Page 28 of Carnal Urges

He thunders, “It was a figure of speech!”

“You know, I think your diet is having a negative effect on your mood. I’m betting you don’t get enough roughage.”

“Roughage?”

“Fiber.”

“I know what it means, I just can’t believe you said it!”

I purse my lips and consider him. “You could probably also use a good deep-tissue massage. You’re very tense, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Glaring at me, he says flatly, “I wonder why.”

“No, I think this predates me. You have an unhealthy lifestyle. Poor diet. Too much stress. Too little sleep. Any of this soundfamiliar? You’re headed straight for that heart attack you were wishing for earlier.”

He stares at me for a beat, then leans over, props his elbows on his knees, drops his head into his hands, and groans.

I watch him, alarmed. What if hedoeshave a heart attack? God. I’ll be locked in here with his big dead corpse until Kieran decides to do a status check on me, who knows how many days later.

I should go easy on him. Better yet…

I crawl across the mattress to where he’s sitting, rise up on my knees, and dig my thumbs into the rock-hard muscles of his shoulders.

He stiffens.

“Just take a breath, gangster. I know what I’m doing. You can thank me later.”

Rigid and silent, he sits perfectly still on the edge of the bed as I work my fingers across his trapezius and down to his scapula. When I get to the rhomboid muscle, he flinches, sucking in a sharp breath.

I murmur, “Sorry. Better?”

Gentling the pressure, I move around the knot in slow circles until I hear him exhale. When the muscle suddenly gives under my fingers, relaxing, he softly moans.

It’s a sound thick with pleasure. My pulse ticks up in response.

I move to his other shoulder and repeat the process, massaging the corded muscles, working my fingers into their stony hardness until I feel them soften. When I rub my thumbs lower down his middle back and spine, he releases a breath so full of pent-up tension, I almost feel sorry for him.

“Here,” I say softly. “What about this?”

I wrap both hands around the back of his thick neck and squeeze.

It earns me another soft moan.

I decide I like that sound, and rub slow circles with my thumbs around the base of his skull on either side of his spinal column, wherehis head meets his neck. This time, he doesn’t moan. He makes a sound like a drowsy bear, a low, masculine rumbling in his chest.

“Good?”

After a pause, he murmurs, “Good.”

Why that should make me so pleased, I’m not sure. I keep going, working my fingers up the back of his head through his thick hair, massaging his skull—it’s as big as the rest of him, this guy’s got anoggin—until I reach his temples.

Then he freezes, stiffening all over again.

That’s when I realize that I’ve leaned so far forward, I’m pressed up against his back.

This wouldn’t be a problem, except that I’m not wearing a bra.

And my nipples are hard.