Page 12 of The Best Worst Mistake (Off-Limits #2)

Dax kisses me again and begins working his hands up and down my spine — massaging my sore, chair-shaped muscles, like a spa and make-out session rolled into one.

My eyes ease into the back of my head and I lift my chin to give him access to my neck before I start praying to every god I’m aware of to not let him speak again, or look at me like he sees inside me, until we’re finished.

And by the time he starts dragging his tongue down to the tiny, sensitive spot where my pulse is hammering away beneath my jawline, I know that I’m not going to last very long with him.

I never have, but especially not tonight. He pushes both hands into my waist, massaging that next. Kneading and working the tightness of my joints, my tendons, my muscles that sit to attention in a chair, all day, every day.

His mouth returns to my lips, but his hands travel further south, massaging the generous curve of my hips that lead into two handfuls of flesh.

I groan into his ear while my head falls back, relishing in the feel and strength of his hands working the tension out of my muscles and body like no masseuse ever has. It’s making my knees go weak.

“The bed,” I murmur into his ear.

He silently turns me around and plants both hands on my shoulders, firmly leading me forward while kneading those next.

I walk slowly toward my bedroom, just to make it last longer as he circles knots and pressure points, most of which I knew were there and always told myself I’d get around to working out one day but never have.

When we get to my room, I toss every throw pillow off my bed while he kisses my neck, holding onto me from behind, and when each and every last pillow is somehow thrown onto the floor, he spins me around to face him.

I peel my top off, then my skirt, tossing them both into a heap by a nearby chair, then watch the way his eyes graze the sky-blue bra and panty set I’m wearing underneath, loving how I feel beneath his gaze.

Sexy.

Wanted.

He takes a step closer, dragging his hands down my bare skin, then spins me around, rolling his hands along my sides from behind.

“Lie on the bed,” he whispers into my ear, sending a tingling shiver straight through my spine.

I look over my shoulder as I climb onto the bed. He’s removing his belt, dragging his shirt up over his head.

The years have done nothing but good things to you, I want to say.

But I don’t. I take all of him in, instead.

His skin is tan and taut all over, the shadows deep in the grooves of his abs and arms. He has more chest hair than I remember, but that little rut of darkness leading down through the waistband of his jeans is still there.

And I know exactly where, and what, it leads to.

“Lie down,” he says. “On your stomach.”

“Oh,” I say, a bit surprised. “We aren’t going to . . .”

His eyes darken and he spins his forefinger around, then points down to the mattress.

I do what he says, the trust resurfacing between us making me feel at ease, as he climbs onto the bed on top of me, then presses the length of his bare chest down onto my back, the heat and pressure of him warming me from within.

He drags my hair across my shoulders and down to one side of the bed before hovering his lips just over my earlobe.

He takes it in his teeth, biting gently, sucking on it before whispering, “I’m going to give you a massage first.” He kisses my shoulder. “What did you think I was going to do?”

I close my eyes, and breathe out a laugh, but don’t say a word. He’s never given me a massage before. In fact, no man ever has.

“Where’s your massage oil?” he asks.

“Where’s my massage oil?” I repeat, feeling hot under my skin.

“Nightstand?” he asks, reaching toward the tiny table.

“I don’t have massage oil,” I say, feeling flustered. “Do people just keep massage oil on hand where you’re from?” I look over my shoulder. “No wonder you think it’s the best coast.”

“Then where’s your coconut oil?”

“Now that’s in the nightstand,” I say, smirking.

He kisses my cheek but gives me an amused look before pulling open the drawer.

“Oh my God, I’m kidding!” I call out, wondering what type of women he dates back in California that keep both massage oil and coconut oil in their nightstands. “Hang on, I’ll grab it.”

I roll to my stomach.

“You don’t have any food in your fridge, but you keep coconut oil on hand?” he asks, laughing.

“As a moisturizer,” I tell him, flushing again.

“Just tell me where it is,” he says.

“I’ll grab it,” I say, dragging myself up off the bed.

“No, stay,” he commands, and I lie back down on my stomach. “I’ll find it.”

“It’s in the bathroom. Second drawer from the left,” I call out when he disappears behind the door.

I take the opportunity to unhook my bra, tossing it into the corner so that when he returns, there’s only a thin pair of panties between him and the rest of me.

A moment later, Dax is back on the bed, kneeling over my lower back.

His knees are lodged on either side of my hips, with both his hands digging into my container of organic coconut oil.

He rubs his hands together to warm them, releasing the sweet, faintly tropical scent before pushing both hands onto my shoulder blades, rolling deeply across my skin, sliding down — all the way down — to where I imagine his second favorite pair of dimples is making an appearance just above my panty line and right above my ass.

I close my eyes and groan into the mattress, feeling the weight of his body pressing down on mine, pushing through muscle knots and tension, working out any last reserves I had left in me.

His hands slide up again with firm, mounting pressure, then wrap around my shoulders and travel down each of my arms, pushing his slick palms into mine when he gets to them. It feels intimate — him holding my hands down onto the bed like this — somehow more intimate than sex.

He pauses there, keeping my hands pressed into the mattress, my eyes closed, and I’m glad he can’t hear what I’m thinking right now.

No one has held these hands in years, Dax. Not even you.

And the feeling is practically shredding me.

But just as I’m about to pull mine away, cursing my fight or flight response to this shock of feeling , he releases me again, sliding his fingers back up my arms, swooping quickly around my shoulders, and firmly massaging all the way down my back.

This time he kneads my skin even lower until he’s dipping just under the waistline of my panties from behind, finding a new patch of skin to absorb the sweet, scented oil.

I groan into the bed, unable to hold it in.

“Where have you been hiding these massage skills?” I moan, my eyes still closed.

He bends in half, leaning over so his lips brush against my ear when he answers.

“On the west coast,” he whispers through what I can tell is a smile.

My laugh lasts only a moment before it gets caught in my throat when he slips both hands around my sides and hooks his fingers into the elastic waistband, sliding my panties all the way off.

I’m completely naked beneath him, not even sure if I care that he’s technically still clothed in a pair of plaid boxers and sitting on top of me.

He flips himself around to kneel over me, but this time he’s facing the opposite way toward my feet.

He starts sliding his hands back down my lower back, all the way over my ass, digging the slippery heels of his palms into the backs of my thighs, then calves, and eventually my feet, all the way to the tips of my toes, where he squeezes each one before starting the ascent up my legs, and over bare cheeks.

My entire body is coated in slick oil, heated by his hands, kneading each tender, forgotten muscle until a collection of stars begins gathering behind my eyelids, shooting blindly into the dark.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been so relaxed, or so at ease before while lying beneath a man.

Nothing about his movements feel rushed, or like there’s a clear end goal in sight.

It’s just Dax doing something that he knows will make me feel good.

Sure, he’s clearly enjoying the view up there, my naked body oiled up beneath his, but everything about this feels sensual instead of sexual.

He continues massaging my legs and feet for a few more minutes before his hands start working my cheeks between his palms. Kneading and squeezing and molding my flesh as the oil drips heated drops down my sides to the blanket beneath us. When I can’t stand it another second, I make my needs known.

“You know what else they say about coconut oil?” I ask, not bothering to open my eyes.

“That it’s a natural lube?” he answers lightly, taking the words right out of my mouth. I roll my face over and chuckle into the mattress. “Why else do you think it was my second request after the massage oil?”

“Good,” I say, though it comes out as more of a drawn-out moan while his hands roll down my skin. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

I let him massage my cheeks for another moment before arching my lower back and nudging one leg over to the side a few inches, hinting at what I want from him next.

A low groan escapes him, and even from here, I can feel him growing — harder, longer, thicker — right above my lower back.

“What the hell are you doing to me, Abs?” he mutters, more to himself than to me, and I nudge my leg over another inch and wait.

He obeys my silent request, tracing one hand down through the edges of my cheeks until he cups me from behind, rubbing the slick oil all the way over my ass and along each of my folds, coating me with wet heat before finding my most sensitive spot with one deliciously oily finger.

He slides in effortlessly, filling me immediately. I know I must feel tight, my walls clenching in around his one finger, and I wonder if he can tell how long it’s been since I had any part of a man inside of me.

He groans again, pushing his finger deeper inside, before pulling it out, then two in the next time, groaning again as he does.

“You feel unbelievably tight,” he tells me, pushing his fingers in while barely circling beneath me with a third.

I spread my legs wider, arching my back and pressing my hips into the mattress while biting the side of my fist to distract myself from the burning pleasure as it begins to rip through me in mounting waves.

He drags his hands back down my thighs, then up again to find that spot between my legs, slipping more fingers inside me as I begin to moan.

Then he leans his torso against my back, and I open one eye to peek down the bed, watching my toes curl while he studies his hands — sliding in and out of my body, circling and edging the mountains and valleys of my most intimate parts, remembering — to the point — exactly how I want to be touched.

The pressure.

The rhythm.

The feel of him inside.

The familiarity of it all takes me back.

I roll over, suddenly desperate to have him in me.

I want him looking into my eyes when he fills me, and I want to know the exact moment we both go over the edge.

To see evidence of it in the way his pupils grow larger, then shrink in on themselves, dilating deeper when his final release is through.

“Condom?” I ask through shuddering breaths. “Nightstand.”

He reaches into the drawer and pulls one out.

Once it’s on, I drag him up by a shoulder and he flips around, wrapping his arms all the way across me, cradling my head beneath his elbow, fire filling his eyes.

I pull his lips to mine, kissing him deeply, growing more urgent as his hands find and fill me again.

I moan his name into his lips.

“I want you,” I whisper. His dark fans of lashes open when I repeat his name, then his eyes begin to burn, growing in intensity when he finally allows himself to push inside, filling me like hot water, expanding within my walls.

And then . . . and then . . . and then . . . we begin to move.

Absorbing each other, rolling our hips to the same song, like a slow dance neither one of us ever forgot the steps to.

Knowing that this is the way I want him to rock me, back and forth.

Knowing this is the way he likes me to raise my chest to meet his.

We give and we take slowly, so fucking slowly, that my breath hitches each time I think he’s going to pull all the way out, just to push himself deeper inside me again.

“Not yet,” he says more urgently, his ragged breath filling my inhale.

I clench myself around him.

“I can’t wait,” I moan between kisses. “I’ve missed . . .” You . This. Us. But I don’t say any of it, only adding, “ everything ” as a single exhale.

He buries his face between my neck and shoulder, biting gently into the hollow just above my collarbone, sending waves of pleasure — like glowing orbs exploding throughout my veins.

Not yet , my body screams.

I want to be right here where nothing else matters.

Not yet ready for the catapult over the edge.

Keep it only physical, my insides scream.

But it’s nearly impossible to send it all away.

Not when it’s Dax.

And it’s me.

Here, in my very own bed, of all places.

Doing exactly what we’ve always done . . . except this time, so different.

He’s different.

He’s making good on that promise. This isn’t just sex.

Emotion bubbles up between us in every push and pull and kiss and moan, so familiar that it hurts.

I kiss him harder, burying my thoughts away while tugging and twisting his lips in mine, not knowing how we got here together, but knowing we’re getting closer to summiting the mountain, still.

Then, just like that, it happens. As quickly as everything in me starts to clench and build into one final climax, everything else bursts open, the release harder and faster than a gunshot, exploding from the deepest part of me, sending fireworks and stars and fiery raindrops bursting out in every direction from behind my eyelids.

When I force myself back to his eyes, I watch them explode in a flash of green and gold above mine before they squeeze shut again.

Wrapping himself around me tighter, harder, shuddering into me.

Leaving me breathless and sweating, but held so close beneath him that I can still feel his heart, his body pulsing. Hard and fast, just like mine.

And then . . . and then . . . . and then . . . we begin the slow descent back into New York, all heat and liquid metal, like a plane landing after it’s flown too close to the sun.

Again, I can feel the bed beneath me.

My bed.

His grip loosens and I lean harder into him. Too quickly, it’s over.

Just like everything that happened between us before.