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

boxers. The contact breaks, and then his hand materializes between my shoulder blades again, and he repeats the same stroke. Again. Then again.
    The motion reminds me of someone petting a dog, and maybe that’s what he’s doing—taking something he does all the time without flinching, and transferring that to human contact. Allowing himself this type of touch so he can move on to massaging and…more.
    Take all the time you want. I’m not going anywhere.
    He adds his other hand. Starting at my shoulders, he traces the muscles and the outside of my rib cage. “This okay?”
    You tell me .
    “Feels great.” I turn my head as much as I can without snapping my neck, and hope he can see my smile. “You’ve always been good at this.”
    He laughs softly, and the next stroke of his hand is more confident. More pressure, less hesitation, and it feels divine. His hands have always been a bit calloused, and the combination of softness and roughness sliding over my skin feels amazing. Little by little, the explorative touch becomes an actual massage. He presses in, kneads muscles that were tighter than I thought and damn near lulls me to sleep.
    I’m not hard anymore, which makes it a hell of a lot more comfortable to lie like this, but it’s not nerves or even lack of arousal. I’m just…that…relaxed.
    I need to return the favor. Maybe not tonight—I’m following his lead, after all—but I want him to feel this way. Comfortable, relaxed, completely at ease.
    I’m nearly drifting off when the bed dips beside me. Michael’s knee materializes beside my thigh, and then his weight eases down over me.
    Though he’s barely leaning on me—touching, to be sure, but holding himself up on his knees—it’s suddenly difficult to breathe. The heels of his hands glide up my back, but it’s that thick hard-on against my ass that has my full attention. Two thin layers of shorts do nothing to temper that solid presence or the heat of his flesh, and lying on my stomach is starting to get really uncomfortable again.
    Michael’s hands stop. “Turn over.”
    Oh, thank God.
    He lifts himself off me, and I roll onto my back. To my surprise, he gets back on top. His hands start just above my boxers, and slide upward, applying almost no pressure at all, just skimming across my skin and forcing all the breath out of my lungs. If having his dick against my ass was maddening, this is unreal. He’s rock hard, straining against the front of his boxers, and every time he so much as breathes, he rubs just right to make my breath catch.
    The best part, though, is that I can see him now. So many memories flood my brain, and my mouth waters as I see him sitting like this in the past—on top of me, wearing next to nothing, gazing down with those heavy-lidded green eyes and that smile on his face.
    I hear his voice from a lifetime ago: “Stop me if it hurts.”
    Years later, “I’ll make you forget that he hurt you.”
    It hadn’t hurt that first time—he’d been much too careful—and yes, he’d made me forget about the ex who’d stomped all over my heart. All before someone had come along and broken Michael.
    Now it’s my turn to protect you and help you heal .
    Gazing up at him, I want to reach for him, but I don’t. Not yet. He’s still getting used to all of this. One thing at a time. No matter how much I want to touch all over his smooth skin and his gorgeous body.
    Michael lets his hands slide from my chest to my shoulders, and then past them, onto the bed, and he sinks down on top of me. The temptation is almost irresistible now. My fingers curl at my sides, gathering handfuls of sheets and digging into the mattress.
    “God, I want to touch you so bad, Michael.”
    He presses his hips against me, taking my breath away all over again, and murmurs, “Please do.”
    Our eyes meet.
    “Stop me if it hurts.”
    “I’ll make you forget that he hurt you.”
    Moving slowly, I reach for him, and we both gasp as my palms come to