Page 16 of Tempted By the Safety

“Hey, you’re with Rhodes, right?” She’s talking fast, the way people talk when they’re three tasks behind. “I need a favor. Huge favor. We’ve got one more set, and he needs a fresh coat before we shoot it. But Danae just got pulled to handle a wardrobe malfunction on set two, and I’ve got a lighting thing I have to deal with, and there is genuinely nobody else.”

“A fresh coat of what?” I ask, even though I’ve already got a bad feeling about where this is going.

“Body oil. It’s easy, you rub it in, that’s it. Just don’t overdo it.” She’s already pressing a bottle into my hands before I’ve said anything close to yes, the dark plastic warm from wherever it’s been sitting. “You’re a savior. Seriously. Just get him touched up before the last shot.”

And then she’s gone, and I’m left standing by the craft table holding a bottle of body oil like it’s a live grenade.

I stare at the label for a solid minute. And then I put on the smile, the one that says everything’s fine, nothing to see here,and start walking toward the dressing room before I lose my nerve.

The door’s cracked when I get there. Spencer’s back in his robe, cinched tight around him, and he looks up when I push the door open.

“They’re almost done,” he says. “Last set. You can wait outside if you want.”

“So, funny story.” I hold the bottle up. “Apparently I’ve been drafted. They told me you need a fresh coat of oil, and everyone who normally does this got sucked into something else.”

His eyes go from the bottle to me, and something crosses his face before he shutters it. “No.”

“No?”

“You don’t have to do that.” He’s already reaching for the door, like he’s going to march out into the hallway and fix this. “That’s not in your job description. I’ll talk to the set manager, this is… unacceptable. This isn’t something you should be asked to do.”

“It’s fine, Spencer.”

“It’s not fine.”

“It’s just body oil,” I say, even though I know it’s not. “Let’s get it over with so we can go home, okay? I don’t want to be the reason we’re here till midnight.”

He looks at me for a long second, weighing it.

I smile at him, ignoring my pulse. “Take off the robe, boss.”

He huffs but reaches for the knot at his waist.

The robe slides off his shoulders and pools at his feet, and I forget, briefly, how to operate my own face.

He’s in a jockstrap. Deep green, cut low and snug, and it does not leave a single thing to the imagination, not the shape of him, not the size of him. I register two facts in the same half second: that my boss is impressiveeverywhere, and that I am not sure I am equipped to survive the next ten minutes of my life.

Spencer reads whatever’s happening on my face, because of course he does. The man reads a whole football field for a living. His hand comes out toward me. “Give it here. I’ll do it myself.”

Something in me straightens up at that, stubborn and reckless. “You can’t reach your own back or your shoulders properly. I’ve got this.”

“Milo.”

“I’ve got this,” I say again, firmer, and he studies me another second before he sighs, the sound of a man deciding a fight isn’t worth having. He turns to face the mirror, planting both hands flat on the little dresser.

Which puts me directly behind the best view I have had of another human body in my entire twenty-two years of life. His back, wide and cut with muscle all the way down to a waist that tapers before it flares at his hips. Thighs that regular pants were not designed to contain. And the jockstrap leaves the rest of him bare, round and tight and completely, unfairly perfect.

I swallow audibly. “Right. Okay. Let’s do this.”

I pour the oil into my palm and start with his shoulders, working it into the skin. It’s spreading easily and going glossy the second it touches him. He’s tight everywhere, muscles locked up under my hands like he’s bracing for a hit.

“Relax,” I say, low. “I’m not gonna bite you.”

He exhales, and some of the tension bleeds out.

I finish his back, working down either side of his spine, and when I’ve covered everything I can standing up, I drop to my knees behind him.

My breath lands right against the back of his thigh before I mean it to, and I feel him go rigid, hear the sharp pull of air through his nose, and watch goosebumps rise across his skin, thigh to ass.