something past my shoulder.
A tower of brawn right behind me, pulling the tapes off his hands. “I’d be happy to break it for you,” he murmurs.
“I’ll take a rain check on that, if you don’t mind.”
As Riley goes to help Coach clean up, Remington trains his black eyes on me, and I notice his nostrils flare as if he can scent me without even ducking his head, just looking at me.
“Ready?” He speaks in his I’ve-worked-out-for-hours-and-am-sexy-as-hell dehydrated voice as he strokes his fingers up the small of my back, and I’m not immune to any of it.
“Born ready,” I say, a little breathlessly. I don’t know what it is about the times he’s manic, but I’m extra aware of the energy crackling around him when he’s black. He’s a powerhouse, but when he’s black he feels like two. We both head to the small rehab room at the back of the gym. And when he puts his hand on my ass, I say nothing, but feel everything. Then, when he squeezes, it takes every effort in me not to turn around and grab his hard ass and squeeze that massive rock-hard flesh back.
“Up on the table, Riptide,” I command. I just like ordering him around because he gives me this
whatever
look of amusement. Like he does now, like he’s supremely entertained by me. He lies down on the table, which is much like a massage table, at the center of the small room. Nearby there’s also a refrigerator, for meds and cold items which I’ll raid later for his ice massage.
He spreads facedown first, and his body temp is so high after his workout, I can feel his heat before I even touch him.
“You feel okay?” I ask, my gaze caressing up the line of his spine. “Anything knot up? Bothering you?”
“I’d like to have my hands on you as soon as possible,” he whisper-growls at me, and I bite the inside of my cheek.
“All right, but like they say, ladies first.”
He groans. “Don’t torture me, baby, I want to fuck you already.”
I bend over and set a kiss on his ear. “It’s not torture, try to relax,” I whisper, and I really want him to relax, to focus on his body, so I curl my fingers around his shoulders. The breath hisses out through his teeth, and I also quietly hold my own—but our contact does that to me. Exhaling softly, I acclimate to him and start massaging with my fingers. He also acclimates to me and I know he’s starting to relax when he groans softly.
We’re so connected, I can’t touch his skin without feeling delicious little ripples radiate through me. It sometimes feels as if I am tapping into that powerful source that makes Remington Tate
Remington Tate
. Every centimeter of my body becomes cognizant of his muscles and skin under my fingers—and of everything else about him. The way he smells right this second, of ocean and soap, and just him. The way his chest expands with his exertion. The way his hair is spiky and rumpled and wet.
I love working on him with my hands.
This is my job, but this is also my love.
I can’t think of anything better than this.
I feel each muscle, one at a time, seeking their heat, digging deep into the belly of the muscle so that there is perfect blood flow into every part of his body. I massage and separate the fascia, kneading the muscle tissue with my fingers to provide good nourishment to the area. When the muscle is loosened, his blood, ripe with every nutrient of his healthy way of living, enters to help repair and grow that muscle.
Once I’ve rubbed him down on both sides, I go to the fridge so I can give him an ice massage. Ice massages are perfect for any knot or injury, but Remington loves them, and I sometimes give him one to speed general recovery.
There’s a Styrofoam cup already in the freezer. It contains a frozen block of water inside, and I rub my palm over it several times, to smooth out the ice and make sure it won’t nick his skin. Then I run it all over his muscles while I hold the back of the cup, almost like I’m sliding roll-on
A tower of brawn right behind me, pulling the tapes off his hands. “I’d be happy to break it for you,” he murmurs.
“I’ll take a rain check on that, if you don’t mind.”
As Riley goes to help Coach clean up, Remington trains his black eyes on me, and I notice his nostrils flare as if he can scent me without even ducking his head, just looking at me.
“Ready?” He speaks in his I’ve-worked-out-for-hours-and-am-sexy-as-hell dehydrated voice as he strokes his fingers up the small of my back, and I’m not immune to any of it.
“Born ready,” I say, a little breathlessly. I don’t know what it is about the times he’s manic, but I’m extra aware of the energy crackling around him when he’s black. He’s a powerhouse, but when he’s black he feels like two. We both head to the small rehab room at the back of the gym. And when he puts his hand on my ass, I say nothing, but feel everything. Then, when he squeezes, it takes every effort in me not to turn around and grab his hard ass and squeeze that massive rock-hard flesh back.
“Up on the table, Riptide,” I command. I just like ordering him around because he gives me this
whatever
look of amusement. Like he does now, like he’s supremely entertained by me. He lies down on the table, which is much like a massage table, at the center of the small room. Nearby there’s also a refrigerator, for meds and cold items which I’ll raid later for his ice massage.
He spreads facedown first, and his body temp is so high after his workout, I can feel his heat before I even touch him.
“You feel okay?” I ask, my gaze caressing up the line of his spine. “Anything knot up? Bothering you?”
“I’d like to have my hands on you as soon as possible,” he whisper-growls at me, and I bite the inside of my cheek.
“All right, but like they say, ladies first.”
He groans. “Don’t torture me, baby, I want to fuck you already.”
I bend over and set a kiss on his ear. “It’s not torture, try to relax,” I whisper, and I really want him to relax, to focus on his body, so I curl my fingers around his shoulders. The breath hisses out through his teeth, and I also quietly hold my own—but our contact does that to me. Exhaling softly, I acclimate to him and start massaging with my fingers. He also acclimates to me and I know he’s starting to relax when he groans softly.
We’re so connected, I can’t touch his skin without feeling delicious little ripples radiate through me. It sometimes feels as if I am tapping into that powerful source that makes Remington Tate
Remington Tate
. Every centimeter of my body becomes cognizant of his muscles and skin under my fingers—and of everything else about him. The way he smells right this second, of ocean and soap, and just him. The way his chest expands with his exertion. The way his hair is spiky and rumpled and wet.
I love working on him with my hands.
This is my job, but this is also my love.
I can’t think of anything better than this.
I feel each muscle, one at a time, seeking their heat, digging deep into the belly of the muscle so that there is perfect blood flow into every part of his body. I massage and separate the fascia, kneading the muscle tissue with my fingers to provide good nourishment to the area. When the muscle is loosened, his blood, ripe with every nutrient of his healthy way of living, enters to help repair and grow that muscle.
Once I’ve rubbed him down on both sides, I go to the fridge so I can give him an ice massage. Ice massages are perfect for any knot or injury, but Remington loves them, and I sometimes give him one to speed general recovery.
There’s a Styrofoam cup already in the freezer. It contains a frozen block of water inside, and I rub my palm over it several times, to smooth out the ice and make sure it won’t nick his skin. Then I run it all over his muscles while I hold the back of the cup, almost like I’m sliding roll-on
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