Page 32 of Best Friends, Tennessee

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“Football stuff,” he said. “Trust me, you watched me do them at practice plenty of times. But the point is you’re not in my way at all.”

“Fine.”

He was silent for a moment, then looked back over at me, a small smile on his face. “Those green smoothies you make are fucking gross, though.”

I glared at him. “You told me you liked the sample I gave you the other day.”

He winced. “I guess that’s my real secret. I hated it.”

“Damn.”

“I mean, Ori, come on,” he protested. “Are you just putting pure spinach and celery in it and calling that good? It tasted like a football field. And I would know, unfortunately.”

I laughed, shoving him again. “Hey, there was a green apple in there. Or… half of one, at least.”

“Disgusting. Next time, try some normal-person stuff like strawberries or bananas, okay?”

I sat up, dusting off my hands and acting like I was going to get up and walk away. “Fine. I’ll go in and make you a smoothieright now with eight pounds of milk and sugar in it likeyoulike it—”

He was laughing behind me.

A moment later I felt his warm, heavy arms drape around my shoulders, pulling me back down onto the blanket.

He pinned me there. One arm was still around my shoulders behind me, and the other was across my chest as he looked at me.

He relaxed again, but he didn’t take away his arms.

Almost like he was hugging me.

My whole body tingled and flooded with warmth. My cock instantly took Finn’s touch as yet another invitation to get hard again.

“Here. Sit on up again,” he said, getting up and sitting with his legs crossed behind me.

“As long as you don’t insult my smoothies.”

As I sat up, I was solely concentrated on trying to hide the tent in my pants.

Luckily, Finn was behind me.

He shifted, running his palms along my upper shoulders. He let his fingers push in, just a little, the hint of a massage.

“Christ, Ori, you’re tenser than a lot of my athlete clients,” he murmured.

I groaned as he deepened his touch. “Holy fuck, that feels good. Like you’re breaking down years of fucked-up pain in my—Godthat’s good—”

“You needed this,” he said, lightening up on one area near my shoulder blade. “That’s a bad spot.”

I pulled in a slow breath, relaxing again as his fingers kneaded a steady pattern against my neck. “Forgot how gifted you are with this shit.”

“I’m just well-trained.”

I hummed. “I think you have the natural touch, too.”

He spent the next five minutes or so working deep, slow strokes onto my upper back, unlocking muscle groups I’d forgotten about entirely. His hands moved forward to the front of my shoulders, and I felt the weight of his arm across the front of my chest.

It was an innocent, neutral touch.

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