Page 12 of Take Me Big Boy
Before I can react, I find myself backed into my own house by a woman who weighs half of what I do.
“Come with me.”
I follow her because, of course, I do. I follow her because today, with my head splitting open and the nightmare still pressing on my chest, I don’t have the strength to keep her out. And maybe—though I won’t say it out loud—because I’m tired of keeping her out.
“Ashley—”
“Sit,” she orders, dropping her bag on the couch and pointing to the empty spot.
When I don’t move, we stare at each other until I realize I don’t have the mental capacity for it, so I simply drop down on the spot she indicates. She walks around the couch and settles behind me, then leans forward, the delicate, flowery scent she wears washing over me.
“Where does it hurt the most?” Her voice is a calming balm, and I find myself closing my eyes, sighing when those delicate hands touch my head. “Matt?”
“I can’t tell where it begins or ends.”
“Alright,” she whispers, dropping her hands to my nape.
I bite down a groan when her fingers find the knots in my shoulders, and I wince as she begins to work on them. The pressure is both exquisite and agonizing. Her thumbs knead the muscles at the base of my skull, and I start to feel something loosening. The pain doesn’t vanish, but it begins to recede, like a tide pulling back from a ravaged shore.
“Better?”
I grunt in response, groaning when she moves to my temples, her fingertips tracing gentle circles. “Keep talking,” I grunt, hoping to get lost in her touch, sound, and scent.
“My grandpa taught me this technique. Years ago, when my grandmother used to get migraines, he would do this to her, and she’d start to feel better. He taught me just in case she ever needed help and he wasn’t around.” Her thumbs press against a spot on my temple that sends the pressure spreading before completely melting away. “The trick is in applying the right amount of pressure on certain points.”
Her fingers scale down my neck and to my shoulders, kneading my muscles until the pressure melts to desire. All the blood that was pounding in my head moments ago rushes south and fills my cock, leaving my head blissfully calm for the first time since I opened my eyes this morning.
“We can keep the exercises light today in case the headache comes back, but I don’t think it will.”
I open my eyes and turn around to look at her. “Is that so?”
“My grandpa’s technique is foolproof. You should feel better for the next couple of hours or days, but it won’t heal you. To treat it, you need to take care of the underlying cause.”
I read the question in her eyes, but I’m not about to open up about what’s caused the migraine. It already haunts me when I’m alone; there is no need to relive it around company. Her hand is still on my temple, her thumb moving in slow circles. She hasn’t pulled away. She hasn’t moved at all, actually—the room has gone quiet around us, and her breathing has turned shallow in a way I don’t think she realizes.
“Ashley.” My voice comes out lower than I mean it to.
Her thumb stops. She doesn’t lift her hand.
“Yes?”
“You’re not breathing.”
A small, startled laugh—and then she does breathe, a quick uneven inhale that ends in a hitch when she meets my eyes. The pink that rises up her neck is the same shade I saw on her face six days ago in the workout room. The same gleam in her eyes I haven’t been able to scrub out of my head since.
She’s not pulling her hand away. She’s not stepping back. She’s standing there with her fingers still pressed to my templeand her pulse jumping in her throat, and what I read on her face is the same thing I’ve been carrying around for a week.
She wants me.
I reach out and grasp her hand before she can move away, tugging her, and it takes little effort to send her tumbling over the couch and onto my lap.
She yelps, her eyes wide with surprise, and it occurs to us at the same time that this is the first time I’m touching her—the first time my hands have been on her with no professional excuse between us. I’ve kept my hands to myself from the moment she walked through my doors a week ago, letting her do all the touching.
“The headache is gone,” I say, taking her right hand and bringing it to my lips. “Your magic fingers worked better than any painkiller could. Maybe there’s a way I could repay you.”
“Matt, what are you doing?”
I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m not letting her go. Not today.
