She was about to tell him he’d have to do better than that when he sucked in a breath.
She went still. “Did I push too hard?” she asked instead.
His breath leaked out, the tightness in his back audible in his voice. “In a good way.”
She’d smoothed her fingers alongside the wide curve of his shoulder blade, the long muscle there as unyielding as the bone beside it. Repeating the motion, keeping the same pressure, she felt his broad back rise as he drew another deep breath, then slowly released it.
What she was doing felt good to him. So she did it again, slower this time. It felt good to her, too, she realized, easing her motions even more. Though she’d tended to fight his efforts, he had been taking care of her in one form or another since the day they’d met. As little as there seemed to be for her to do for him in return, as little as he seemed to want from her beyond what centered on their professional relationship, the least she could do was take care of him now.
“What about the other side? Is it sore?”
“Not as bad.”
Meaning it hurt there, too.
Reaching around him, she held out her hand. “I need more cream.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he told her, but even as he spoke, he uncapped the tube and squeezed the analgesic onto her fingers.
“You hurt yourself helping me,” she pointed out. “So, yeah, I do.” As tall as he was, her elbows were even with her eyes as she raised her arms to work on the other side.
He seemed to realize how far she had to reach.
The bed was right there. “So it’s guilt motivating you,” he concluded, and sank to the nearest corner. He straddled it, his legs planted wide.
She sat down a little behind him. With one leg tucked under her, the other dangling over the foot of the mattress, she rested her hands on his shoulders to knead the knots with her thumbs.
“Must be,” she conceded as he lowered his head again. “Especially since I know this isn’t how you’d planned to spend your weekend.”
She’d thought before that there were reasons she needed to keep her guard in place with this man. She just hadn’t bothered recalling them at the time. With the feel of his big body relaxing beneath her hands, her palms tingling as much from the feel of him as from friction and herbs, it seemed wise to recall those points now.
Reminding herself of the subtle but definite distance he’d put between them last night helped her remember why that need was there. Recalling her comment to the girls about his dates helped, too. There were other reasons, she knew. Even more compelling ones. But for the moment, the last one served her purpose perfectly.
“I’m sorry you missed your party.”
“Everybody missed it.”
That would be true, she thought, now working her fingers up the cords at the back of his neck. “I’m sure your date was disappointed.”
For a moment Erik said nothing. Her fingers were making slow little circles at the base of his skull, reversing their motion to follow the rigid cords to where they met the equally taut muscles in his shoulders.
“I didn’t have a date,” he finally muttered.
She kept moving down, past the sore spot on the right, but before he could wish she’d stayed there, she’d continued lower, working her magic along the sides of his spine.
What she was doing felt like pure paradise. She had wonderful hands. Soft. Surprisingly strong. Yet incredibly gentle as she lightened her touch to soothe away the worst of the soreness, then gradually increased the pressure again.
He’d felt a different sort of gentleness in her touch before. He’d thought he’d been dreaming, that he’d only imagined her touching him with even more tenderness—until he’d opened his eyes to see her turning away. The brush of her fingers over his forehead had brought something he couldn’t remember ever experiencing from a woman’s touch. A feeling of ease, of comfort.
There had been a disturbing contentment to the feeling that didn’t coincide at all with the direction his thoughts headed now, but something in him craved that kind of caring. Something undeniable and essential and that should have felt far more threatening than it did with the feel of her small hands unhurriedly working over his back.
The ache running from his neck to the bottom of his ribs had started to ease, the tightness there no longer threatening another spasm. An entirely different sort of tension replaced it as her fingers methodically moved over his skin, massaging toward the base of his spine.
His breath slithered out when she stopped well above the waistband of his jeans. Still, the thought of her dipping her hand lower had every other muscle in his body going taut.
“I thought you might be taking the woman you’d gone out with before,” she said into the quiet. “Is she someone you’ve been with a long time?”
There was nothing deliberately sensual about her touch as she worked her way back up. Nothing provocative in the quiet tones of her voice. Yet the question added a certain strain to his own.
“I haven’t been with anyone in a long time, Rory.”
Her hands had reached his shoulders. Feeling her go still at the status of his sex life, or maybe the fact that he’d so frankly admitted it, he turned as he spoke, catching her wrist as her hand fell.
“Why the questions?”
Beneath his grip, her pulse jumped.
Rory wasn’t sure how to answer. She hadn’t expected him to tell her how long it had been since he’d slept with a woman. That hadn’t been what she was asking. Or maybe it had been and she just hadn’t let herself acknowledge her need to know. The queries had started out simply as a defense against the undeniable emotional pull she felt toward him. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider why his being in a relationship with someone should even matter to her. But it had. And he wasn’t. And all she could do now was scramble for an explanation that wouldn’t betray how very much he already mattered to her. And he did, in ways she was only beginning to comprehend.
“I guess I wanted to know if you were involved with anyone.” She lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Just curious, you know?”
In the pale light, she looked impossibly young to him. Incredibly tempting. Mostly, she looked much as she had last night. Far more vulnerable than she wanted to be, and trying hard for a little bravado.
He saw weariness in her guileless features. He’d heard that same drained quality in her admission. It was almost as if as late as it was, as long as the day had been, she was simply too tired to keep the bravado in place.
“I’m not,” he assured her. “I haven’t been involved with anyone in years.” Involvement implied an attachment he’d avoided for the better part of a decade. A need to be there for someone. A need to let that someone count on him to be there for her. A need to know she’d be there for him. He’d had absolutely no interest in that sort of commitment. Until now.
“Just curious, huh?”
“A little.”
If she’d been trying for nonchalance, she failed miserably.
“You know, Rory,” he murmured, self-preservation fighting the need to tug her toward him. “Now would probably be a good time for me to let you get back to bed.”
“Probably,” she agreed softly. “But I think I’ll just go downstairs and read for a while. Seems like a good night to tackle the business plan.” She lifted her chin, gave him a tiny smile. “I tried, but I can’t sleep.”
The simple admission pulled at him, the helplessness in it, the weary frustration of trying to escape what kept a person from rest. What got him,