Page 52 of The New Guy
Hudson groans and dives into the next kiss, and I welcome him with a hungry mouth and eager hands.
He tastes me deeply, and my head swims.
Here we are again—making out in a fog of sexual desperation. But he’s right—meaningless sex doesn’t go like this. It doesn’t start with soul-deep kisses after dinner. And it doesn’t sound like that hitch in his breath when I pull him in closer.
I have a lot of affection for the lonely hockey player in 2A. I want to feed him soup and see the gratitude in his eyes when he tastes it. And I want a whole night together.
But that’s not in the cards.
I break our kiss and ease him back. “Let’s take a pause, Hudson. This is still a bad idea.”
“Yeah.” He blows out a frustrated breath. “But I was hoping to pretend for a little while that it wasn’t.”
His honesty makes this even worse. Couldn’t he just go back to being a jerk?
“If you need to go, I’d understand.” He takes another step back.
So this has to bemydecision? I’m truly conflicted. “Give me a second to think. Maybe I could take a moment alone with your contusions from last night?”
His laugh is startled. “Sure. Fine. Where do you want me?”
I hesitate. “On the bed.”
His eyes flare, but he doesn’t say anything. He just turns around and marches toward his bedroom.
I follow him, and notice that the bedroom is more nicely furnished than the rest of the apartment. The big bed is made up with a flannel duvet in gray, with blue plaid flannel sheets. A bedside lamp casts a friendly glow on the wall. There’s a plush blue rug on the floor, with a foam roller nearby. “Do you stretch here on the rug?”
“All the time,” he says. “That rug is my best friend. It’s followed me through four cities.”
“Lie down there, then. If you don’t mind.”
“Oh I don’t mind.” He kneels down on the rug, peels off his shirt, and stretches out on his side. “I got hit hard last night, but luckily he didn’t jam my hip bone. So I’m sore, but I don’t think it’s going to flare up my bursitis.”
“Let’s see.” There’s a nasty bruise, but it’s higher than his hip bone, and more on his back than his side. I probe the joint gently with my fingers, and he doesn’t flinch. “This okay?”
“Yeah. There’s, like, a deep muscle soreness. But nothing sharp at the joint. Henry took a look at it this morning.”
“I’m sure he did. But I will be personally offended if some asshole reinjured you already, so I need my own assessment.”
He shakes his head with a grin. “Have at it.”
I get to work probing him for tight spots and strains. He groans the way we all do when someone puts skilled hands on an ache. And after a moment I feel him relax under my touch.
“You were right, by the way,” he slurs after a time.
“About what?” I work my way down his thigh.
“When you said I was lonely. It made me so mad, because it’s true. I wanted you to shut up and vanish, and now I’m glad you didn’t. I’m so tired of being caged up inside my head.”
“But I’m still a problem for you,” I point out.
“Oh, I know it. Just because I can admit how much I like you doesn’t make the situation any easier.”
“True.” I massage his thigh with slow precision. “But you have to give me some guidance, here. I have massage oil in my pocket and I don’t know if I’m supposed to strip you down and use it or go home instead.”
He closes his eyes and lets out a groan of a completely different kind. “I think you’d better do that first thing. Not the second one.”
I snort. And then I pat his very firm ass. “Let’s put down a towel so I don’t get massage oil all over your best friend.”
