Sighing heavily, he presses his forehead to my knee. Then he brings his hand gently to my thigh and slides it up to my hip, then back down. “This is cruel.” “Does it hurt?” I ask. “Yes,” he groans. “So bad.” I pause. “I can stop.” “Not the massage,” he mutters. “This.” He squeezes my thigh. “It’s so close to being exactly what I want.” My cheeks heat as I laugh quietly. “I think the muscle relaxer has relaxed your tongue, too.” “Mhmm,” he says, nuzzling the inside of my thigh. “It has. And my tongue doesn’t want to be relaxed. It wants to be busy.”
