Sea Haven 01 - Water Bound

I’m not rubbing your front.”
    “Why not?”
    “If you want a massage, turn over.”
    He managed it, although he had to grit his teeth and he didn’t bother lifting his head from the pillow. He kept his face turned toward her and his hand inches from his gun. The safety was off, and he could aim and fire in a heartbeat if she made a wrong move. Yeah. That was more like him. He recognized that man. Breathing a sigh of relief, he watched her face while she drew down the blanket and then poured oil into her hands.
    The first touch of her hands alarmed him on a gut-wrenching level he didn’t understand. He hadn’t lied when he said he didn’t like anyone touching him. He had control of his body at all times. Complete, absolute and utter control. He could manipulate others through his practiced touch, because of his extensive training in every possible way of sexual pleasure, but he was the one who commanded his body’s response, not his partner. He decided who and when, and he was always— always —in control. Until this moment.
    His breathing changed. Heat rushed through his veins. He told himself it was the oil, spreading warmth over his skin, but he felt the sizzling, scorching heat spreading lower, centering, until, of its own volition, without his consent or command, his groin stirred, grew heavy and thick, and pulsed with need. He had a head injury, pain crashed through him if he dared to move his head, yet he was hard as a rock. What the hell was going on?
    He took a breath and let himself absorb the feel of her hands on him.
    She massaged the oil into his shoulders, her fingers lingering in the long slash along his shoulder blade. Then her palm glided to his arm to trace the bullet wound there, and his body trembled. She massaged deep with her strong fingers, rubbing the oil into his biceps and then down his forearms to his fingers. His breath stilled in his body.
    Her fingers were magic, sliding over his, in between, the oil absorbing into his skin while he melted into her. The warmth of the oil added to the illusion of becoming part of her. His heart beat a strange rhythm, pounding for her. He wanted to taste her in his mouth, breathe her into his lungs, be 59

    part of her body, seek refuge deep inside her. A long-ago instinct stirred in his broken mind, something he’d once heard, a long-ago childhood memory about a woman who would complete him. An element he needed.
    “You haven’t asked me.” He needed distraction.
    With his head and heart pounding and his groin full to bursting, with her hands moving along his back, easing every ache while the warmth poured into his body, he was desperate to divert himself from the unfamiliar needs of his body. And she was a need now. Like a drug infused through his skin. Through all his senses. His body absorbed the oil, but it was really her pouring inside him.
    “Your scars? Would you tell me if I asked?”
    “What I know. The bullet that nearly severed my spine.” He waited until she found it, until the pads of her fingers stroked over the spot like a caress. “Amsterdam. I know that but not why or who. The knife along my hip was Paris and one up by my shoulder blade, Egypt. I know where I was with each of them, but not why.”
    “I should have taken you to the hospital.”
    She was frowning again, he could tell by her voice. He wished he could see her face, but she was working on his buttocks and he lost his own voice as well as his ability to think straight. Little explosions were going off in his head—and his groin. His cock was hot and heavy and so full he was leaking.
    Her hands went to the backs of his thighs.
    Impersonal. He repeated the word silently over and over to himself.
    She would have done the same for anyone needing help. He’d have to kill any man she touched like this. His body should have been relaxed, not ready to take possession of hers. He was acutely aware of her every movement.
    Her breath. The swing of her hair. The beat of her heart. Her hands moving over his muscles, pressing deep, stroking and gliding. He knew she was wholly focused on what she was doing—not on him —and God help them both, he wanted her to notice him.
    He needed her to see him as a man, not some damned pet project. Or worse. Maybe she was caught up in the way the drops of oil landed on his skin in the same way she seemed to be wholly focused on water.
    He gathered his strength, pushed pain to the back of his mind and shifted his weight, easing off