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She ran her fingers through her hair. “Yes.”
“Does it happen because you overextend yourself?” he asked for the sake of asking. His stepfather had mentioned more than once her mother imposed some ridiculous standards for her daughter.
Visibly uncomfortable, she glanced around, and avoided looking at him. “Again, it’s my fault?” she said with a hint of nervous playfulness.
Again, he had the urge to hold and protect her. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his sweat pants to keep from pulling her into his arms. “I’m not pointing fingers now, Tiffany. Not everything is your fault trust me,” he said in a low voice.
“Yeah. Well, I just love what I do and want to excel.”
He bit back a smile. Who was he to judge her? “I know the feeling.”
Her shoulders dropped a notch. “Your show’s doing really well right?”
“I can’t complain. Ratings are great,” he said truthfully.
She folded her arms, and drummed her fingers on her elbow. “I’m glad.”
He sucked in a breath. His body tensed up, and as he shifted his weight from his prosthesis to his other foot, a sharp ache pinched his hip. Infierno. Even though he worked out, swam, and ate healthy, every so often he overworked his good leg and hips which meant more overall pain. Especially after the ski lesson from the previous day.
She pointed at his face. “You’re frowning at me.”
“I just need to sit for a second,” he managed to say. He would die before admitting his pain to her. She dated healthy men who had no physical limitations. Take her ex, for instance… the Italian entrepreneur, the one he heard about. Emilio Moretti. A pang of frustration hit him. She had almost gotten married. Almost. “What happened with your fiancé?”
“Emilio? I broke up with him shortly after we got engaged. I thought you knew.”
“Why?” he asked, even though it was none of his business. He plopped down on the sofa, and relief washed over him. He could feel the contours of his face softening. He stretched out his leg, trying his hardest to make it look as routine as possible.
“Because I couldn’t go through with it. I didn’t love him, I wanted to love him. But keeping our relationship wouldn’t have been fair,” she said, then cocked her head to one side.
“I know what you mean,” he said, and paid attention to his own words. If he had married Patricia, would they have been happy? Would it have been fair to her? He crossed his leg over the other, impatient, and his hip pinched again.
“What’s bothering you?” she asked, leaning forward.
“My hip. A little,” he said under his breath.
She smiled. “A lot.”
He waved her off. “Sometimes, this happens. I put too much pressure on my good leg and hips, and the muscles strain a bit. Nothing that a pain pill can’t cure,” he said, downplaying to wipe the look of sympathy from her eyes. She sat on the coffee table in front of him.
She nodded. “You know… I can give you a massage.”
What the hell? His gut clenched. “No.”
“C’mon. I took a masseuse course. I actually worked as one part-time during my first year in college.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I didn’t tell my dad, otherwise he’d freak out about me going into strange men’s houses to see them half-naked, sprawled on a bed.”
His eyes shot up. During the last years, hearing news from her through his mother was a double-edged sword. A small part of him enjoyed hearing Tiffany thrived in her profession. But, most of him, didn’t want to think about her. Traveling constantly for his show helped.
She laughed. The jovial, hearty sound filled the air like oxygen to his lungs. “Chill. Most of my clients were women. I didn’t give the happy-ending type of massage.”
He sighed. “Well, good for you. But I still decline your offer.”
“It’s just an innocent, harmless rub. If we step on eggshells around each other tonight, and who knows, maybe even tomorrow, it will be hell. Why won’t you let me help you?” she asked matter-of-factly.
Because we just had sex.His cock twitched. The possibility of her hands on him, her fingers kneading his flesh, caused his stomach to curl. She’d see him fully on display. Vulnerable. He still had a deep scar on the side of his leg, where his upper limb met the socket. The marred skin represented a memento of that dreadful night.
“Fine,” he said, his lips barely letting the reluctant word escape.
“You won’t be sorry. Let’s go to the bedroom.”
His stomach clenched. “The bedroom?”
“I can’t give you a massage on the sofa,” she said, like the suggestion to move to the bedroom was the most natural thing in the world.
Damn it. At this point, he’d almost rather continue in pain. Or he could take a pain killer and let it all be over with. But if he refused her help again, she’d suspect he had an underlying reason. After all, he’d spanked her. He’d been inside her. Why couldn’t she help him get rid of an ache?
The bedroom it is.
