“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that your ex wasn’t the complimentary type.”
Rhea’s hands traveled down to Surfer Boy’s shoulders where she transitioned into a deep tissue massage. He groaned, bracing himself against the seat. She otherwise failed to acknowledge his statement. She preferred to leave Mark out of this.
Unlike last night, Rhea watched what she touched. The way his t-shirt pulled and puckered over his skin. Rhea clenched her jaw, making a conscious effort to keep her arousal at bay. But—as they had both demonstrated previously—blood was apt to flow wherever it damn well pleased. Her core throbbed despite her efforts to repress it; the best she could do was to focus on him with what little concentration she had to spare.
She alternated between deep tissue and Swedish massages, at times doing nothing more than running her hands over his muscles and lamenting that he hadn’t taken off his shirt first.
“Oh you are so good at that,” Surfer Boy murmured. “But . . . my thigh’s really cramped.”
“Oh, sure, sure, I’m on it! Turn back around, then.”
He repositioned himself so that he was sitting in the seat the way its designers intended. Rhea leaned forward and rested her hands on his knees, her v-neck shirt gapping away from her chest. When Surfer Boy inhaled, she saw how his eyes locked onto her exposed skin. “That’s . . . swell,” he breathed.
Her gaze dropped to his crotch: That was swell, too. She smiled. “So which muscle is giving you grief?” Her hands slid up the length of both thighs, stopping so close to his crotch that she could feel the fabric of his shorts straining over his hard-on.
“That one.” Surfer Boy nodded to his left leg.
She slowly assessed his muscle spasm with both hands, her smiling broadening. “You are aware that I can totally tell you’re faking your cramp.”
“How else was I gonna get you to touch me there and still look cool about it?”
“You don’t need to play these games.” Her thumb slid across his zipper. He pushed back from beneath it. “I’m alone in a confined space with you already. You closed the door and the curtains and I didn’t protest either.” Rhea raised her eyebrows pointedly.
Surfer Boy lifted her face by the chin, meeting her gaze. “Kiss me.”
She leaned in, pressing her lips to his; she could swear there was a spark between them, but it was possible that it was just static electricity. Albuquerque—or the air aboard the train, anyway—was dry.
He tilted his head, gliding a hand up the nape of her neck. Rhea sighed. She felt him smile against her lips.
“. . . What?” She asked, pulling back.
“I liked that sound. And I wanna hear you make it again.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of ways to make me sigh. Or . . .” Rhea bit her lip. “To get me to make even better sounds.”
“Is . . . that . . . an invitation?”
Oh just screw me already! She chose a more diplomatic reply, instead: “As a general rule, I don’t touch my clients’ willies.”
“As a general rule?”
“Allow me to translate . . . I’ve never done that.” With a coy little smile, she added, “I also don’t go around kissing strangers. You’re the exception to all those rules, so . . .”
“So.” Surfer Boy brushed back her hair, sliding his hand down her neck to her collarbone. Further down he went until he cupped her left breast through her shirt and squeezed it with restraint.
She moaned, her head tipping back. “Yes.”
“Oh that is a better sound.” Surfer Boy kissed the side of her neck. His kisses turned to sucking and she leaned into him with a deeper moan. She shuddered and sighed.
Rhea was having the inarguable need to be free of her underwear…
About the Author
Jewel lives with her husband, 7-year-old son and 19-month-old daughter in North Central Texas. They recently adopted a black kitten who will be Jewel’s minion of darkness in short order. Or writing buddy. Maybe both.
Jewel has been writing since the early 1980s, and enjoys reading historical fiction, paranormal, and romance. She has a long-standing affinity for witches, werewolves, ghosts, vampires, and epic romances. These elements creep out of her pen and bleed through the pages of her stories whether or not she wants them to. Often, her alpha-style leading men fall in love hard and fast (and on occasion, even unapologetically). On the flip-side, her leading ladies are feisty, head-strong, disinterested in falling in love (until the right man comes along), and at least a little neurotic.
When not writing, Jewel may be found wielding pointy sticks (knitting hats, gloves, and socks) or crocheting, and she has even been known to paint the occasional landscape. Those who know her will tell you all about her penchant for pumpkin spice everything, coffee, flowers, and friends.