Page 32 of Almost Enough

Two words, and suddenly I’m not breathing. Not because of what he said. But how he said it. It’s not a request.

My pulse thuds in my throat, and for a second, I just stare at him. The warmth of the water is nothing compared to the heat under my skin now.

“Whitley.” His voice dips, firmer this time. His eyes on mine. “Come here.”

Oh.

Okay.

Well. This is new. Apparently, I have a thing for that tone. Did he just awaken a kink I didn’t know I had?

Is this what it feels like to be claimed without being touched? Because my legs are jelly, my lungs have stopped working, and my brain has melted into nothing but one long, breathless yes.

I still don’t move, because part of me wants to make him say it again. Just to hear it. Just to feel that heat roll over me one more time.

Who am I kidding? I’m not that strong, so I do the only logical thing a woman can do when faced with that voice, that tone, that man.

I go to him, gliding through the water until there’s just inches between us.

He doesn’t touch me right away. Doesn’t move, and neither do I. We just breathe in the same air, thick and heavy with tension.

“Turn around.”

His voice is a rich command—gravel and silk all at once. I feel it slide over my skin like a physical touch.

I pivot and offer him my back, heart thudding its way out of my chest.

Then…sweet Jesus. Beau’s hands.

Warm. Strong. Landing gently on my shoulders. I tense instinctively, and he leans in, his mouth near my ear.

“Relax,” he says, the word a rough whisper that sends goose bumps racing down my arms. His breath stirs the damp strands clinging to my neck, and I swear I forget how to breathe.

Relax. Easy for him to say. He’s not the one dissolving under someone else’s hands.

His thumbs begin to move in slow, firm circles, kneading into the tight muscles where stress has made a home. His hands are all contradiction, rough and calloused from long days under hoods and inside engines, yet somehow so gentle.

“You carry all your tension here,” he murmurs, thumb digging into a spot that makes my breath hitch.

“Occupational hazard,” I manage to say, though it comes out breathy and shaky, like he’s pressing the words right out of me.

He hums low in his throat, and I feel it between my shoulder blades. I close my eyes, let my head dip forward slightly. I’m absolutely not wondering what else his hands can do. I’m not imagining those calloused fingers tracing the curve of my waist under water and slipping lower. I’m not picturing those capable hands gripping my hips. I’m definitely not thinking about what those rough palms would feel like sliding up my thighs, or cupping my jaw, or threading through my hair.

Stop it.

He’s giving me a massage. A shoulder massage. Because I’m sore and we’re coworkers-slash-wedding-party-members and he’s being nice.

His fingers find a particularly stubborn knot, and I gasp, the sound escaping before I can swallow it back.

“Sorry,” he mutters, easing up slightly. “Too hard?”

“No,” I whisper. “It’s good.”

He applies more pressure, his thumbs working in circles while his fingers grip my shoulders. Each stroke seems to unwind something inside me—not just the physical tension, but something deeper, something I’ve been holding onto for days. Maybe longer.

I bite my lip to keep from making more embarrassing sounds, but when his hands slide lower, pressing into the spot between my shoulder blades, a small moan slips out.

My head snaps up, and he stills behind me, hands pausing.