Julia James - Passion & Pleasure

She was trying to help him, he realised. Her nails scraped across his nape and for a moment any pain he felt melted in the raw heat of his reaction. It was as if an electrical charge had invaded his system and, for a moment, he couldn’t get his breath.

Then, with a jerky movement, he swung away from her, mumbling something about not needing her assistance to take off his shirt. If she was hurt, if her cheeks turned a little pink, that wasn’t his problem. He had enough to do handling the minor explosions that were arcing down into his gut.

He couldn’t help but hear the way she sucked in her breath when he turned his back on her. It even made levering himself across the desk that much easier to do. He sensed she was dying to say something, but she held her tongue, and somehow he laid his shirt over the wood and spread-eagled himself upon it. He stifled a groan as he did so. Dammit, he was weaker than he’d thought.

‘Right,’ she said when he was lying on top of the desk, his muscles trembling from the exertion. ‘If I hurt you, let me know. Just try and relax, hmm?’

Yeah, right.

Matt gritted his teeth. That was easier said than done. He reminded himself that during his first few weeks with the guerrillas, he’d been forced to march barefoot over what had felt like the roughest terrain possible, until every nerve in his body had felt as if it was on fire. His limbs had screamed for relief, but none had been forthcoming. He’d learned not to complain. That had only brought him a beating. He’d actually felt grateful when they’d thrown him into a prison cell.

So he could do this, he thought, even if the first touch of her hands on his scarred skin had him grabbing the corners of the desk, digging his palms into the sharp edges of the wood. He had to steel himself against whatever pain she inflicted; create a barrier between his conscious and subconscious self.

He soon discovered no barrier was necessary. The rhythmic kneading that began between his shoulder blades had a mesmeric effect on his brain. Her strong fingers curled into his flesh, finding and releasing the taut tendons in his neck and shoulders, splaying over his torso, moving smoothly down his spine.

He felt himself loosening, adjusting, relaxing, as that almost liquid friction probed each vertebra in turn before gliding on. His muscles still burned, but the heat spread smoothly over him. He felt a sinuous feeling of inertia, and a mindless relief from the stiffness that had almost paralysed him minutes before.

Then, just when he was wondering what he could do to thank her, he felt her fingers slip beneath his waist and fumble for the buckle on his belt. ‘Can we loosen this?’ she asked, not seeming to realise he had stiffened up again. ‘If you could just push your pants down around your hips, I could—’

‘No!’ With an effort, Matt managed to grab her hand and shove it away from him. He blew out a breath. ‘What the hell do you think I am?’

‘A prude?’ she suggested, loosening her fingers from his and tucking them beneath her arms. She stepped back from the desk and although he sensed she was far from relaxed with him she added bravely, ‘You weren’t half so modest when I woke you up.’

Matt’s jaw clamped, but with a supreme effort he managed to roll onto his side. ‘Yeah, well…’ He regarded her dourly. ‘That was different.’

‘Because you were calling the shots?’ She didn’t back off. ‘I’m not about to jump your bones, Mr Quinn.’

As if she could, thought Matt grimly, pushing that thought aside to acknowledge that it was going to be bloody difficult to get down from the desk without her help. ‘Look, you’ve done a good job,’ he began, only to have her spread her hands in frustration.

‘I haven’t finished,’ she protested. ‘I haven’t even touched your lumbar region, and in my opinion that’s where the root of the problem lies.’

‘I don’t have a problem,’ muttered Matt, edging uneasily across the desk and somehow swinging his legs to the floor. He winced as his body denied that statement, but he wouldn’t let her see how stiff he still was. ‘Thanks, anyway. I appreciate it.’

‘My pleasure,’ she said, though he doubted it was. She paused. ‘I’ll be going now. Shall I come back tomorrow?’

Matt eased himself onto his feet. ‘If that’s OK with you,’ he said.

‘OK.’ She nodded. Then, with a reluctant gesture, she added, ‘You’d better put your shirt on. You’re sweating and you wouldn’t want to catch a chill.’

‘As opposed to what exactly?’

He regretted the words as soon as they were out, but Fliss had already turned away so he couldn’t see her face. ‘I always care about my patients,’ she said smoothly, opening the door. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

The house seemed absurdly empty after she’d gone. Despite the fact that his whole purpose in coming here had been to get away from people, suddenly he missed the almost comforting awareness of her working in another part of the house.

He moved jerkily across to the windows and was in time to see her striding away down the path that led to the church. He guessed there must be a short cut through the churchyard, though, in all honesty, he didn’t even know where she lived. Just that she lived with her widowed father and her daughter. That was it.

Diane would know where she lived, he acknowledged, but he had no intention of asking her. He could already imagine her reaction when he admitted that he’d employed Fliss Taylor as his housekeeper. And if she ever found out Fliss had given him a massage…She would not be pleased, but what the hell? Did he really care?

He knew he should. It wasn’t Diane’s fault that he’d been sent to Abuqara. It wasn’t Diane’s fault that he’d come back only half a man. She saw what she wanted to see. Any essential differences she either couldn’t—or wouldn’t—understand.

The phone rang then, startling him out of his reverie. His spirits slumped. Had his thoughts about Diane somehow communicated themselves to her? It was several days since she’d left for London and no doubt she’d expected him to ring her over the weekend.

Fortunately, there was an extension in the library so he didn’t have to go far to answer the call. His reluctance as he lifted the receiver spoke volumes, but he endeavoured to inject a positive note into his voice as he said, ‘Yeah, this is Quinn.’

‘Matthew!’ His mother’s voice was so much more welcome than Diane’s that Matt sagged against the bookshelves.

‘Ma.’

‘Are you all right?’ There was concern in her voice. ‘I expected you to ring me after you’d settled in.’

‘I intended to.’

‘Oh?’ Louise Quinn’s voice rose a little now. ‘When, exactly?’

‘Soon.’ Matt sighed. ‘I’ve been busy, Ma. Apart from the few things I brought from London, I didn’t have any furniture.’

‘Oh, Matthew!’ There was reproof in her voice now. ‘You can’t possibly live like that.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve remedied the situation.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not incapable, you know.’

‘But after all you’ve been through—’

‘That’s in the past now.’

‘Is it?’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘According to Diane, it’s still very much in the present.’

Diane. Matt controlled the urge to say that Diane had no right to be unloading her problems onto his mother. Instead, he said evenly, ‘Diane’s peeved because I moved out of town.’

‘And with good reason.’ His mother clucked her tongue now. ‘Oh, Matthew, are you sure you’re going to be all right? I liked to think I was just across town if you needed me.’

‘I’m fine, honestly.’ Matt shifted as his back twinged again, wondering how honest he was being. ‘And I’m not a million miles away. You can always come and see me. Now I have a spare bed.’