Page 11 of Sterling Touch
For some irrational reason, a rush of envy fills my chest.How many men has Vale laid her hands on?
Attempting to shut down my thoughts, I answer her although the scratch in my throat still makes my voice rough. “Tweaked my back. Doc says I should get a massage regularly to see if it helps.”
She types into the tablet. “Did you suffer a previous injury?” Her voice is still distant, disembodied even.
“I fell off a roof.” I stare up at the ceiling as I answer but sense Vale on my right spinning to face me. A soft gasp follows. “It happened about a year ago.”I was staring at you and lost my footing.
“You’re very fortunate.” Her voice softens.
Fortunate. That’s what the doctor said but I haven’t felt fortunate in years. Over a decade, actually.
Vale steps closer to my right side, holding the tablet in her hand. “So what areas of your body would you like me to concentrate on or stay away from?”
My dick. And my dick. Can you answer with the same body part twice?
Of course, the last thing I need is Vale anywhere near that appendage that’s slowly coming to life from her closeness. The second she lays her hands on me, I’ll be tenting this sheet. Then again, the second she touches me, I’m going to tense up.
“Uhm . . . just anywhere is fine, but my back is the issue.”
“Of course.” Vale spins for the cabinet again and sets the tablet on the counter, before turning back toward me.
I still can’t look her in the eye and instead focus on the dull glow of the recessed lighting overhead.
“I’m going to need you to roll over to your stomach.”
Right. She’d initially mentioned that.
“So, I’m going to lift the sheet and then if you’ll roll to your left . . .”
Suddenly, Vale is holding up the sheet like a privacy screen and I attempt to shift but let out a sharp hiss as my left side seizes again. With my hand on the edge of the table for leverage, I lug myself sideways to roll over, while Vale speaks from behind the raised sheet.
“Do you need my help?”
“No.” Again, too terse. Too strained. But the longer I can delay her touching me, the better, which is counterintuitive to having a massage.
After an awkward pull and flip, aware that my dick is instantly soft again from the ache in my back, I belly flop on my stomach and place my face against the donut pillow at the top of the table.
Vale drapes the sheet over my back but when her hands come to my spine and smooth down the covering, I stiffen. Shoulder blades tight. Back concave. Even my legs are like hurricane resistant telephone poles.
Vale stills and instantly lifts her hands. Clearing her throat, she says, “Maybe we should start slowly. I’m going to lay my hands on your back. You tell me if I hurt you.”
She places her hands against the middle of my spine and holds. Her touch is not too hard, not too soft, but I’m not certain if it’s right. Something inside me feels . . . off.
Trying to concentrate on the warmth of her palms through the sheet and the delicate press of her small hands and ten firm fingers, I breathe in. I breathe out. And Vale waits. One heartbeat. Two.
She doesn’t so much slide her hands, as move them apart a few inches, and I’m incredibly aware of one between my shoulder blades and one on my lower back.
My heart hammers harder, anticipating the residual effects of being touched in a place on my body I cannot see. The fear is ridiculous and unwarranted with Vale. She wouldn’t hurt me. But old haunts never die.
“You doing okay?” Vale asks.
My response is a grunt.
She moves her hands one more time, resting one near the top of my shoulder blades by a scar and the other near my ass, just above the curve. She pauses again, waiting as I take another deep breath.
“Good.”
I’m not certain if it’s a question or praise before she removes her hands and returns them to the middle of my spine again, pausing another beat or two before repeating her deliberate, patient movements.
