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“Claire,” I said, very quietly. “I’ve wanted your hands on me for years.”
Her hands froze on my thigh.
I kept going, because I couldn’t stop now. “Every Christmas. Every time you hug me goodbye. I know it’s wrong. I know it’s Helen. But I’m not going to lie here and pretend this is just a massage.”
The silence went on so long I thought she’d walked out. Then I felt her forehead rest against my back, between my shoulder blades. Her breath shuddered against my skin.
“You absolute bastard,” she whispered. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to say that?”
“How long?”
“Since I was twenty-one. Since before the wedding.” She laughed, wet and shaky. “I used to fake headaches so I didn’t have to sit next to you.”
She lifted her head. Her hands started moving again, not like a masseuse at all now. Greedy. Trembling. She ran them up my back, over my shoulders, into my hair. She pulled the towel away and grabbed my arse with both hands and squeezed, hard, like she’d been dying to.
“Turn over,” she said.
I did. My cock sprang up, hard and leaking, and she stared at it, then at me. Her eyes were wet. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked absolutely terrified and absolutely starving.
“I don’t know what to do now,” she admitted.