He watches me press out the tight muscles of his forearm. He holds his breath as I run my fingers along his palm and out to the tips of his fingers.

He has to be a musician. I can tell by where his muscles are tense and by the strength I can feel when his hand is in mine. He's a man that works hard with his hands. "Breathe," I remind him softly. His eyes slowly shut and he inhales again, but not nearly as deep as he should. With his hand still in mine, I place my freehand over his heart. Normally there would be a few layers between us, but his little hissy fit earlier has left nothing but a bare expanse of tan, inked skin over solid muscle for my hand to rest on. "Come on, you can do better than that," I tease, watching his face as he pulls in another breath.

"You're bossy," he chuckles. His eyes open and find mine. His arm that was limp at his side pulls tight, ever so slightly bringing me closer. I release his hand and know it's no accident when his fingers brush down my leg. He's watching me, seeing if I will reprimand him or simply give in. Oh, how badly I want to give in.

"It's my job," I say a breathlessly stepping back and remove my hand so there might be some hope in making it out of here without climbing on top of him. I don't need another bad boy in my life. And everything about this man screams bad, bad boy. I turn towards the end of the bed and pull the sheet up his legs. More ink. No surprise there, and no surprise that his legs are toned and perfect. Eye candy. I almost laugh at the phrase. I know it's usually used to describe a woman, but no one would argue that this man spread out on my table is anything but sugar for my eyes.

Usually I tuck the sheet beneath the hem of a man's boxers, but he's naked. I raise it up enough so that I can get to the top of his thigh. The sheet is bulky between his legs, but doesn't hide the fact that he's enjoying my hands on him. It's not the first time this has happened during a massage, but it's the first time I haven't wanted to throw up in my mouth. In fact, my mouth would like to do other things in response.

"How long have you been doing this?" he asks. His voice is so rough and sexy I can feel it travel down my spine and raise the hair on the back of my neck.

"Three years." My hands slide between his legs as I stretch the muscle. I'm careful not to let them travel too far beneath the sheet.

"You're fucking amazing at it. You shouldn't be working at a hotel." When my hands move down to his calf he leans up on his elbows to watch me. Instantly I feel hot. Everywhere. Like I'm standing directly over the oven, warmth crawling up my limps and igniting an ache between my legs so needy it's almost overwhelming. "What's your name?"