Maybe It's Real

by North, Isabel

“Nuh.”

  “Okay, so how are you doing with this so far?”

  “Yuh.”

  She leaned down and her hair slipped over her shoulder to brush his skin. He shivered. “Does that mean yes? Shall I keep going?”

  Owen nodded enthusiastically. “Mmm.”

  All right. She swept down to his shoulder blades, following the inner curve of strong bone beneath thick muscle, digging her thumbs in to seek out trigger points. She found a hard knot and applied gentle, steady pressure until it released. She expected him to flinch, but all he did was heave a gusty sigh and shift his hips.

  Honestly, she didn’t want to draw the cliched comparison, but he was like a great big cat, greedy and thrilled with the attention as she continued to work.

  Except instead of signaling his approval with purrs—which would be disturbing—he was treating her to a full spectrum of unbelievably pornographic moans that she didn’t think he was aware of.

  “Soooo good. Uhn. Down a bit. God, Chloe. Harder. Do it harder. Down a bit. Mmmmm.”

  Any farther down, and she’d have both taut buttocks in her palms.

  She smoothed her hands up to his waist and dug in again, since he seemed to like a firm touch, then used her thumbs to explore the base of his spine.

  Owen writhed against the table.

  Holy shit. Chloe’s cheeks heated in a sudden flash, and her stomach fluttered.

  “More.” He flexed, bumping up into her hands.

  “Stop bossing me, Owen.” Her voice showed no trace of the arousal she was fighting.

  She’d warned him this would be a sexy massage not a professional one, and she was allowed to stroke her fake boyfriend into ecstatic incoherence if she wanted to, but…she hadn’t expected to be this affected.

  Crisply, she added, “Lie there and moan. Don’t direct.”

  “Uhn.”

  “And try not to move around so much, or I’ll have to sit on you.”

  “Sit on me, tie me down, do whatever you want. Please don’t stop.”

  Thirty minutes later, Owen was a limp, groaning noodle, and Chloe was a wrung-out, sweating mess, exhausted by having to constantly wrestle him flat.

  He could not lie still. He could not stay quiet. He was having the time of his goddamn life. Hot skin gleaming under the low lights of her living room, he’d come alive under her care.

  His breathing was slow and deep and he’d finally fallen quiet.

  “I’m stopping in a minute, Owen,” Chloe said softly, “and you can roll over and sit up whenever you’re ready.” She eased back the intensity of the massage to the gentle, soothing strokes she’d begun with.

  His breath hitched.

  “Okay?” she said, smiling. Then she frowned. He was tensing. “Owen?”

  His shoulders bunched and he drew his arms up to fold them under his forehead, tucking his face into the crook of an elbow.

  “Owen? Is something wrong?”

  He grunted and shifted his hips a few times, buttocks and thighs tightening.

  He gave a broken little gasp.

  “Okay,” Chloe said. “This happens. It’s not uncommon. It’s not weird, I promise.”

  “It’s weird.” His voice was thick.

  “It’s not. It happens. It’s just friction. Nothing to worry about. It’s why we have a towel on the table. I also have, uh, tissues. Do you want some privacy? Want me to leave? I’ll leave. Here are the tissues. Feel free to go ahead and…see to it, and I’ll go to the kitchen to get you a glass of water. It’s important to hydrate.”

  He stilled, then let out a deep rumbling laugh that finished on a jagged breath. “I haven’t got a boner, Chloe,” he said, and then amended that with, “well, of course I’ve got a boner, but it’s not that. I’ll still, uh, take a tissue.”

  She whipped one out of the box and passed it to him. He lifted his head. Avoiding eye contact, he blew his nose loudly.

  She offered him another.

  He used it to wipe his damp eyes, then tucked his face away again.

  Chloe dropped a protective hand on the nape of his neck and let it rest there. “This happens, too. Emotional release is even more common.” When he went to push himself up, she stopped him. “There’s no rush. Take a few minutes to level out. I’m going to get some water and make tea. You were doing great with the breathing, so keep going with that, and whatever you do, don’t sit up too fast.”

  “Mmph.”

  As she moved off, Owen reached out and caught her hand. After a brief squeeze, he let her go.

  Chloe took her time brewing him a relaxing herbal tea, and poured out a large glass of water. She’d have him drink at least two glasses to help flush away the toxins.

  When she went back to the living room, he was sitting on the side of the table, long legs dangling.

  His gaze landed on her. “You,” he said with awe, “are magical. You could charge a thousand bucks for ten minutes. I’m not even kidding.”

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “I’m feeling eighteen.”

  “Eighteen? I can reverse time. I am magical!”

  He slid to the floor and grabbed his pants off the couch.

  “Drink first,” Chloe said, holding out the glass. He came over to her and their fingers brushed as he took the glass. He tipped it back and drained it. “Small sips,” Chloe said belatedly. “And if you’d like a shower before you get dressed, go ahead.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “But you have to drink a cup of chamomile tea when you get out.”

  He pretended to consider it. “Fine.”

  She showed him to the bathroom, gave him a fresh towel, and tried to stop her imagination running wild as she heard water splashing and a deep, masculine sigh of satisfaction through the thin door. She scurried to the living room and packed up the massage table.

  When Owen returned, dressed and with his hair damp, she gave him a steaming cup of tea.

  He wrinkled his nose but accepted it. “What is this again?”

  “Chamomile tea. It’s well known for its soothing properties.”

  He grunted, took a brief sip to test the temperature, then tossed it back like a shot, throat rippling.

  “You’re supposed to drink it in a slow and meditative fashion,” Chloe told him, snatching the empty cup off him. “Which I suspect you could have guessed.”

  “I can drink in a slow and meditative fashion. Shall I demonstrate with a beer?”

  Chloe grinned. “No alcohol.”

  “What?”

  “No alcohol after a massage.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re making that up.”

  She shrugged. “Owen, what I estimate to be about a decade of stress that you’ve been holding in your muscles has released into your system. I want you to let it go. Throwing a beer into the mix isn’t the way to do it. Lots and lots of water. That’s the way to do it.”

  He considered her, an affectionate smile curling his lips. “You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you?”

  “Little thing?” she gasped in fake outrage. “I am not little. I am a strong and powerful woman!”

  “Don’t I know it.” He skimmed his fingertips down her arm from shoulder to wrist, then lifted her hand and held it between them, examining it. “I wasn’t kidding, you know. You have a gift.”

  Chloe tried not to squirm as he traced the lines on her palm. “Massage isn’t that hard to learn.”

  “I didn’t mean in massage, although hell yes, you’re talented. I meant…you care. You give. No fear. I’ve never known anyone like you. I’ve never felt… With anyone else, I’ve never felt…” His somber chestnut gaze held hers. “Safe,” he said. His eyelids flickered and a faint flush colored his cheekbones, jaw tightening as if he regretted saying it out loud.

  He didn’t take it back, though.

  Instead, he shocked her further. “I want to stay with you tonight, Chloe.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Yes,” Chloe said, without eve
n a beat of hesitation.

  Owen didn’t show his relief at her prompt answer. He didn’t know what he’d have done if she’d said no.

  Yeah, he did. He’d have felt even more awkward than he already did about the tear leakage, which he’d followed up with the spectacular move of—like a freaking idiot—telling her she made him feel safe.

  And what the hell was that about?

  If she’d said no, he’d have stiffened up and found an excuse to make a swift exit. Knowing his emotionally constipated MO, the awkward would have had a ripple effect until he’d managed to ruin this sense of ease he had around her.

  The first time Owen had seen Chloe, he’d registered a beautiful woman with a sweet and expressive face, and a curvy body that spoke to his baser instincts.

  On their first disastrous date, he’d been intrigued by her unexpected reaction to him showing up late. She’d made him a sandwich, for god’s sake, rather than shutting the door in his face.

  The door in his face had happened later, but by then he’d earned it.

  When she’d had the choice to expose him or go along with the charade of being his girlfriend, Chloe had thrown herself into the role, and turned it into a game that had him checking his phone twenty times a day to see what she had to say next. Even if he hadn’t always managed to respond.

  The strength she showed in her capacity to give astounded him. Which was why he’d risked asking to stay.

  Although in retrospect, she might have misunderstood what it was he’d been asking for. “Not for sex,” Owen said quickly.

  “Darn,” she said with a smile. “Never mind. It’s probably for the best. Fraser sleeps on the couch, the walls are thin, and I’d hate to scar him for life.”

  And it was that easy. Awkward gone.

  She made everything seem so easy.

  Owen choked down two more glasses of water as they watched a sci-fi show on Netflix, and when ten o’clock rolled around and he couldn’t stop yawning, Chloe got to her feet. She pulled him up. “Bedtime. Let’s go.” She led him to her room and moved past him when he stopped in the doorway, gazing around. She gave a snort of laughter. “See something you like?”

  “I’ve imagined you in here a lot,” he said.

  “You have?”

  “When we were on the phone. Texting, or talking.” He strolled over to the bed and sat on the edge. He bounced. “It’s nice. It’s you.” He flopped back on the mattress, and another of those moans he couldn’t seem to keep in tonight escaped. “Aaaah. Firm.”

  She shook her head at him as she rummaged through the dresser for her pajamas.

  Owen stretched his arms over his head and closed his eyes in bliss. He jumped when Chloe tapped his thigh.

  “Don’t fall asleep yet. Bathroom. You go first.”

  He did, and then Chloe took her turn. She left the room with a small smile, as if he was amusing her.

  Owen was aware that he was acting differently. Not quite drunk, but soft in a similar way. His limbs were heavy without being fatigued. He swore he felt his blood oxygenating with each deep breath.

  He got undressed for the second time that night, folding his clothes and piling them on the dresser. He pulled back the comforter and slipped between the sheets in his boxer briefs. Rolling onto his back, he absorbed the sensation of firm, gentle support, the kiss of soft cotton against his skin.

  The toilet flushed and Chloe returned. Without any fuss or hesitation, she climbed into bed beside him, reached out to snap off the bedside lamp, and dropped against the pillows.

  “Score of one to ten,” she said into the darkness. “How relaxed are you?”

  Relaxed. That was what he was feeling. “Eleven.”

  “Excellent.”

  She fluffed the pillows and flopped over onto her side to face him before letting out a long sigh of her own. After a minute, she said, “Owen?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What are you thinking about so hard?”

  “You can hear it, huh?”

  “Sounds like tiny creaking gears.”

  “I’m wondering if I should wait until you’re asleep and then spoon you, or if that’s creepy. I’m thinking maybe I should go ahead and spoon you now.”

  “Spoon away, my friend.”

  Chloe rolled onto her other side and he moved behind her, drawing her warm, supple body against his. He draped an arm around her waist and tucked his knees into the back of hers.

  “Better?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  They lay there, simply breathing together. Chloe threaded her fingers through his and clasped their joined hands at her chest. Owen smoothed her hair from where it was tickling his nose. Neither of them fell asleep.

  Making this into something more would be easy. It would be the easiest thing in the world. She wouldn’t turn him down, he knew.

  He could press harder against her, so that she felt his erection. He could lay teasing kisses on her neck, tug her under him and slide on top, stretch his body over hers. He’d drop into the cradle of her thighs, take her face in his hands, and kiss her into oblivion.

  He’d build it slowly, until she was panting and gasping beneath him, maybe even begging, pulling at him, saying, Yes, Owen. More. Touch me, please.

  He had condoms in his wallet. He’d be across the room and suited up in under a minute.

  He could take everything from her. Chloe wouldn’t even be angry at him for it.

  Owen would, though.

  He’d be furious at himself for changing the rules of their relationship on a whim, without warning or discussion, all because he found himself in bed with her. All to satisfy the need to lose himself in her.

  And it would be a taking, it would be a loss.

  Owen wanted it to be a gift between them.

  Chloe rubbed his forearm soothingly. “Can I ask you a personal question, Owen?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is this the first time you’ve slept with a woman since your wife?”

  God, he wished. He wished he’d waited for Chloe. “No. I was angry after May died. I slept with women. Nothing serious. The definition of not-serious, in fact. Casual hookups, everyone knowing the score from the start. I regret it.”

  Owen had used those women in a way he’d never expected to use a woman. Once, he hadn’t even known his partner’s name. She hadn’t wanted to tell him. She wouldn’t let him tell her his name, either.

  Sex became something he didn’t recognize, a cold and distant joining, a dance of pleasure and bleak sensations that had left him emptier each time.

  Chloe surprised him, wriggling around in his arms to burrow against his chest. “I meant slept with. Like this.” She pressed into him, one knee sliding between his.

  “No.” This, the tangle of bare limbs under the covers, the comfortable brush of skin over warm skin, the shift of muscle and bone that sought no other end than comfort, than intimacy, closeness. “No, I haven’t.”

  “I’m glad you stayed.” She kissed his throat fleetingly. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Chloe shuffled out into the living room the next morning, picked up one of the pillows Fraser had knocked to the floor during the night, and whapped him on the head with it as she passed.

  He sat up, flailing.

  Last night when he’d returned home, he’d been obnoxiously loud about it.

  “Your brother’s not the subtle type, is he?” Owen had murmured in her ear as they both lay there listening to Fraser in the living room, talking on the phone at high volume:

  “Yes. That’d be cool, man. Thanks, I’ll get back to you about it. All right. Later.”

  “This is him being subtle,” Chloe had said as Fraser wrapped up his conversation—the volume designed, she could only imagine, to alert Chloe and Owen that he was home and private sexy times were over. “If he wasn’t in the mood for subtlety, he’d come and bang on the door and tell you to dismount.”

  Owen huffed a laugh in h
er ear.

  “Yeah, he was a complete shit growing up,” she said. “This is an improvement.”

  Three hours after Fraser, they’d been woken again. Owen was on call, and that call had come some time after three a.m.

  At first Chloe had been confused, pinned to the bed by a heavy weight. She was lying on her front, and Owen was all but lying on her back. Instead of suffocating, his solid weight had felt reassuring, and she’d been disappointed when he moved away and picked up the cell phone from where he’d left it on the nightstand.

  He listened attentively to the dispatcher at the other end, replied in a low voice, then disconnected and strode to the dresser and his pile of clothes.

  Chloe snapped on the light.

  He blinked over at her. “Sorry about the disturbance. Go back to sleep,” he said.

  “In a minute.” She threw the covers off and got out.

  Owen had pulled his jeans over his hips and was buttoning the fly. “You don’t have to get up.”

  “I want to walk you out.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “But I’m gonna.” She handed him his T-shirt, then shook out his button-down as he slipped the tee over his head.

  Owen had shoved his shoes on, taken the keys and wallet he’d left on the dresser by his clothes, then bent and pressed a hard kiss to her lips.

  She’d led him through the dark of the living room and locked up once she’d watched him slide into his car and drive away.

  Now, she was drinking a contemplative coffee as she sat at the kitchen table, her brain slowly coming online.

  “Thanks for the wake-up call,” Fraser said. He staggered into the kitchen, wearing his boxers and a T-shirt, scratching his abs. “For future reference, a softly whispered, ‘Fraser’, would work just as well as attacking me with pillows. Which I seem to remember being promised wouldn’t happen, but whatever.”

  “I’m sorry. Was my approach too unsubtle for you?”

  He stared at her with eyes still half-closed, working this out, before he cracked a grin. He ambled over to the coffeemaker. “Owen seemed nice.”

  “Owen is nice.”

  “Nicer than the asshole surgeon. Wait. Let me try that again. The asshole neurosurgeon.”