by Grey, Helen
Dipping my fingers into the bowl, I placed my right foot on the coffee table and began to rub the liniment into my calf, then move slowly upward toward my thigh. The gentle kneading and the wonderfully relaxing aroma of the ointment soothed me. Soon, I was lost in thought. I had taken care of both my legs and had rubbed it onto each of my shoulders, trying to figure out how to rub it onto my back, which I couldn’t reach. Not only were my muscles stiff, but every time I twisted my head in one direction, I felt a twinge of a nerve that shot pain from my left shoulder blade up along my neck and along the back of my skull.
“Need some help?”
I squealed and nearly flung the bowl of liniment onto the floor, only managing to stop myself at the last minute. I turned my head to find Blake standing in the doorway of his office, leaning against the door jamb, legs crossed at the ankles, arms crossed over his chest. My eyes widened as I took him in with one glimpse, pausing briefly at the sight of his crotch. Was that—
“Let me help you reach the trouble spot—”
“No,” I said, my voice sharp with alarm. “It’s okay, I can — I didn’t tell you I was decent!”
He shrugged and in a matter of steps was sitting beside me on the sofa. My heart began to pound. What was he thinking? This wasn’t right, this was—
“Scootch over toward your left a little bit.”
Without thinking, I did, and he reached for the bowl still clasped in my hand. His fingers brushed against mine as he took it, sending a warm thrill through me. He sat it down and turned, one knee folded onto the cushion and pressing up against my backside, his other side nearly caressing my own. Despite my nervousness, I couldn’t help but feel, nor deny, the sexual thrill that tingled through my veins. I couldn’t do anything about the sexual attraction I felt for him. Natural, wasn’t it?
I wasn’t going to do anything about it and I seriously doubted that he would either. There couldn’t be anything wrong in enjoying the brief and close proximity for a few minutes, surely. Besides, I couldn’t reach the spot that hurt the most. I glanced at him and then quickly looked away. That look—
“Can you loosen your robe just enough to let it drop down past your shoulder blades in the back so that I can rub this liniment where it will do the most good?”
I had no idea what he was thinking, but I certainly knew what I was thinking. My heart was trip-hammering. “This isn’t exactly appropriate—”
“Who’s going to see?” he countered. “And it’s not exactly like I’m telling you to take it off. You can allow the robe to drop down a little bit in the back and still keep yourself covered, can’t you?”
“Well yes, but—”
“No buts,” he said. “I’ve got a heavy itinerary this week. I don’t mean to be rude, Misty, but I can’t delay. If you don’t feel better in the morning, I’ll have to make arrangements for you to go back to San Francisco. Is that what you want?”
“No, but—”
“Just do it,” he said.
The words sounded almost like a growl, but rather than feeling any twinges of fright, I found the guttural tone incredibly sexy. Great. Just what I needed. With a heavy sigh, I loosened the bathrobe and shifted it so that it drooped down past my shoulders, careful to keep the front clasped over my tingling breasts. For a second, I wondered what he was thinking as he looked at my naked back—
I nearly hissed when I felt the warmth of his fingers soothing the liniment over the back of my shoulders. He made a tsking sound as he gently rubbed the ointment over the bruised bump on my left shoulder blade. His fingers were incredibly gentle, so warm, the pads of his fingers ever so gentle as he applied it in a circular, sensual motion—
“You’ve got a bruise about the size of a grapefruit right in the middle of your left shoulder blade.”
His voice sounded gravelly, harsher than it had been a moment ago. I started to glance at him over my shoulder but felt that sharp pain shoot down a nerve in my neck. I gasped and reached for it. He paused in his ministrations and placed the bowl of liniment on the coffee table. Before I could process the sudden and unexpected movement, I felt his warm palms resting on each of my shoulders, cradling, pressing down, and gently massaging the muscles that ran from the side of my neck down along my shoulders.
Not proper, not proper at all! But I wasn’t going to protest. It felt absolutely delicious, and I couldn’t escape the small, pleasurable sigh that escaped my lips. He chuckled softly, the rumble coming from deep within his chest. My pussy clenched and I gasped in horror. His next words proved that he had heard my gasp, but blamed it on something entirely different.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m massaging too hard.”
He gently kneaded the muscles, rotating his thumbs in languorous circles along the back of my shoulders, tracing the contours of the upper ridge line of my shoulder blades. It took everything I had in me not to groan with pleasure again. If I did, he might stop. I didn’t want him to.
My skin flushed with warmth. My nipples hardened. My pussy felt like it was on fire. Innocent though his touch may be, the tension erupted within me, along with a strong urge. My god, I had just pleasured myself in the bathtub, and yet I felt incredibly stimulated by his touch.
“No,” I finally mumbled. “It feels so good…”
“You’re really tight,” he commented.
The words made my pussy contract as if he was talking about that and not my neck. I grew more relaxed and without thinking, leaned closer toward him. His fingers worked their magic, kneading the knots and the stiffness from my muscles, gradually moving downward. He was careful not to massage the bruised skin of my shoulder blade, but his fingers worked their way down along my trapezius muscles and then back up along my spine. Everywhere he touched left a trail of heat. I wasn’t sure if that was the liniment working or the excitement of his touch.
I knew I should put a stop to this, before… no, he wasn’t purposely seducing me. I knew that. In fact, I doubted he felt anything at all until I shifted my body slightly and felt the hardness along his thigh. I barely managed to stifle my gasp of surprise before he spoke.
“Misty…”
His voice was soft yet guttural. I sucked in a short breath. I was losing my composure and I knew it. I couldn’t allow things to get out of hand, but at the same time, I didn’t want to relinquish the sensations that his hands evoked within me. I felt his breath against the back of my neck as he leaned forward, his hands brushing the tops of my shoulders before stroking down along my upper arms.
My heart pitter-pattered rapidly. I almost laughed at myself. Pitter-patter? Such an old-fashioned expression, but one that seemed apropos for the moment, didn’t it?
“Misty, stop me,” Blake whispered.
His tone made it clear to me that he didn’t really want me to ask him to stop, but that he was giving me the opportunity to stop… whatever this was. I knew I should, but a few more seconds couldn’t hurt, could it? By now the setting sun was casting long shadows into the living space, darkening the walls, hiding the two of us into a little pocket of deep shadow. I found myself leaning closer to his chest, cradled between his thighs. His hard cock pressed against the side of my hip.
I thrilled at the thought that he could be stimulated by me. Or were these merely male urges? The thought gave me pause until one hand stroked the front of my shoulder and traced along my collarbone and then dipped downward. His hand moved a fraction of an inch at a time it seemed, as if he were giving me plenty of opportunity to stop him.
I didn’t want to. My body didn’t want me to. Of their own accord, my nipples tightened and my breasts thrust forward, inviting his touch. In the next instant, his hand cupped my breasts, tentatively tested their weight in his hand, and then gently squeezed.
He couldn’t encompass my fullness in his hand, but he got enough to make an impact. At that moment, I recalled a comment by one of my girlfriends from college. “More than a hand full’s a waste,” my small-busted friend had commented one day after
making out with her boyfriend.
Blake was taking full advantage, gently squeezing, his palm so warm against my flesh. His thumb slowly circled the ring of my areola before roaming over my nipple, extending it outward even further. He seemed fascinated by what he was doing as his thumb and index finger gently plucked at it, alternately tweaking and then rolling the hardened nub across the inside of his palm.
He made a low sound in his throat. My breath came a little faster as I leaned further into his rock hard chest, relishing the feel of his musculature, the hardness of his abdomen, the firm pressure of his thighs against mine, his erection growing longer against my hip.
His other arm wrapped around me, encompassing my waist, pulling me close against him. And then, with one hand still fondling my breasts, his other hand began to slowly untie the bow I had made with the belt of the robe. And reality crashed down around me.
A surge of panic reared its head at the thought of him seeing my birthmark. With a sharp gasp, I sat abruptly upward, ignoring the pain in my shoulders. I pulled the robe closed around my neck, clutching the edges firmly above my breasts.
“I-I can’t…”
I shifted myself forward and stood. I didn’t want to look at him, sitting there on the couch, his legs spread, the image of his engorged cock pressing against the fabric of his jeans, but I did. I turned to look down at him, surprised by the expression on his face, his pupils dilated with passion, his lips slightly parted. He didn’t move, but gazed up at me, not the least bit embarrassed by how he appeared.
“It’s all right,” he murmured, making no move to hide his arousal.
“I’m sorry, I just can’t—”
“No need to apologize, Misty,” he said, his voice a bit stronger now as he moved to shift his position. “I’ll do my best to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
He didn’t sound upset, but he didn’t sound amused either. I felt confused, didn’t know what to do or what to say. I hadn’t planned on this. I hadn’t planned on being attracted to Blake Masters. And I shouldn’t be… for a thousand different reasons.
First, I had a job to do. Screwing him wasn’t going to get me the answers I needed.
Second, I barely knew him. What was wrong with me? How could I be so sexually attracted to someone I just met?
Third, what if he… what if he was a murderer? The thought was just as effective as a cold splash of water over my face. I stared down at him, torn between regret and relief.
“Thank you… for making the liniment,” I finally stammered. “I feel much better now.”
As if the incident were forgotten, he stood. “I’ll go fetch some firewood to start a fire and then I’ll make dinner.” He gestured to the couch. “Please, make yourself comfortable. You don’t have to go hide in your room.”
How had he known I was planning to do just that? I felt so awkward, so uncertain. But he was right. I couldn’t hide from him for the rest of the trip. I had a job to do! I cleared my throat and nodded.
“All right,” I said as if the entire incident were forgotten even though every second of it was permanently etched into my brain. “Maybe after dinner, I can ask you a few questions?”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “Go ahead and sit down. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
With that, he turned and headed for the front door. The minute it closed behind him, I sat down on the couch, my legs feeling wobbly and weak. I didn’t know whether to laugh or groan in frustration.
What troubled me most, however, was a question. If the room had been any darker, dark enough to prevent him from seeing my birthmark, I had to ask myself how much further I would have allowed him to go.
CHAPTER 7
Blake
What the hell was I thinking? I strode steadily along the porch, stepped off, and headed to the back of the cabin, my thoughts racing as I tried to ignore my hard on with little success. What had come over me? What had made me… I didn’t want to be attracted to Misty. Didn’t want to feel that strange pull toward her that captivated and horrified me at the same time.
I wasn’t at all disturbed that she had stopped me when she had. It was probably for the best. I found myself in a particularly unordinary situation. Most of the time, women fell under my spell with hardly any effort on my part, not that I was into one night stands per se or seducing women just for the fun of it. Nevertheless, I was a guy, unattached and with a libido. It was natural for me to look at a woman and try to gauge the kind of person she was. This evening, I’d learned a lesson. You can’t judge a book by its cover.
I almost grinned. Almost. My mother taught me that when I was a little boy. Shouldn’t I have learned that from Celine? She was all beautiful and sparkly on the outside, and for a while, that had attracted me. Until I got to know her better. Until I realized that the gleam in her eye when she looked at me wasn’t because she loved me, but because she was assessing my value.
The minute I didn’t give her what she wanted, which was unrestricted access to my bank account, she changed. The experience had left me wary, cautious, distrustful, and even more sadly, cynical. Which made it all the harder for me to understand what was going on with Misty.
I scowled and scuffed at the loose dirt behind the cabin with the toe of my hiking boot. Nothing was going on! I was confident she hadn’t intended anything sexual when I offered to rub the liniment onto that ever darkening bruise on her shoulder.
I felt guilty about her falling off the four-wheeler, which was why I made the damned liniment in the first place. Nevertheless, the moment my fingers touched the smooth, warm skin of her back, I felt the arousal, the instant chemistry. The little noises she had made in her throat hadn’t helped me keep control of my wayward dick or my hands. I paced back and forth behind the main cabin, wondering how I was going to deal with this.
Deal with what?
There was nothing to deal with. I briefly overstepped my bounds, apologized for it, and now I had to push it out of my mind. I couldn’t allow myself to be distracted by her, nor her refreshing honesty and personality. Nevertheless, I felt I could let my guard down around her. I wasn’t sure why. Odd in itself because I never let my guard down with anyone. What made her so different? The fact that she hadn’t known me from Adam when she met me? Could I believe that? Did I?
I did. She didn’t seem to be at all impressed with my money. Actually, she acted, at least up until a few minutes ago, as if she hated — well, maybe that was a strong word — disliked having to spend so much time in my company. I didn’t take that personally. I didn’t think it was me she felt negative about, but her situation. Of course, some of that could be due to the surprise of learning she’d have to accompany me in return for the interview, but that was one thing.
Except, when she looked at me, I didn’t see that assessing gaze, no ulterior motives, and definitely no burgeoning hopes. What I saw was a woman who was obviously attracted to me, but who also wanted to get this interview over with as soon as possible. In a nutshell, Misty was a young woman who was clearly not impressed with me, my status, or my wealth.
I growled low in my throat. Who was I kidding? It was more than that. She knew enough about me to know my background. I was sure of that. I’d seen the wary look in her eyes when we were first introduced, the way she cast sidelong glances at me in the chopper. The way she shifted her gaze away from me when I turned to find her watching me. She knew. The fact that she hadn’t asked anything about my father’s death — yet — shouldn’t be enough to sway or lull me into feeling comfortable around her. Sooner or later, it would come out. Like other journalists or gossip rag writers, she would lunge at the opportunity and chomp on it like a dog with a bone, refusing to let go. Then she’d turn around and spread yet more innuendo.
With a sound of impatience, I stopped pacing and headed toward the woodpile. My thoughts had dampened my arousal, at least for now. I pulled the tarp cover off one side of the woodpile and began to stack small logs in my arms. I would go in, light a fire, make
dinner, and then sit down to answer her questions. I would see just how long it took for her to bring up my father. The thought was as effective as standing under a cold shower.
Balancing an arm full of firewood in one arm, I rounded the side of the cabin and opened the front door. One quick glance told me that Misty had remained on the sofa. Resting, leaning her head back against the back of the couch, eyes closed. Her position gave me an unadulterated view of her long, graceful neck, her exquisite jawline, the shape of her lips under that adorably pert nose.
My dick twitched and I began to feel aroused again. It was only through pure mental force that I pulled my thoughts away from her. She opened her eyes and sat up. While I avoided her gaze, I felt her eyes on me as I stepped to the fireplace and placed the armload of wood into a wrought iron basket sitting on one side of the flagstone hearth. Without turning toward her, I quickly strode back outside, grabbed a few more logs and some smaller kindling, balancing it with one arm as I pulled the tarp back up over the wood.
As I entered the house a second time, I kicked the door shut with the back of my heel. Once again, I purposely avoided looking toward Misty as I prepared a fire. I double-checked a metal knob just inside the chimney to ensure that the flue was open. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a box of waterproof matches, lit the kindling, blew gently on it, and watched as the small flames took hold.
As tentative flames spread to a larger piece of wood, I finally stood and turned to look at her, still seated on the couch watching me. “You doing all right?”
She nodded. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
I shook my head. “No, just relax. I’m just going to heat up some dinner. Canned beef stew okay with you?”
“Sure,” she said with a hint of a smile.
Without another word, I strode past the sofa, across the room and turned down the short hallway toward the kitchen. I busied myself fixing our supper. While the beef stew was heating in a metal pot, I searched the cupboards, pleased to find them fully stocked with dishes. When I spied the old-fashioned blue tin type, I smiled. I would have to give my interior decorator a bonus. She had gone above and beyond with this place and had thought of the smallest details, right down to the dishware.