Page 39 of Love Always

The sound of the door closing is brittle and then I succumb.

΅

It’s completely dark but there’s someone in the room. “Who’s there,” I try to call out but the words are stuck in my throat.

“Just checking on you,” says Mateus quickly.

He turns on the dainty little faux stained-glass light at the small table in the corner of my room. The light is rosy, and he’s standing there with his hair messed, no shirt on and his pants. When I look down there’s only one shoe.

“I’m sorry,” I started to say, and stifle a gulp.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m a fast hopper.”

Sitting up is much harder than it should be. Every muscle aches. Everything hurts like I’ve been beaten by a two-by-four, and just how Travis described feeling after his car accident two years ago.

I try to stretch my neck, but I can barely turn it. “I have to go get some water,” I say.

“Right there,” Mateus reminds me of what’s on the nightstand. Even reaching for the glass makes me wince, and I spill a little on the covers. He takes it from me when I’m done and sets it down by the box of tissues. I try rolling my shoulders. It’s impossible to get the kinks out.

“Is Cory okay?” I try to ease myself back down into bed. Mateus sits next to me on the edge of the bed and lays a hand on my hip.

“He got up once to go to the bathroom and gave me such a look I almost laughed. Despite projecting complete annoyed confusion, he asked me if I was having a good evening and went back to bed. You’ve done a good job. His manners are excellent.”

I can’t handle praise at this point. My eyes start to sting.

“Oh, no no no. I don’t mean to make you cry.”

“I’m just sore,” I say and wipe my face with my hands.

“You’re stiff because your body went into shock and you tightened all of your muscles. Do you want to roll over and let me give you a little massage?”

“I don’t like a lot of pressure. I mean I can’t take a lot of pressure. I mean thank you, but I don’t really like massage.”

If he’s surprised, he hides it well. “It doesn’t matter whether you like it or not. You need it right now. If it makes you uncomfortable, we’ll stop, but you probably have a lot of lactic acid built up in your system.”

He helps me roll over and slide the pillow under my stomach, which immediately feels good along my lower back. Then he hands me another one and helps me adjust it along the top of my chest, so when I lie face down, my head drops a little towards the mattress.

“Can I use this shea butter, lotion stuff?” he asks, and I nod. The bottle makes a squishy noise as he squeezes a large dab in his palm. He rubs his hands together and slides them under my shirt, just below my shoulder blades.

In slow, even gentle strokes, he works his way down my back to my sacrum and back up to my shoulders and neck with knuckles, hands, palms, and a couple of times I think even his elbows. Kneading pressure points, he stretches my neck slightly, plants his thumb and index finger and then uses both hands on either side pressing and releasing repeatedly. I hear sighs and moans escaping and they’re coming from me. I’ve never been comfortable with massage. I come from a touchy family. We’re always touching each other, and I always feel like the odd woman out.

But this? This is bliss.

Mateus lifts one side of the blanket and begins working on my thigh, my calf, my feet. The pressure of his hands stroking apart muscle fibers and then rotating my ankles and working on my feet is so delicious I don’t register what a miracle this is. Usually, no one can touch my feet. But so many of my defenses are down and depleted, I’ve got nothing left to uphold. No wall is there, and the complete lack of tension has left my body impervious to tickling.

Next, he tucks in the blanket again and climbs over me, lifts the other side of the covers and works on the other leg and foot. Then he climbs on top of me, straddling the back of my thighs. The glorious pressure on my pelvis reminds me I’m a woman. He starts manipulating my sacrum and ass. I didn’t even know my butt hurt. Even more, I’m realizing the pressure of his weight sandwiching me is slowly turning me on. The pressure is exquisite and every time he adjusts, I moan softly.

I don’t know how long he does this but at some point, he climbs, slides a hand under my shoulders and rolls me over like a baby.

“Don’t move a muscle,” he whispers.

I obey. He begins massaging my right arm, starting with the shoulder working under the armpit down the biceps, triceps, forearm, ending with my hands. He laces his fingers with mine pulls back a little, pressing down on my thumb, and then digs into the palm to the point where there’s some fire.

“Oh my God where did you learn to do this?” my mumbling sounds pathetic.

He starts to move to the other side. When he makes the shift, when he goes to climb over me, I open my eyes a little and I see his dark hair, his nose, his lashes, the fine line of his jaw, and his muscular shoulders flexing as he eases himself over me. His pecs flicker, he shifts weight, and something moves deep in my pelvis. He picks up my left arm and offers the exact same treatment.

When he’s finished with that palm, his fingers move along the clavicle kneading down my throat.