up.”
“I—”
“Do it,” she ordered him.
She wasn’t going to think about it—about how or why he rang her chimes. Or about that stupid euphoric feeling she got around him, either.
It had cost him to come here, particularly for a man who had a hard time leaving the house these days.
And though he may not have been in serious pain when he started out, he was obviously getting more miserable by the minute. She kicked her speed up to high gear. The pups were sent outside, the phone put on no-ring. The massage table was automatically dressed with a clean white pad, but it was baby-size. She scouted out an adult one, then threw a sheet in the dryer to heat on high for a few Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
minutes.
Minutes before, she’d worried about looking like something a cat wouldn’t drag home, but any thought of vanity disappeared now. Impatiently she pushed up her long hair, twisting and clipping it, while she considered which oils she wanted. She decided on lemon balm, sweet marjoram and calendula. She clicked on the CD, then strategically placed several small towels where they’d cushion his neck, the small of his back, under his knees.
She heard him cough—and easily guessed he was on the other side of the dressing room curtain, ready, just not sure what to do next. She didn’t look up, just said, “Climb on the table and lie down on your back. I’m going to pull the shades, darken the room so it won’t be so bright, Fox. There’s a cover you can pull on, if you’re too cool.”
She used her bossiest voice, yet she still momentarily held her breath, unsure if he’d try giving her a hard time. But he said nothing. Once he settled on the table, she turned around and immediately smoothed a cool compress on his forehead and eyes until she finished setting up. On the CD player she clicked on madrigals. She’d never liked that kind of music, but this wasn’t about her. Somehow even the most rowdiest babies seem to quiet down when she used that disc.
The details were done, then, and once she moved behind his head, she concentrated as fiercely as a brain surgeon. This was work. It wasn’t abouthim; it wasn’t about sex; it wasn’t about analyzing why such a scrawny, stubborn, contrary man put such an impossible zing in her pulse.
It was just about a man who was hurting…and about her, hoping to find a way to help him.
She worked for fifteen solid minutes, but his headache was almost as stubborn as he was. He just couldn’t seem to relax. The pain had a grip on him with wolf teeth. She leaned forward, closing her eyes, feeling his heartbeat, feeling the heat of his skin, feeling his pain…and then going for it. Temples. Eyes.
Frontal lobe. The sides of his neck, under his chin, his whole face. Then into his scalp.
Two minutes passed. Then five. Seven more minutes passed before he even started letting go…but then he was hers. Her heart suddenly quickened with a rhythm she couldn’t shake. She never got that feeling with her babies. Never got it with her elderly clients. Touch was sensual and healing and fulfilling, and she needed—liked—to help people. But it wasn’t sexual.
It was so, so sexual with him. Intuiting where to touch, how to move, wasn’t just about evaluating his pain. It was about sensing what he wanted. What he liked. What moved him.
Even though the pain finally eased, he didn’t open his eyes for a long time. Silently she pulled up the sides on the massage table so he wouldn’t accidentally fall, but still she stood there, knowing he wasn’t totally asleep yet. His body fought sleep, naturally wary that if he let go completely, the pain could steal up on him again.
At one point he murmured, “I just want you to know…I’m not marrying anyone. But if I were…it’d be you.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what all the guys say,” she quipped easily, but her voice was still a careful whisper.
He fell silent again,
“I—”
“Do it,” she ordered him.
She wasn’t going to think about it—about how or why he rang her chimes. Or about that stupid euphoric feeling she got around him, either.
It had cost him to come here, particularly for a man who had a hard time leaving the house these days.
And though he may not have been in serious pain when he started out, he was obviously getting more miserable by the minute. She kicked her speed up to high gear. The pups were sent outside, the phone put on no-ring. The massage table was automatically dressed with a clean white pad, but it was baby-size. She scouted out an adult one, then threw a sheet in the dryer to heat on high for a few Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
minutes.
Minutes before, she’d worried about looking like something a cat wouldn’t drag home, but any thought of vanity disappeared now. Impatiently she pushed up her long hair, twisting and clipping it, while she considered which oils she wanted. She decided on lemon balm, sweet marjoram and calendula. She clicked on the CD, then strategically placed several small towels where they’d cushion his neck, the small of his back, under his knees.
She heard him cough—and easily guessed he was on the other side of the dressing room curtain, ready, just not sure what to do next. She didn’t look up, just said, “Climb on the table and lie down on your back. I’m going to pull the shades, darken the room so it won’t be so bright, Fox. There’s a cover you can pull on, if you’re too cool.”
She used her bossiest voice, yet she still momentarily held her breath, unsure if he’d try giving her a hard time. But he said nothing. Once he settled on the table, she turned around and immediately smoothed a cool compress on his forehead and eyes until she finished setting up. On the CD player she clicked on madrigals. She’d never liked that kind of music, but this wasn’t about her. Somehow even the most rowdiest babies seem to quiet down when she used that disc.
The details were done, then, and once she moved behind his head, she concentrated as fiercely as a brain surgeon. This was work. It wasn’t abouthim; it wasn’t about sex; it wasn’t about analyzing why such a scrawny, stubborn, contrary man put such an impossible zing in her pulse.
It was just about a man who was hurting…and about her, hoping to find a way to help him.
She worked for fifteen solid minutes, but his headache was almost as stubborn as he was. He just couldn’t seem to relax. The pain had a grip on him with wolf teeth. She leaned forward, closing her eyes, feeling his heartbeat, feeling the heat of his skin, feeling his pain…and then going for it. Temples. Eyes.
Frontal lobe. The sides of his neck, under his chin, his whole face. Then into his scalp.
Two minutes passed. Then five. Seven more minutes passed before he even started letting go…but then he was hers. Her heart suddenly quickened with a rhythm she couldn’t shake. She never got that feeling with her babies. Never got it with her elderly clients. Touch was sensual and healing and fulfilling, and she needed—liked—to help people. But it wasn’t sexual.
It was so, so sexual with him. Intuiting where to touch, how to move, wasn’t just about evaluating his pain. It was about sensing what he wanted. What he liked. What moved him.
Even though the pain finally eased, he didn’t open his eyes for a long time. Silently she pulled up the sides on the massage table so he wouldn’t accidentally fall, but still she stood there, knowing he wasn’t totally asleep yet. His body fought sleep, naturally wary that if he let go completely, the pain could steal up on him again.
At one point he murmured, “I just want you to know…I’m not marrying anyone. But if I were…it’d be you.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what all the guys say,” she quipped easily, but her voice was still a careful whisper.
He fell silent again,
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