Christa Wick: Slow Hand Curves

I shrugged. There was no way I was going to relax with him in the same room with me. His rich, warm voice lapped at my thighs and the way his scent curled around my senses struck a very real fear that I would do something embarrassing if he got any closer.

His smiling gaze turned impish. “When you’re in the tub, the water all warm and bubbly…don’t you have any music playing?”

I blushed, embarrassed that I was incapable of even taking a bath like a normal woman. “Hymns, mostly.”

Sam’s chuckle went straight to my thighs, jolting my swollen flesh like a hard smack. “That’s a waste of a bubble bath, Hollywood. How about I line us up some Etta James?”

“Okay.” Trying not to seem like a complete square, I gave him a tentative smile. “Is she new?”

“New? Etta James?” His voice suddenly grew stern, only the playful tilt of his head and the twinkle of his bright green eyes stopped me from panicking. “Miss Rice, you put that robe on and prepare to be schooled.”

He left me to change, my expression wide-eyed and slack-jawed as I wondered if he had any idea why I was there.

I was sitting on the edge of the table-chair thingie when Sam returned, my legs demurely crossed at the ankles. I was too short for the table’s height. Even pointed down, my toes were still half a foot from the floor.

My hands fisting the lapels of the robe, I forced a blush down as he approached. “There wasn’t a sash.”

Watching me from the corner of his eyes, he plugged an iPod into a docking station. Just enough of his grin was visible to make me forget about the sash and meekly obey him when he told me to lie down on my belly.

His hands dipped between my chest and the cushioned surface, catching the edge of the lapels and lifting the top half of the robe off my shoulders and down my arms. “I couldn’t do that if there was a sash, could I?”

“No, I guess not.” I lifted my head as he slid a pillow under it.

His fingers darted out and smoothed my curls to the side as a woman’s sultry voice started playing over the docking station’s speakers. She sang like pure sex and I wondered why I’d never heard of her.

Oh, yeah — she sang like pure sex. Despite being twenty-six and living in my own home, I still worried about my mother examining the contents of my iPod during one of her unannounced visits. She most definitely would not approve of this woman with the deep purring voice.

To make things even cozier, Sam grabbed the remote and brought the lights lower, their color taking on a deep blue. Reaching into the cabinet, he pulled out a small hand-sized machine and plugged it into the wall.

He pushed a few small glass bottles around before looking at me over his shoulder. “Tension headaches, right?”

“Yes.” Melinda had been telling the truth in that respect. I had the worst headaches. They went on for days, but a lot of high-priced doctors kept saying it was nothing. “That’s why I’m here.”

That last bit was a lie and I turned my head so I wouldn’t have to look at him as my blush started all over again.

I heard Sam fiddle with the small machine for a few seconds and then the scent of almonds and chamomile started to drift through the room. A few more seconds passed before I felt the brush of his fingertips along the back of my neck.

He moved the bit of hair covering my neck to the side. His big hands gripped my shoulders and took a tentative squeeze. The woman was moaning as she sang, a deep throbbing cello coiling around her voice and sparking a sudden urge within me to moan right along with her.

Sam’s hands moved down my back, the fingers spreading like a butterfly’s wings to whisper along the sides of my torso. His thumbs pressed gently at my vertebrae, testing for any sensitivity. “Where does all this tension come from?”

He murmured the words. Feeling each one as a little puff of air between my shoulder blades, I realized he was leaning very close to me. I bit down on the whimper threatening to escape and managed a short response.

“Spreadsheets.”

“Okay.” He chuckled again, the air tickling my flesh and causing my shoulders to twitch. “What goes into the spreadsheets?”

“Numbers.” Stifling a groan, I closed my eyes. I sounded like a real Rhodes scholar — not! Admittedly, I was pleased I had managed any answer while he was touching me. His chest hovered so close to my back I could feel his body heat. I swallowed and gave my throat a little clearing before I elaborated. “I’m an actuarian.”

I didn’t bother mentioning that I worked at the insurance firm my father’s grandfather had founded. Like my brother Beau, I was learning the business from the ground up so I could help run it one day.

“Ah, I’m terrible with math,” Sam confessed. “But great with my hands.”

He started to fold the robe a little further down my backside. I clutched at the fabric, a small gasp escaping me and making my cheeks heat with embarrassment. Making no comment, he skipped over the robe and down to the back of my knees. A hand on each calf, he started to knead the flesh.

It wasn’t so much that my tension went away — it just sort of moved someplace else. Bits of it drew at my chest, making my breath come quicker. Other bits swam in my gut, the ripples so palpable it was if he already had started stroking me down there.

With Sam’s firm hands continuing to mold my muscles, I lost track of my own fingers. They slipped inside the robe’s pocket to brush against the hundred dollar bill I’d tucked inside after changing. My fingers were still acting of their own accord when they pulled the bill out and started to line old Benny boy up along the edge of my pillow.

Sam’s hands froze. “Put that away.”

If I had thought his voice sounded stern earlier, I now knew the difference. I reached for the bill, my hand shaking and fumbling in an attempt to pick it up. “I’m sorry…I…”

I was fast approaching a record level of mortification — even for me. Clutching at my robe, I tried to sit up, handfuls of my overgenerous flesh escaping the fabric. I managed to get myself upright, my feet dangling and Sam’s big body blocking me from jumping down.

“I misunderstood — I’ll leave — please don’t call security.” The words came out faster than I’d ever spoken before. My eyes were wet, leaving me one blink away from crying. “It’s all a mistake.”

Sam plucked the hundred from my fingers, his gaze narrowing as he held it up. “You mistakenly folded a hundred dollar bill into a triangle with just Franklin’s face showing?”

“No,” I whispered. “Someone else folded it for me. Please, just let me go. You can keep the money for my troubling you.”

“Well, you have been bothering me since you stepped into my room.”

I felt a stinging pinch in my nose as I held back fresh tears. I hadn’t meant any of it as an insult. I looked at him, blinked once and felt the hot splash of tears on my cheeks. “You don’t have to be cruel. I said I was going.”

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere, Hollywood.” Sam tucked the hundred back into the robe’s pocket. Then he steered me until my back was against the table’s cushion, my stomach and tits up. “Neither are you paying for what I’m about to do to you.”

“What you’re about-”

He stopped the question with his lips against mine. Like his hands, they exerted the perfect amount of pressure, pushing and spreading at the same time until my mouth opened. His tongue slid in, curling to hook against my top lip and tug. He pushed the robe’s lapels apart, the fabric slipping like water through my fingertips.

Still kissing me, Sam palmed my bare breast. The contact instantly evoked a shuddering moan from me. His tongue probed deeper, exploring along the inside of my top lip before licking the bottom one.