Page 59 of Sterling Touch
Glancing down at the outline on my inner arm, I smile to myself.
There must be a way to see Vale again.
22
[Vale]
When Wednesday rolls around, I’m nervous. I haven’t seen or heard from Cort since the weekend. A weekend that was both an eye-opener and sexy as hell. But I don’t know where that leaves us, other than as therapist and patient again.
Most of the time Cort and I were in private, he didn’t seem to mind my touching him. He even appeared to welcome it, until it came to the more intimate moment of me undressing him and taking him in my mouth. I have no doubt he enjoyed himself immensely, but the fact he had me sit on my hands was worrisome.
Having touch aversion is typically a symptom of some past trauma and I shudder to think that Cort has been hurt in some deep, dark, disturbing way that’s caused him to be afraid of physical contact. I doubt it was his parents. Mary and FranklinHaven were good people, kind people, and very loving toward their children. The mystery lays elsewhere.
And these thoughts rumble through my head while Cort lies face down on my massage table. His beautiful shoulders on display. His triceps tight while his arms are at his sides. The curve of his backside beneath the sheet. The suggestion of what’s on the front of him vivid in my memory.
My mouth waters when I consider what we did. What I said to him.
Feed me. I’ve never been so bold. So direct. Demanding from him what Iwantedhim to do.
The memory sends a shiver licking up my spine. An empowering shiver. One that has me smiling while I pull down the sheet covering him mid-back and lower, including his arms.
Instantly, I notice a bandage on Cort’s arm.
“What happened?” I ask. The wrap isn’t something small. It’s wide and thick and circling around his lower left arm.
“Just a little scrape on the job,” he mutters, his face buried in the circular pillow as I start our warmup routine.
“You need to be more careful,” I scold, frowning although he can’t see me.
He’s in this position in the first place because he fell off a roof. He needs to take better care of himself.
The thought brings me up short, because I want to take care of him. I want to wipe away whatever fears still linger about being touched. I want to erase the pain and give him pleasure. I want him to learn that hands are for love, not harm.
Massaging methodically along his side, I’m lost in this thought when Cort turns his head on the pillow.
“I can almost hear you thinking, Bee.”
I softly chuckle. “Just wish you wouldn’t take risks with yourself.” Maybe just take a risk on me.
“I’ll pay better attention,” he says, his eyes open, peering at me as best he can in his current position. Somehow the wordsfeel telling, like he means something deeper. Like he’ll note details better with me.
I don’t want to act like this weekend didn’t mean everything to me, but I also don’t want to come across like I want more. I’ll take whatever Cort offers. I’m just happy we’re still talking. He didn’t walk away from me this time. He didn’t disappear.
He was all sweet smiles and tender kisses, giving me one last, lingering one before slipping from the cabin late at night, leaving me to slumber in a sleeping bag surrounded by his scent.
Like a love-sick teen, I slept in his flannel again.
“Your hands feel so good, Vale,” he murmurs, sounding drowsy from my work. I’m so pleased he appreciates the massage, and he’s content with my touch.
Then I circle back to his hesitation when it came to placing my hands on him when we were more intimate. I wish he’d open up with me. Tell me what happened to him. Asking deep questions feels like crossing a line, though. One that moves us from just having fun to something more serious.
I’m so lost in my head, time passes quickly and before I know it, his session is over.
Stepping back to type up my report on this session, Cort shifts, rolling before swinging his legs over the side of the table and sitting upright, dragging the sheet over his lap.
“Look at you,” I tease. “Almost ready to hop off that table without a hint of back trouble.”
For some reason, I think about us crammed on that narrow twin bunk. I hope he didn’t hurt himself then. Or when we were running around the yard at camp, playing childhood games. Or?—
