Page 96 of Make-Believe Match

“It won’t burn me?”

He tipped the glass jar over, pouring some oil into his palm. “Warm, but not hot.”

I smiled. “Okay.”

He took my right arm and laid it across his lap, then rubbed the fragrant oil into my skin. I closed my eyes as his hands applied gentle pressure with long, sweeping motions along my forearm, carefully massaging away the marks his tie had left behind. He rubbed my hand, my biceps and triceps, my shoulder. When he was done with that arm, he brought it to his mouth and pressed his lips to the inside of my wrist. Then he poured more oil into his palm and walked around to the other side of the bed, where he repeated the entire routine on my left arm. This time, he kissed each finger when he was done, and finally rested his lips on my palm. “Thank you,” he said.

“I should be thanking you. You’re the one who gave the massage.”

He placed my hand in his lap. “I wasn’t talking about the massage. I was talking about the trust that took.”

“Oh.” I attempted to laugh. “You know me. I trust everybody.”

“Don’t.” His thumb rubbed soft circles on my wrist. “Don’t trust everybody, Lexi. This is going to sound selfish as fuck, but I don’t want you to trust anybody like that.”

My lips fell open, and suddenly I was terrified that whatever I said next would embarrass us both. So I blurted something completely irrelevant. “I’m thirsty.”

Devlin laughed. “I’ll get you some water.”

When he left the bedroom, I hurried into the bathroom. Behind the closed door, I cleaned myself up and took a few deep breaths. Splashed cold water on my face. Brushed my teeth. Gave my pulse a minute to slow down. But when I looked in the mirror, my cheeks were still flushed and my eyes remained feverishly bright.

It was the game, I told myself.It was the whole fantasy thing making the sex feel so intense.

It was the blindfold and the bondage and the bourbon and maybe even the massage. It wasn’t the words he said or the response they provoked in me. It was the roles we played. Not the feelings we shared.

When I felt certain I could mask my emotions well enough for the dark of his bedroom, I opened the door.

The candles had all been blown out, and one bedside lamp was on. Devlin, wearing his black pants again, was tucking a fresh sheet beneath one corner of the mattress. “Bottle of water is there on the nightstand for you. Thought I’d change the sheets so we didn’t have to sleep in a puddle of bourbon.”

“Thanks.” An involuntary shiver rattled through me, and I rubbed my arms.

“Are you still cold?” he asked. “Want something to sleep in?”

I had packed pajamas, but I wanted to sleep in something of his. “Sure.”

He went to his dresser and opened a drawer. Grinning, he pulled out a Camp Lemonade T-shirt and held it up. “How’s this?”

“Perfect.”

He slipped it over my head and watched me poke my arms through the sleeves. “Looks better on you. And I don’t say that lightly, because I lookgoodin that shirt.”

I laughed. “Thank you.”

We climbed into bed, and Devlin switched off the lamp. I took a few sips of cool water before recapping the bottle and placing my head on the pillow. Both of us lay on our backs for a moment.

Then he rolled to his side. “Hey.”

“What?”

“I have to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“The guy who wants to interview me for that position in Santa Monica called. He wants to know if I can come out there week after next.”

“Oh.”

“Is that okay?”