Free Crash Pad by Whitley Gray Page A

radiated from the palms rubbing along the bruised tendons and ligaments. With a slow, careful motion, Jamie’s foot was lowered to the table.
    Craig moved out of sight. “Okay, pal?”
    “Mmm. Yeah.”
    “Back in a second.” Curtain rings scraped.
    A few moments later, another squirt of lotion, then more forceful strokes—along both calves this time, working up to his knees and the backs of his thighs, then beneath the edge of his shorts to the curve of his butt.
    Whoa . Way above the call of duty for an injured ankle. As a massage therapist, Jamie had no illusions the attention had crossed from professional to personal. Doubtful the boss would approve. Craig really hadn’t seemed like a closet case.
    “Uh, Craig?”
    The hands moved from Jamie’s thighs to his shoulders. Fingertips massaged his scalp. Warm breath touched his ear.
    Oh, God, this was awkward. What should he say? “Hey. I can’t—”
    “I missed you.” The husky voice poured over him like sweet cream.
    Jamie froze. Not his therapist. Relief warred with anger. “Remy?”
    Lips nuzzled his ear.
    So not fair for Remy to arrange a secret assault here. Abruptly, Jamie rolled over, running out of tabletop. Strong hands grabbed him.
    “Hey, careful.” Consternation showed on Remy’s face. “You’ll hurt something else.”
    Yeah. Like my pride . Jamie sat up and shoved Remy’s hands away. “What are you doing here?”
    “You wouldn’t return my calls.”
    “Right. I don’t need a possessive jerk.”
    “Hey.” For a moment, Remy’s eyebrows drew down and he grimaced. “You’re right. I did act like a possessive jerk.”
    Not much to say to that. Jamie raised an eyebrow and waited.
    Remy reached out a hand, let it drop. “I’m sorry, Jamie. Truly.”
    And he did look sorry. Jamie pivoted and let his legs dangle off the side of the table. He hadn’t expected capitulation. “Apology accepted.”
    “Come home with me?”
    This was how they’d gotten balled up in the first place. “You don’t owe me, Remy. We’re even.”
    “Not because of this”—Remy gestured to Jamie’s ankle—“but because I want you there.”
    Jamie leaned back on the table, propping himself up on his hands. Outside the bedroom, they’d likely have a blowout over who was in charge within a day. Jamie wasn’t about to give up his newfound freedom away from Vince. He shook his head. “Remy…”
    Remy bracketed Jamie’s thighs on the table and leaned in. “The truth is, I need a private massage therapist,” he whispered. “For my…training needs.”
    In spite of himself, Jamie smiled. “Yeah?”
    “Absolutely.” Remy’s mouth brushed Jamie’s. “But it has to be someone really good.”
    “Mmm.” That featherlight contact sent tingles down Jamie’s spine. The softness gave way to a firmer kiss, warm and tasting of mint and Remy. How could Jamie give this up? Despite everything, this was good between them.
    “Know where I might find a massage therapist like that?” Remy’s lips stroked along Jamie’s jaw.
    Jamie moved his knees apart, and Remy stepped forward, the heat of his body warming the air between them. Jamie’s heart rate ramped up. How could he resist this slow seduction? “The massage therapist’s terms would require the client to let the therapist deal with his own problems.”
    The lips exploring his throat hesitated. “If that’s what it takes to get the right therapist for my needs, then yes.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah.” Remy’s hands cupped Jamie’s butt cheeks and pulled him forward, pressing their groins together. The hot hard length of him grazed Jamie’s cock. “In fact, I’m feeling the need for a massage coming on right now.”
    Jamie leaned back. No matter how appealing Remy was, no way would Jamie step back into a situation where he gave up control. “So I suppose you’d want the massage to be at your place.”
    “I’d like that.”
    Narrowing his eyes, Jamie said, “The therapist can’t live with you.