Page 53 of The New Guy
He rolls over and gets up. He heads to the closet and returns with two giant bath sheets, which he spreads out on the rug.
Then he grabs his phone to turn on some music, and low-key house music begins playing from a speaker on the nightstand.He prepped for this, I realize. The nicely made bed, and the soft lighting. The music.
I don’t have to feel guilty about it, I guess. I didn’t talk him into anything.
Then? He shucks off his sweats and his underwear in one go, leaving nothing but a semi-hard cock pointing straight at me.
I lick my lips.
He groans.
“Lie down,” I command. “On your stomach.” I’m willing to have this massage get as dirty as a low-budget porn flick, but I plan to draw it out a little, first.
He doesn’t waste any time settling down on the towels, his forehead propped onto his folded hands.
I leave him there a minute and prepare myself—unzipping my jeans and kicking them off. I remove my shirt and socks, too, for practical purposes. Massage oil is messy. Then I kneel down in my briefs.
Step one is opening the massage oil and rubbing some between my hands. Step two is starting in on his broad shoulders.
“Fuuuuck yes,” he murmurs. “That feels so good.”
“Iama professional, you lucky man.” I can feel his smile even if I can’t see it. We both know there’s nothing professional going on right here at the moment.
I waste a couple minutes wondering if that Brooklyn Hockey employee’s manual I barely skimmed says anything about fraternization between employees. But I guess I’ll worry about it later, because my slicked-up hands are already doing a full tour of Hudson’s upper body.
And he’s loving it. He groans every time I find a new muscle to rub. “Your neck is tight,” I complain, digging my thumb into the base of his skull. “Can you remember something for me?”
“What’s that?” He turns his cheek on the towel, so he can see me.
“There’s nowhere else you need to be right now,” I whisper.
“Yeah, so?”
“That’s it. That’s the whole message,” I repeat. “There’s nowhere else you need to be right now. Just here with me.”
“Oh,” he says softly. “Okay.”
“Now relax.” He sinks a little further onto the towel. And I take my time moving down his body. I spend a few minutes on his lats, and then his waist—careful not to give him any pain in the bruised spots. By habit, I wrap my hands underneath his body to work his hip flexors. Still some tightness there. But he moans happily.
I apply more oil to my hands and let myself work his glutes. And it’s true what they say about hockey butts—all that muscle is pretty spectacular. I’m a terrible tease. I run a thumb lightly down his crack, watching while he breaks out in goose bumps.
“Can I turn over?” he begs.
“Not yet. But spread your legs a little.”
“Fuck yes.” He separates his legs, and I slowly work his inner thigh muscles, but never quite touching his sac.
“You’re killing me. Practically humping the floor here.”
“Patience. Roll over so I can do your…feet.”
With a snort, he rolls, and I move down to sit at his feet. Maybe he thinks it’s a de-escalation—but that only means that he’s never had a truly great foot rub. There are nerves in the soles of the feet that can take a turned-on guy straight to super horny.
I set both his feet in my lap and take a moment with his ankles. Hockey players put too much stress on these joints. After each one gets a little love, I grasp a foot and dig into the arch with my thumbs.
Before too long, he’s moaning and cursing. And I have a perfect view of his godlike body, while his cock bobs and drips against his ripped abdomen.
“You are the hottest thing,” I whisper, as the music throbs softly in the background. “But I’m about done torturing you, because it’s torturing me, too.”
