11 - Healing Touch

Jon smiled into the darkness as she led him around the dining table and navigated the sharp turn to the staircase.  So far it had been worth swallowing his pride, he thought, curving a palm over her nicely rounded buttock. 

And it’s only looking to get better.

This attraction was a weird thing for him.  Not that she wasn’t a beautiful woman.  She was hot, in fact.    The novelty was in the intensity of the attraction.  High school hadn’t been totally wasted on him, but he did miss whatever class taught about this kind of chemistry. 

He lifted his foot to the first step and winced. 

Either that or you just forgot.  It was clearly a hundred years ago that you were young enough to be in high school, old man.

His lower back muscles were seizing incrementally with each step until, finally, a little groan escaped when he hit the top step. 

The noise was almost insignificant, but in the quiet apartment, Sheridan heard it.  Her footsteps immediately halted and blonde hair whipped around in accompaniment with her face.  “What’s wrong?”

Lying was always an option.  What guy wanted to admit the rest of his body wasn’t as willing – or able – to do the wild thing as his dick was?  The trouble was that she was going to notice that his writhing in bed wasn’t due to pleasure, it was due to pain.

“It’s been a long time since I fucked against a door,” he admitted with a rueful chuckle.  “My back is reminding me just how long.”

There was a small window of silence in which he regretted his admission.  It became a fleeting regret when she guided him through a doorway on their left with a firm, “Strip and get on the bed.  I’ll be right back.”  With that and a saucy slap on his ass, she scuttled through the other, adjacent doorway.

The room was as dark as the rest of the apartment, and Jon felt inside the door for a light.  He pushed against the top part of the wide switch and flooded the room in a warm, incandescent light.  The soft glow was the subtle emanation of lights recessed into a coffered ceiling.  The architect had tried to talk him into a similar ceiling treatment when designing the Red Bank house.

He shuffled in past an open walk-in closet and master bath, reaching for the lamp on the wall opposite the doorway.  There was actually a pair of lamps perched on nightstands that were the size of small dressers with their four drawers.  Flicking the nearest lamp’s switch sent more light flooding over the heavy head and footboards that complemented the bedside tables and their rich shade of walnut.

Four poster bed.  Not tall posts, but still…

Practical matters first, in Jon’s opinion.  If tonight continued to progress pleasurably, he was going to be lobbying for another night.  Soon.  They would want to play new games.  In his mind, kittens liked to play with string, and rope was a string – of sorts.

His boots had just been kicked under the edge of the rumpled covers that hung down over the edge of the bed when he heard her muttering through the wall.  It was accented with the sound of drawers opening and closing.  Sounded like she couldn’t find whatever she was looking for.

With an amused shake of the head, he tugged the half-buttoned shirt over his head and tossed it toward the wide ottoman situated near the French doors.  It was difficult to tell, but he thought there might be a terrace on the other side of the doors.

His pants hit the carpeted floor with a soft ‘plop’ and, rather than trying to bend to pick them up, he used his foot to shove them toward the same ottoman.  Nobody cared if jeans were a little wrinkled.

Gingerly dropping his bare butt to the mattress, he slid into the rumpled spot she had obviously vacated to answer the door.  He quietly grunted at the muscle discomfort, but the sheets were soft against his naked skin and they smelled like Sheridan. 

They were also hot!

“Jesus, what was she doing, baking bread in here?” he muttered, kicking the covers to the floor.  Being cold wouldn’t be in a problem when she was in bed with him.

If she would ever get her hot little tail in here.

“Sheridan?” he called.  “If you’re calling Ashton Kutcher to punk me, I’m gonna be pissed!”

It wasn’t a second later that she appeared in the doorway with a dark green bottle in her hand.  Her warm smile flattened into more of a smirk upon seeing her bed.  “What did you do to my blankets?” she asked with amusement, extinguishing the ceiling lights before coming to stand at his side.

“You mean the baking dish covers?  Those things are hotter than hell.”  He reached out and curled his fingers around the hand that wasn’t holding the bottle.  “Don’t worry, Kitten.  I won’t let you get cold.”

There was indecision dancing in the mossy green shadows of her eyes.  She was visibly holding her tongue awaiting the outcome of her internal debate.

“What?” he prodded, bringing her palm to his chest.  The sexy red-tipped nails curled into his recently regrown chest hair and lightly scratched the skin beneath.  “You got something to say, say it.”  A wicked grin curled his lips.  “Especially if it’s dirty.”

The frown dissipated under a sultry feminine chuckle.  “You’re a dirty old man.”

“Maybe so, but it’s not just because I’m old.  I was a dirty young man, too.”

Unexpected to Jon, she bent at the waist and swooped in to sear his lips with a scorching kiss.  The fleshy point of her tongue burrowed its way into his mouth, flicking against his in a seductive tease.  His dick no more stirred than she severed the kiss.  Flexing her fingers against his chest – ironically, much as a kitten would knead its bed – she whispered through saliva-slicked lips, “You make me want to be dirty.”

“Well, alright, baby.  Let’s get it on.”  A gentle tug that he thought would have her tumbling into his rapidly stiffening lap was completely ineffective when she resisted.

“First things first, Studly.  Turn over.”

“Baby…”  Jon quirked a warning eyebrow at her.  “I don’t play that way.”

Mischief lit her eyes.  “You’re not playing at all if your back is knotted up.”  The green bottle danced in front of his face when Sheridan wiggled it enticingly.  “I’m going to give you a massage.”

The eyebrow lowered.  “A massage, huh?”

“Yes, now turn over.  The faster I get you unwound, the faster I can wind you up again.”

Jon had a regular chiropractor and massage therapist.  They were generally the only ones who he let touch his back.  He didn’t wanna douse the mood, but he was picky about the people who manipulated him.

“Don’t worry,” she chided, putting the bottle on the bed table, and then sliding her palm low over his abdomen.  She didn’t look away from his face as she stroked the stretch of skin below his belly button, combing through the hair with her nails.  “I’ve had enough massage training not to break anything important, and the oil shouldn’t cause any kind of allergic reaction.  I made it myself with strictly organic ingredients.”

Well, well.  The writer was a masseuse?  Who made her own massage oil?

Fuck it.  Having her hands on me is worth a couple days’ discomfort.

Sheridan shivered when Jon captured the hand that was dancing on his belly and lifted it to his mouth.  The warm suction of his tongue curling around her middle finger did unspeakable things to her insides.

Sex was something she had always enjoyed.  Her ex-husband Ian had been a satisfying lover, and somewhat adventurous between the sheets.  That hadn’t been a problem for her.  She went willingly along, even when it didn’t interest her so much. 

But this…  This freaking inferno of desire that Jon ignited with a blowtorch every time he touched her…  This was something new.  It bordered on frightening, because she knew that for every indulgence she’d shown to Ian – Jon could easily coax twice as much from her.  Hell, she may even end up being the one to do the coaxing. 

“Roll over,” she directed again, a rasp invading her normally smooth voice.  Damn his erotic mouth.  Swearing silently, she freed her hand and allowed him to roll to his stomach.  The task was punctuated with little huffs of pain as he got comfortably situated on his stomach.

Sheridan took a moment to absorb the vision of his broad shoulders, narrow waist and perfectly shaped ass before snapping the lamp’s switch.  The room plunged into near-darkness.

“You do have something against light.”  The complaint was muffled against the pillow.

“Sight doesn’t enhance a massage.”  And the darkness made for a nice security blanket.  On the canvas of black, she could paint any picture she wanted.  The woman she would allow herself to become under the cloak of night would be effortlessly erased in the light.  The morning-after humiliation at what she was about to do would be minimized, anyway.

“Touche.”

Tentatively extending her hand toward the surface of the nightstand, she found the bottle and spun the lid from it.  The aromatic oil was cool sliding into her hand. 

“After turning me down last night, why’d you decide to call tonight?”  His question came quietly from blackness.

Hurriedly returning the bottle with a soft ‘thunk’, she then worked the slippery concoction between her palms and warmed it to body temperature.  The clean scents of sage and juniper mixed in her nostrils, immediately serving their aphrodisiacal purpose.  Sheridan’s senses became instantly heightened.

She figured easing his back was more about the touch and lubrication of the oil.  The aromatherapy was just an added bonus…

“I decided I was being stupid by denying the sexual magnetism between us.”

The indentation at the base of his spine was easily located, and she lightly swirled her palms across the skin.  It only took a single swipe to find the source of his discomfort – a fiercely bunched series of muscles just below his ribcage.

“It’s good isn’t – “ A grunt of pain and a soft ‘sonofoabitch’ finished his sentence differently than he’d intended.

“This may hurt at first.”  The seized muscles formed a ridge from one side of his torso to the other, so Sheridan chose a single spot closest to her and began systematically kneading.  The firm touch was going to be painful to begin with, but it would resolve quickly.

“No shit.”

Only an evil bitch would smile at his strangled epithet, but Sheridan did anyway.  His sarcasm in the face of the pain was impressive.

“Why did you change your mind about coming?” she countered, satisfied at already being able to feel the muscular elasticity returning under her touch. 

“Same reason,” he forced out as she pushed air from his lungs. 

The side of his body closest to her was much nearer to limber again, but she was having trouble reaching the other side.  Planting her right knee in the mattress next to his right hip, Sheridan agilely swung her left leg over so that she was straddling his hips.

“Ah, fuck.”

“What?  Did I hurt you?”  She thought she had been very careful in her mounting, but maybe she’d pinched him.

“No.  I can feel your pussy breathing on my ass.”

The rawness of his admission provoked a startled laugh from her.  “Quite the poet, aren’t you?” she teased, going to work on the last section of knotted muscle.

His rumble of appreciation for her ministrations overshadowed the dry, “Keats is my homie.”

She snuffled a quiet sound of amusement, but the humor left Sheridan as readily as the rigidity seeped from his muscles.  It was the first time she’d truly just touched him.  Her therapeutic attention gentled to more of a sensual exploration, and another dose of oil only added to the sensuality.

The soft sounds of satisfaction he was filling the darkness with didn’t hurt either.

Her palms glided easily over his well-toned back.  Each dip and swell was noted and appreciated as purely male, and she rolled her hips forward to reach the tops of his shoulders.  Pressing her thumbs into the meaty section between his shoulder blade and neck, she worked the flesh there.  Each thumb took a turn making slow, deliberate circles that diffused any tautness before moving up to his neck. 

“Sheridan?”

So focused was she on the faint friction of their skin that his question startled her.  Her thumb slipped a little higher onto his skull than she’d intended, but he didn’t draw attention to it.  “What?” she asked, settling back into the rhythmic push and pull of skin that he interrupted. 

“Enough with the hands.”

The hands in question instantly froze, afraid that, despite his intermittent moans of appreciation, she’d done something wrong.

“I’m sorry,” was her quick apology.

“Nothing to be sorry for.  My back is fixed.  Time to rub me with something else.”