Wish I May (19 page)

He tucks his fingers into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders looking impossibly wide. “I remember.”

My cheeks flame to life. My mother had taught me massage when I was young, and I liked to practice on Will when we were dating. Of course, what started as my hands on his body usually ended as both of our hands and mouths
everywhere
. “Please don’t use my techniques at sixteen to judge my talents now,” I say. “I swear, I’ve grown remarkably more skilled over the last seven years.”

He grins and runs those hot eyes all the way from the roots of my hair to the tips of my tennis shoes. “So have I.”

Panties disintegrated.

I push off the couch, mentally preparing myself to find the energy for my last client of the day. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” I say as sweetly as possible. “I have a client in a few minutes.”

Will unbuttons his dress shirt and slings it over the side of the couch. Before I can ask what he’s doing, he grabs the hem of his undershirt and tugs it over his head, leaving me staring at his gorgeous, solid chest.

What was I saying?
“I have a client,” I repeat, more for myself than for him.

“I know.” He shuts the door between the apartment and the gallery. He turns back to me before unsnapping the button on his jeans and exposing another half inch of that soft, golden trail that travels down his belly. “You want me to take it all off, or should I leave on my boxers?”

William. Naked. Sexy stomach. My hands on William’s stomach. My mouth. My tongue. I can’t even…. “What?”

He pushes his jeans from his hips and steps out of them. “I’m your six o’clock.”

“You’re my—” He’s wearing dark blue boxer briefs that hug his muscular thighs, and my panties might as well be dancing for as much as my girly bits are standing at attention.

“Cally, you keep looking at me like that and I’m going to find a new use for that massage table.”

My eyes snap up to his. He’s grinning that boyish grin, and I am swamped with the desire to shock him. To slide my hands down the flat of his stomach and lower until that smile falls away.

I roll my shoulders back. I am a professional. Pride myself on it and demand my clients treat me as such. That’s not going to change tonight. I clear my throat. “I’m going to step out for a minute. You may undress to your comfort level and lie on the table under the sheets.” Then I pretty much run from the apartment.
Right. A professional.

Maggie is washing coffee mugs in the kitchenette, and she bites her lip when she sees me.

“You knew about this?” I hiss, crossing to her and scooping up my appointment book. “I thought my appointment was with….”

“Will’s buddy Max?” she asks with a raised brow. “I don’t think Will was going to let that happen. Guy code or something.”

Dammit.
“I’ve massaged many beautiful men. William’s no different.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I’ve massaged
William
before,” I say stubbornly.

She tries to stop her grin. “How’d that turn out for you?”

I spin on my heel and stomp back into the apartment and to my massage room, where I knock on the door twice before cracking it. “Are you ready?”

He’s lying between the sheets face down. I usually start face up, but this will be easier. “I don’t know. I thought I was getting a massage, but you look like you’re ready to beat me.”

“Sorry. You’re not that lucky,” I mutter. The sound of his chuckle brings a reluctant smile to my lips.

I prepare in my typical way, lowering the lights, adjusting the volume on the music, rubbing oil on my hands. When my hands touch his back, I expect instinct to take over. I have no problem separating my touch as a professional massage therapist from my sensual touch. There are people who struggle with that—that’s why some don’t enjoy massage and others think it implies something sexual. They believe that every touch between adults is sexual. Add in the naked or nearly naked factor and they totally squick out.

For me, it doesn’t matter if my client is male or female, attractive or unattractive. The minute I begin a massage, my touch is therapeutic and all the other stuff falls away while I think about muscles and connective tissue and healing.

I know this isn’t going to be the case with William the second I touch my hands to his lats. First of all, he’s a moaner. Again, not something that normally affects me in the slightest. But with every touch, I am hyper aware of who I’m touching. This isn’t just a massage. It’s part of this long, drawn-out game of mental foreplay he’s brought me into.

His body is amazing. I’ve seen a lot of bodies, and I appreciate them all as beautiful in their own right, but if I had to pick out a male body that was most beautiful to
me
, it would be William’s. He works it hard. Not many adult men can say they’re in better shape than they were in their high school football days, but Will definitely is.

“You’re tight in your lower back.” I apply pressure to the point and close my eyes against the sound of his moan. I wonder if he moans during sex? Did he moan when we made out as teens? How could I forget something like that? “You should come to my yoga class at the gym. It’ll get this loosened up for you.”

“Is that where you go when you leave here on Thursday nights in those tight little black pants and tank tops?”

“Yeah.” I move up his back to the muscles over his shoulder blade. “This job is pretty hard on my body. I need yoga to keep my muscles from cramping up.”

“And yoga involves a lot of watching you bend yourself in pretzels and stick your ass in the air?”

“Watching the
instructor
would probably be more appropriate.”

“I can promise you, my eyes would be on you. Appropriate or not. And I don’t think I should be in public while I witness that,” he says, and I press a little too hard into the ridge under his shoulder blade. “Ouch!”

“Behave,” I mutter. I soothe the area with gentle strokes and resume my massage.

I
GROAN
at the sound of my alarm and roll over to turn off my phone. Waking up is equal parts painful and welcome. The first night on the couch wasn’t so bad. But after a few weeks on this Salvation-Army-find, I’m greeted every morning with an aching back and a sore neck, and now I hate it so much that sleep deprivation is less torturous than lying on the damn thing.

Dad has been helping herd the girls out the door in the mornings, but I’ve realized I enjoy spending a little time with them until they take off for the day. I’m at my massage studio until eight some nights, picking up the clients who like to come in after work, and sometimes I only get to see the girls for an hour or so before I make them go to bed.

My sleep was more restless than usual last night. I dreamed about William, him moaning in my ear, my oil-slicked hands running over his hard muscles. I made it through the whole massage without giving in to any of my…
baser urges
, and I got out of there as soon as I could. But after last night’s dreams, I’m pretty sure I need to head into the gallery early and make good use of the fancy showerhead in the apartment’s bathroom. Of course, sometimes Will showers there, and if I ran into him in the shower—

I push myself up and shake my head, trying to make my unwelcome fantasies scatter.

I’m hardly off the couch before Gabby is opening the door to the bedroom she shares with her sister. She flashes me that sweet smile before heading toward the bathroom. She’s been talking more. Just a little here and there, but her teacher told me she’ll answer questions sometimes in class, and the general sense of despair seems to be lifting off her shoulders.

The squeak of the old pipes and spray of the shower carry through the door. Satisfied that things are moving in the right direction, I decide to start a pot of coffee before waking Drew. My father has given up all “mind-altering substances,” which apparently includes caffeine, so I had to buy my own coffee, but luckily I found his old pot in the attic and I don’t have to settle for instant anymore.

After filling the pot and pouring the water into the reservoir, I add grounds to the filter and hit the switch to start it brewing before heading in to wake up Drew. There’s no need to rush when the house only has one shower.

“Drew,” I call, knocking softly on her bedroom door. “It’s time to get up.”

“No,” she calls back. “Go away.”

I crack the door and peek in to see her with the covers drawn up over her head. “You have thirty minutes to take a shower, dry your hair, and get dressed. If you don’t want me sending you to school in your pajamas, get out of bed.”

“I’m not going,” she says, her voice muffled from behind the blankets. “You didn’t finish high school. I don’t see why I have to.”

“Because I don’t want you to have to do everything the hard way like I have.” I sigh. To say that Drew “isn’t a morning person” is a dramatic understatement. “Get up and I’ll let you borrow my clothes.”

She rips the covers down and glares at me, as if I just hurled insults as her instead of promising something she’s been begging for.

“Come on, Drew. It’ll—”

I don’t get to say any more because my words are cut off by the sounds of Gabby’s shrieks, and Drew and I both run into the bathroom to see what’s happening.

“Oh, my God!” Drew screeches when I open the door. “That’s so gross! I fucking
hate
this place.”

I let her stomp away and try to hold back my own shudders of disgust. Gabby is standing on the edge of the tub, clinging to the shower curtain, eyes wide and focused on the floor.

I hear my dad’s heavier steps behind me but I’m still too horrified to move.

“What’s going on?” he asks, sleep slowing his words.

I swallow hard. I have to fight every instinct to climb on top of something—anything—and get my feet off the floor. “Dad,” I say, impressed with how calm I’m able to keep my voice. “You have a rat.”