Free What He Left Behind by L. A. Witt Page A

Michael, he returns it.
    With his free hand, Michael reaches up and touches my face. The contact makes my skin prickle all over and speeds up my heart rate.
    Then, without a word, he draws me down, and when our lips meet, I release his hand and slowly, gently, put my arms around him. He cradles the back of my head as he deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue alongside mine. My head is spinning and my pulse is racing, both from the kiss itself and from Michael’s sudden surge of confidence.
    And so much for whatever concerns I had about not being able to get hard.
    I try to draw my hips back a little, but Michael presses his fingers into my lower back, keeping us close together. For a moment, I’m back in our early days, when a kiss like this was almost a guarantee that we’d be horizontal and sweating before long, and I hope like hell that this boldness holds out. That whatshisname doesn’t sink his claws in and remind Michael of his past and his fears.
    Remember our past, Michael. Not the one you had with him.
    He breaks the kiss and gazes up at me. “Wow,” he whispers breathlessly.
    “Yeah. Wow is right.”
    His eyes flick toward my lips, then meet mine again, and he grins. “I’m…I’m definitely in if you still are.”
    I lick my lips. “Absolutely.”
    “So, massage?”
    “Yes, please.”
    He kisses me once more, and then he lets me go. He turns down the bed and moves the pillows off to the side, and while he does that, I strip off my shirt and jeans. To my surprise, Michael starts getting undressed too, and I don’t question him. This is all about his comfort zone, and if he’s comfortable getting undressed, I’ll call that a step in the right direction.
    It’s a struggle not to stop and stare at him, though I do steal a few glances. It’s tough not to—he’s always had a gorgeous body, and time has been nothing but kind to him. He’s smooth in all the right places, sharp in all the others, with a few constellations of freckles here and there, placed as if to deliberately draw attention to his shoulders and pecs.
    “Um.” I gesture at the bed. “Facedown?”
    “Yeah. Use whatever pillows you need. So you’re comfortable.”
    I settle on the bed, which is a challenge now that my cock has definitely decided to join the party. Thank God for a pillow-top mattress. I take one of Michael’s pillows, fold my arms under it, and rest my head on top of it. And then fidget a little more until I’m as comfortable as a man can get while lying on an erection.
    Michael joins me. I can’t tell if he’s sitting or kneeling. Hell, he could be standing on his head for all I know—he’s just beyond the edge of my peripheral vision, only his body heat and the slight dip in the mattress giving away his presence.
    Now I’m starting to see why Michael wanted to go this route. Not only is a massage fairly benign, lying somewhere in the gray area between platonic and sexual, but it puts me in the most passive, nonthreatening position I can think of. I can’t grab him or overpower him. I can’t even look at him without twisting around.
    “Ready?” he asks.
    “Whenever you are.”
    I close my eyes. The bottle top clicks open, then shut. Skin hisses against skin—he’s probably rubbing his hands together to warm up the oil.
    Then the sound stops.
    The whole room is still.
    Every inch of my skin is suddenly hyperaware of everything, even the ambient air, as if my senses are searching for that first contact, wondering when he’ll make the connection. When, and where.
    And if .
    What if he’s having second thoughts? If he’s—
    There.
    Between my shoulder blades.
    Fingertips at first, and then more. His touch is tentative, almost ticklish, fingers and palm barely meeting my skin, and my whole body’s hyperawareness instantly concentrates itself in that warm outline of his hand.
    Slowly, he traces the length of my spine, taking an absolute age to make the journey from the base of my neck to just above my