I prop myself on my elbows. And crane my neck over my shoulder. Keeping a narrowed eye on Farrow. He removes his silver rings. One-by-one.
Christ. His fingers—those fingers are going to be on me. The back of my neck is boiling hot.
His brown eyes travel languidly along my back muscles—ones that showcase my diehard love of swimming. And proficiency in the butterfly stroke.
After he pockets his rings, Janie hands him a bottle of oil. “A dreadfully bad idea or good one to film this for reference material?”
“Bad,” I say, for no other reason but this one, “if it leaks somehow, people will start asking who’s my amateur masseuse.”
Farrow rolls his eyes at the word amateur, but he also agrees, “Don’t record.”
We both know people would fixate on Farrow in this hypothetical video recording. Because he’s a.) fully-tattooed, b.) the kind of attractive that makes you crave a “happy ending” and c.) his hands would be on me.
It’d make him famous.
Famous people can’t protect famous people. Or else I’d be the bodyguard to my own siblings. And once a bodyguard needs a bodyguard to protect themselves, they’re worthless to security.
Farrow would lose his job.
Jane lounges on the loveseat. “I’ll watch attentively then and take mental notes.” Lady Macbeth, an old black cat, springs onto her lap and collapses, purring. Janie kisses the cat’s fur and scratches behind her ears.
That damn cat better not distract Jane. I’m not about to repeat this massage.
“Cela n’arrivera pas deux fois,” I tell her. It will not happen twice.
She strokes Lady Macbeth, her bright blue eyes on me knowingly. “Je regarde. Profite du massage, Moffy.” I’m watching. Enjoy the massage, Moffy.
I stay propped on my forearms and glance over my shoulder again. Standing, Farrow oils his palms, so damn confident. His smile stretches at the sight of me watching, his bottom lip piercing too hot.
Everything about Farrow is lightning cracking the night sky.
He lowers.
Fuck—here we go.
He rests his knee beside my waist, and the sole of his boot is on my other side. Straddling me without touching me. Not yet, at least.
“All the way down, Maximoff,” he says in that deep, gravel voice. “Arms flat by your sides.”
My pulse pounds in my neck. I tensely extend my arms by my waist. Which forces me to look away from Farrow. I’d rather hide my face, so I put my forehead on the decorative pillow. Concealed, but also staring at nothing.
“Don’t kill me,” I snap.
He leans forward, his lips near my ear. “Hurting you is the antithesis of my job description.”
Right.
“Trust me,” he breathes. “Relax.” The silky part of his voice soothes me from head-to-toe like stepping into a steaming sauna.
Fuck.
Me.
My normally bound shoulders want to unlock, and I force my arms to stay still and not bring them to the pillow. My whole back is exposed. And only the gray fabric of my drawstring pants lies between Farrow and my bare ass.
I’m not wearing any boxer-briefs.
He can probably tell.
I shut my eyes. Breathing stronger. The anticipation killing me.
And then his warmed, oiled hands start at my tailbone. Holy shit. Using the weight of his body to dig deep, he runs his thumbs and palms up the length of my back. Reaching the base of my neck and kneading circles around my broad shoulders.
A sharp breath catches in the pit of my throat. Holyshitholyshit.
His fingers and hands create hypnotic movements up and down my back, shoulders, and even my biceps and forearms. Every time he anchors his weight to knead and rub my body, I imagine his pelvis near my ass—I grit down.
Tighten my eyes shut more. I can’t get hard.
“Relax,” he breathes, his thumbs running up the back of my neck. That feels too fucking good.
He leans nearer to my body as his large hands travel down my build and then veer to my waist. Teasing against the band of my drawstring pants.
Don’t fantasize.
Don’t fantasize.
I breathe through my nose again. If I rotate and sit up—would we kiss? Stop thinking. When he leans closer again, I picture his lips beside my jaw. Nipping my ear before sucking, then I turn and we—no.
Yes.
Hell yes.
I’m still lying on the ground. He’s still massaging my tight shoulders that refuse to unwind. His lips do brush my ear, and he actually, realistically whispers, “Let go.”
I can’t.
The moment I let go, I’ll cross a line that can’t be crossed.
He kneads my traps harder, deeper, almost bringing me somewhere I can’t ignore. To a state of euphoria. My eyes open but nearly roll back, my mouth slightly agape. Fucking…
I grab his wrist.
Suddenly. Instinctively. And he freezes, his palms on my lower back. Without releasing him, I use my other arm to prop my body. My chest rises in a heavy, ragged breath.
I glance at him.
Farrow breathes just as heavily, his eyes searching mine for reasons as to why I stopped him. I imagine shifting his hand lower. To my waistband. Beneath the fabric.
Do it.
I blink once—remembering that Jane is here. And then I think: that shouldn’t be the only reason why I stop.
He’s my fucking bodyguard.
I let go of his wrist.
The old loveseat squeaks as Jane sits up. “I can leave you two alone if you’d like—”
“No,” I say firmly and stare hard at Farrow, waiting for him to reject that offer with me.
Farrow sweeps my body with a heady gaze, practically saying, I would’ve said yes. And then he stands up off of me.
I have no real time to think.
My phone rings on the coffee table. An incoming call. Not a text. I quickly stand and grab my phone. I see the caller ID: my little sister, and I become laser-eyed.
Colossally focused.
I concentrate on the here and now. Everything else behind me.
I put the phone to my ear. “Luna?” Strange breathing filters through the speaker. I frown. “Luna?”
Farrow stares faraway like someone is speaking into his earpiece. He walks towards the front door. Jane springs to her feet and checks her cell for any texts or information.
“Luna, answer me.” My cheekbones sharpen. I listen fixatedly, my grip tightened on the phone. She’s never done this before, but she’s also an oddball.
You know Luna Hale as the seventeen-year-old alien devotee who posts inarticulate ramblings on Twitter and believes UFOs are real. You rudely nicknamed her Secondhand Embarrassment. Some of you even call her “drunk” when she’s 100% sober, and you question the sanity of anyone who’d date her.
I know her as my little sister. A girl who stays true to herself amid constant ridicule. Someone I admire and love unconditionally.
Fair warning: I’ll kill you if you so much as breathe on her wrong. Simple as that.
Over the phone, Luna sighs so softly. I almost miss the sound.
“Talk to me, sis—” The call drops. What the fuck is going on? I turn to Janie. “Did you text your brothers?” Luna’s best friends are two of Jane’s younger brothers.
“Oui.” Janie texts rapidly. “Eliot and Tom keep sending me devil emojis.”
I shake my head, pissed. There are five Cobalt boys, and my little sister had to befriend the two that lit Jane’s dollhouse on fire and laughed while it burned. They were ten years old back then, but at eighteen and seventeen, they still dance in chaos.