His hands were warm against her shoulders, kneading the tight muscles with slow, steady pressure, when she let out a soft sigh. “Good,” she murmured, and he smiled, relieved. He’d offered the massage to help her unwind—long day, tense neck, the usual. But when his thumbs brushed the base of her skull, she turned her head, her breath hot against his ear. “Lower,” she said, her voice so quiet he almost didn’t hear it.
He hesitated, his hands stilling. “Lower?” he echoed, thinking she meant her back, but she shook her head, her hair tickling his jaw. “Elsewhere,” she clarified, and the word landed like a spark. His fingers tensed, suddenly aware of how close he was—her body warm against his chest, the faint scent of her lotion mixing with something sharper, more urgent.
This wasn’t a massage anymore. It was a bridge, from casual to something else, and she was guiding him across it. He moved his hands slowly, sliding down her sides, past her ribs, until he hovered just above her hips. “Here?” he asked, his voice rough, and she nodded, a small, breathless sound escaping her.
He should have known. The way she’d tilted her head, the soft sighs that weren’t quite from relaxation, the way her skin had prickled under his touch—all clues he’d missed, too focused on “helping” to see the invitation. When his hands finally settled where she wanted them, she leaned back into him, her head resting on his shoulder, and he realized: some massages are just an excuse to get closer.