CHAPTER 5

HANDS

LANCE

I hate it when people touch me. Like, I lose my shit when someone puts their hands on me, particularly if I don’t expect it. A psychiatrist once told me it’s a result of some kind of post-traumatic whatever from when my brother died. He didn’t know my mum also used to use me as her punching bag, or that I’m edgier about it when it’s women, not men.

I don’t like contact even when I know it’s coming. So that explains why I’m tense as shit lying on this massage table, anticipating the hour of torture that’s about to occur.

What makes it worse, or what made it worse until a few seconds ago, is that this woman—this curvy slip of a woman—is likely going to become the star of every whack-off session for the rest of my life.

My massage therapist is a ginger. A strawberry blonde. A redhead. A real one. Like me. Even though I’m lying facedown on the table, I can envision all that long, pretty hair hanging down her back, her sweet body and perfect round ass hugged by black yoga pants. She’s wearing running shoes—I can see them right now through the hole in the face holder—and her feet are small.

I didn’t get a chance to study her face all that well, since I’m busy freaking out about this whole situation. She looks familiar, though. But that’s often the way it is with redheads. We’re all a little familiar-looking to each other, because we’re such a rarity.

I’d been ready to tolerate the physical discomfort of having her hands on me for a prolonged period of time, but my anticipated reaction never comes. I’m tense as her palms and fingers move down my back, because that’s a conditioned response when someone of the opposite sex makes skin-to-skin contact, but the sensation I usually associate with it is absent.

Instead of feeling like there are bugs crawling under and over my skin, all I feel is warm. Warm skin. Warm hands. Warm. And that sensation radiates through me, shooting through my veins and jump-starting my adrenaline. A wave of goose bumps flashes across my skin, and I have to work to suppress a full-body shudder. What the fuck is that about?

“Are you cold? Should I get the heating pad for you?” she asks.

Even her voice is familiar and warm. I feel like I’m being wrapped in it.

“I’m fine.”

I’m actually not fine at all. I don’t know how to deal with this new development, especially while all I can do is lie here and take it.

“If you get cold, let me know.”

“Sure.”

She smoothes her palms down my back and back up again. And then her touch is gone. I’m about to express my displeasure at this when her hands return. This time they’re slick. She starts circular motions up and down my back—a light touch that I want more of. Which freaks me the fuck out, because I never want hands on me.

Not even when I was with Tash. I tolerated her touch because it was expected, but I never liked it. It never felt good—not like this.

I honestly don’t see how this girl can be effective, considering she has to be a foot shorter than me, but she’s strong—like, crazy strong. When she hits a knot, and there are loads of them, she runs her forearm over it, repeating the motion several times. She moves on to my shoulder, and I groan. The aches there are worse; maybe because I deflected a bunch of punches.

“Is that too much?” She pauses, but she doesn’t lift her palm from my skin. I’m starting to feel high from the contact.

“It’s just sore,” I grumble. “You can keep going.”

“If the pressure is too intense, let me know and I’ll ease up.”

I don’t say anything unless she asks me a direct question. I’m too busy focusing on the feel of her hands and how it should be unpleasant but isn’t.

Eventually she moves down to my lower back, which is really sore, probably from landing on the table. I don’t know how long it’s going to take for those aches to go away, but I’m going to need a lot more painkillers over the next couple of days to take the edge off.

“Would you like me to massage your legs?” she asks as she pulls the sheet up over me again.

I don’t want her to stop touching me, and if she’s done on my back I guess it makes sense to hit the lower half of my body. “Uh, sure.”

“Would you like me to include your glutes?”

It takes me a second to understand the question. “You mean massage my ass?”

I hear a puff of breath leave her; it sounds a little like a laugh. She clears her throat before she answers. “It’s a fairly common area for athletes, especially hockey players because of the high level of muscle strain and use.”

When she puts it that way, it sounds much less like she wants to feel my ass up, and more like she’s trying to do her job.

“Right. Sure.” If her hands feel good everywhere else, I’m sure they’ll feel just as great on my ass.

She rearranges the sheets, exposing one of my legs, and runs her hands down the entire length. It’s a strange sensation. I think the only place I’ve ever been touched on my leg is my thigh—when a bunny is getting ready to ask me if I want to go somewhere private so we can stop talking and start fucking.

Based on my body’s reaction, it seems like my dick thinks it’s the next thing Poppy’s going to massage. That reaction wanes when she gets to my IT band, which kills as she uses what feels like her shoulder to dig in.

“Does your trainer encourage any of you to do yoga?” she asks.

“No, why?”

“It might help with this.” She runs her forearm across the outside of my thigh, and I hiss.

“I don’t think yoga’s my thing.”

“Maybe not, but more stretching could be helpful. I can give you some exercises to do at home, if you want.” Her hands smooth down the back of my leg again.

“You could, but I probably won’t do them.”

She laughs. It’s a pretty sound. “At least you’re honest.” She starts working on my ass, which isn’t nearly as sexual as I expected. It actually hurts a lot.

“At the very least you should try to soak in an Epsom salts bath for a good twenty minutes after this.”

“I have a hot tub; will that work?” I get this odd feeling, like this isn’t the first time I’ve had this conversation with her. But that doesn’t make sense at all.

Her arm slips, and her elbow digs hard into tight muscle. I grunt, and she gasps.

“I’m so sorry!” And then her palm is on my ass, kneading the spot, and my dick once again thinks it should be next on the massage list.

After that she doesn’t give me any more advice or ask questions apart from whether the pressure is okay. By the time she’s done with my legs and my ass, I have the most insane hard-on. The top of my dick feels like it’s going to pop off.

She moves away from the lower half of my body after she covers it, and settles a palm in the middle of my back. “Lance?”

I grunt out a yeah.

“If you’d like to turn over, I can work on your quads.”

“No!” I don’t mean for it to come out so aggressively, but there is no way I’m turning over so she can get a load of my hard-on. “I mean, that’s okay. I’m good.”

“You still have another ten minutes. I could work on your neck and shoulders, if you’d like.”

“Do I have to turn over?”

“It would be easier.”

“But you can work on my neck like this?” Beyond not wanting her to see my problem, I don’t think looking at her face is going to help my situation. I might not have been paying close attention when she brought me in here, but she’s a natural redhead, and I have a serious weakness for them. They remind me of the good things about Scotland. And their personalities tend to be fiery like their hair, although I’m not so sure Poppy fits that mold. Either way, propositioning my massage therapist seems like something I’d definitely do, and certainly shouldn’t. Especially when having her touch me feels so damn good.

“If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Her fingertips trail a line up my spine through the sheet. At this point it feels like all contact is directly connected to my cock. It twitches between the table and my stomach. I fully expect the neck massage to help calm the issue below, because she’s no longer near that part of my body, but it doesn’t. Instead I get harder—if that’s even possible. I try to stay focused on something other than my goddamn hard-on, but it sure isn’t easy.

I’m almost glad when it’s over. Almost. And then the moment she finishes, I realize that unless I schedule another massage with her, she’s never going to put her hands on me again. Weird panic accompanies that thought.

“Take your time getting up. I’ll be waiting for you in reception.” The door clicks quietly behind her.

I flip over and throw off the sheet. My erection stands straight up. I wait a full two minutes after she leaves the room for my hard-on to deflate. While I’m waiting, I send a message to Balls to let him know I’m done.

Our next stop will be the impound lot where my Hummer is waiting to be picked up, and once I get home, I’m thinking I need a nap. For two days. But first I’ll have to rub one out or the ache in my balls is going to be unbearable.

My hard-on shows no signs of giving up, like it thinks Poppy’s coming back for a happy ending.

I’m almost positive I could make it happen in less than a minute, but that’s sketchy, even for me. Instead I get dressed. I’m fumbly and uncoordinated. I end up having to sit on the chair to get my sweats back on.

As I’m tucking the head into my waistband so it’s not too obvious that I’m sporting wood, I notice the wet spot on the sheets where my cock has been weeping tears of sadness over not being touched. For fuck’s sake. It’s like I’m a damn teenager.

I bunch the top sheet over to hide it.

I feel groggy and out of it as I adjust my baseball cap and prepare to leave, and I don’t think it’s just because most of my blood flow has been redirected to my cock. I move toward the reception area, rolling my head on my shoulders. I’m a lot less tense than I was when I walked in an hour ago—except for my dick.

Poppy’s standing at the desk, talking to the chick behind it. I take the opportunity to check her out, and my hard-on starts crying again. She’s short. Maybe five three or five four, tops.

She’s soft around the edges, nice and curvy. Her black yoga pants hug her ass. I can see her panty line. She’s rocking those boy short things.

Her strawberry blond hair is pulled up in a wavy ponytail, the end of which kisses the space between her shoulder blades. For some reason I have the urge to tug on the end as I approach her. I shove my hands in my pockets so I don’t. I also readjust my hard-on. I wish I had my Hummer, because I need to get my ass home so I can resolve my problem.

Poppy and the receptionist are whispering away when I reach the desk.

“Hey.”

She jumps and spins around, fumbling her clipboard. I catch it before it can hit the ground.

“Wow. You have amazing reflexes,” the receptionist says.

“That’s why they have me on defense.” I wink reflexively and turn to Poppy. The tips of her ears have gone pink, along with her cheeks. “Thanks for fixing me.”

She smiles, but avoids making eye contact. “It would probably be a good idea for you to schedule a follow-up appointment with your regular massage therapist for later in the week.”

“I don’t have a regular massage therapist.”

This time when she looks up she meets my gaze briefly. “But your team must have someone.”

We do, but now that I’ve had Poppy’s hands all over me, I kind of want them again.

“Maybe I could come back and see you?”

The receptionist coughs a little, and Poppy fidgets with her clipboard. She looks tense. Kinda like I was when I first came in here.

“Can you check the schedule for later this week, say Thursday or Friday?” Poppy asks.

I lean on the counter and observe her profile. The bridge of her nose and her cheeks are dotted with pale freckles. A faint sunglasses tan circles her eyes. She’s been enjoying the unseasonable weather and sunshine over the past few days. I wonder what she looks like in a bikini. I bet her ass is amazing.

The receptionist clicks away on the computer for a minute before giving Poppy an apologetic look. “You’re fully booked both days.”

She taps her pen against her lips. “What about Marcie, or April? Do they have any openings?”

“No,” I bark.

Poppy jolts, looking up. “I’m sorry?”

“I want you.” I honestly don’t mean for it to come out sounding like a line, but based on the shade of red she’s turning, it does. “I mean, you’ve already worked on me, so it’d make more sense for me to come to you, right?”

She clears her throat. “If that’s what you prefer.”

“It is. I do.” I lick my lips. “I prefer you.” I don’t know why her touching me feels different, but it does, and I want that feeling again.

“What’s Saturday look like?” she asks the receptionist who’s now gawking between us.

“You have one opening left, but it’s only half an hour at four in the afternoon.”

“We fly out for our last exhibition game on Saturday.”

Poppy taps her pen against her lips. She’s not wearing lipstick. They’re dark pink, full. I bet they look good wrapped around a cock. I bet they’d look amazing wrapped around mine. Fuck. I need to stop this shit. I can’t be imagining a blow job from my massage therapist. Even if she is hot.

“What if I put you on a waiting list? If there’s a cancellation, I can call you. Then if it works, you can come in before you leave for your game.”

The receptionist’s eyes widen, which tells me this isn’t something Poppy usually does.

“You’d do that for me?”

She looks away for a moment. “I’d do that for any of my clients. You need another session before your game and you’re right, I already know the issues. Bernadette, can you make sure Lance’s number is in the system so I can call if something comes available?”

“Other than workouts and practice, I’m open to come in almost any time.”

The bell over the door to the clinic chimes, drawing Poppy’s attention away. Her eyes go wide, and once again her cheeks flush.

“Hey, Romance, you all loose and limber now?” I hear Miller ask.

Randy snorts. “He’s always loose.”

I turn away from Poppy, annoyed by the interruption.

Miller looks at her and his face changes. “Hey! Poppy from the garden?”

Poppy’s expression is somewhere between embarrassment and mortification. “Heeeeyyy,” she says.

“How crazy is this? How you doin’?”

“I’m fine. Good. And you?” She’s focused on his forehead.

I look back and forth between them. He better not have fucked her. “You two know each other?”

Miller frowns. “Uh, yeah.” He’s not looking at me; he’s looking at Poppy.

When I turn back to her, she’s making hand gestures that she quickly turns into a ponytail adjustment.

“It’s nice to see you again. I have another client.” She gestures over her shoulder and looks at me briefly. “If something comes available before Saturday, I’ll be sure to have Bernadette call you.” She spins around and rushes off down the hall.

Bernadette confirms my number, and I take one of Poppy’s cards, slipping it into my pocket as we leave.

I wait until we’re outside before I start with the questions. “How do you know Poppy? Did one of you fuck her?”

Miller stops walking to stare at me. “What?”

“Poppy. You know her. How?” Jesus. Why the hell do I sound so pissed off?

“You seriously have no idea?” Miller seems surprised.

“No idea about what?” I glance between him and Randy, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

Miller runs a hand through his hair. “She’s been to your house before, dude.”

I guess that explains why she looked familiar. “So she’s a bunny?” I don’t like that possibility. She doesn’t seem like that type, or maybe I just don’t want her to be that type. I try to place her in my memory, but come up with nothing.

“No, man, she’s no bunny,” Miller replies.

The only girls who come to my place are the ones looking to get fucked by a hockey player. “Why was she at my house then?”

“Because you invited her.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Oh, fuck.” Randy smacks Miller’s arm. “Isn’t she the chick who rubbed the dick off your forehead last season?”

Miller grimaces. “That’s the one.”

I vaguely remember pictures of a dick drawn on Miller’s forehead going viral on the internet last year. But I don’t remember Poppy at all, let alone her being the remover of the dick. However, that night is pretty fucking vague, as are many nights over the past couple of years.

“Does someone wanna fill me in here? Did one of us fuck her?”

“No, jackass, she came to your house with her friends, one of which you ended up fucking,” Miller snaps.

Well, that explains why she won’t make eye contact. “At least I didn’t fuck her; that woulda been hella awkward.”

Miller gives me a look and shakes his head.

“Is there more to the story?” I ask.

“Nope. You fucked her friend; she wiped a dick off my forehead. That’s about it.” Miller’s SUV beeps as he unlocks the door.

I’m not so sure I believe him. Something about this still isn’t quite falling into place.