Page 38 of Your Two Lips
He blinked. “Sure. If you think it will help.” His jaw ticked as he swallowed.
“Hang on.” I jogged to the truck to get my tote, where I had a few lotion samples. Sampling new products was part of the job.
It was kind of him to cook for me. He worked on my brakes the other week and was teaching me to be a better mountain biker. I could return the kindness with a quick massage of a sore shoulder. Move the healing along, at least.
When I returned, he was standing at his workbench rummaging through tool bins. He started to walk toward me. “Grab that stool,” I said.
He pulled it over from under the workbench, and I selected a lotion from my bag. “Take your shirt off and have a seat.”
Finn paused and looked at me. Then he lifted his shirt, and I froze. I had not thought this through. I had seen hundreds of men’s bodies. Massage was my job, and I didn’t equate it to sexy times. This should have been no big deal.
It was a big deal. The defined curve of his pecs, the ridges of his abdomen, his transverse abdominis, the man-V muscle dipping below his waist. He had a weight set in the corner of this space, but these muscles were from work. His biceps and shoulders rounded with the flex of his arms as he finished removing the shirt.
He sat, and I moved behind him, thankful for the reprieve. Keeping my face blank in front of all that hard muscle was daunting. Holy hotness. I shook out my hands to settle my nerves. I got myself into this. I had better keep going. His skin was smooth, with a faint tan line along his bronzed neck. I needed to get myself under control or I would end up rubbing against his back or sliding around to sit in his lap. If I did that, I could kiss him again, feel his firm, supple lips. Shit, I had to shake out my hands again.
“Everything okay?”
“Sure. Yes. I was noticing your tattoo.” I rubbed some lotion between my palms and rubbed my hands over his shoulder, searching for tightness in his trap muscles and neck. Moving along his bicep and forearm, I stood in front of him, straddling his right thigh as I dug into the flesh of his hand. I concentrated on massaging his palm. He moaned, then covered it with a cough.
“Is that pressure okay?” I looked down to see an impressive bulge growing in his bike shorts.
“Sure.” Another cough. “It’s fine.” He shifted his seat, laid his other arm across his lap, and stared at the house beyond me.
I massaged up to his forearm and the roped muscles there, concentrating on any tension spots. “Breathe, Finn. In through your nose, fill your diaphragm and your chest, then exhale slowly and consistently through your mouth. Deep breaths help you to release stress and oxygenate your blood.”
His chest rose and fell as I worked on his forearm. I silently recited the muscle origin and insertion points I had memorized in anatomy class to keep my mind off the warmth of him and the sleek firmness under my fingers as they traveled up to his bicep.
“Tell me about your tattoo. A wolf?” I never asked a client about any marks on their skin. Finn wasnota client.
“And a cedar tree,” he said.
“Do you like wolves, or are you on Team Jacob?” I teased. Forks, Washington, the setting for a wildly popular series about vampires, was a couple of hours from here. You didn’t have to read the books to know about Team Jacob and Team Edward.
“Ah, no. Lucas, Tess, and I have them.”
“All wolves?”
“No. The wolf is my animal.” He glanced at me. “We studied Washington state history and local Indigenous people in elementary school. We had this big unit on totem poles, cultural myths, and creation stories. Lots of oral tradition about animals and what they represented.”
“I remember. The sly raven, I believe.”
“Exactly. We’re from generations of farmers. The idea of being connected with nature and something bigger isn’t unusual for us.
“In school, we each had this exercise to choose an animal we thought we were most like and write a story to explain why. As we got older, we would read legends, myths, and stories from various traditions and talk about our animal force. We were not always kind in our suggestions for each other.” He chuckled.
“When I turned eighteen, Lucas and I dared each other to get tattoos of our animal. This one’s mine. A wolf.”
“What does it mean?”
“To me, the wolf represents family and protection. It’s a pack animal. The leaders don’t use force unless they have to. They lead by example. They do the work. Wolves are dependable and tough … so obviously, my animal is a wolf.” His expression was confident.
“Obviously.” I laughed, which helped lower my blood pressure as my fingers and palms slid over the beautiful tattoo and up to knead his shoulder muscles. The fine lines of the wolf’s coat and the fine lines of the cedar tree behind it were incredible. Both small marks yet completely distinguishable from each other. “It’s not tribal.”
“No. Just a wolf and a tree. I like trees. Tribal images are a meaningful part of Indigenous culture, and I’m not Indigenous. I found a tattoo artist with some great sketches of wolves and went from there. What about your animal?”
I considered for a moment with whatever brain cells had not been consumed by the heat of Finn’s skin. “I have no idea.”
I was entirely toofull as I sipped my second glass of white wine. Finn had brought out a fresh herb dressing his mother made. It was drizzled on the vegetables and added the right touch of tartness, complementing the smoky chicken.
