Flawless (Chestnut Springs, #1)

by Elsie Silver

why are your hands so cold?” “Because it’s freezing outside, and I walked to get you all this, dumbass.” Her fingers

“Careful. Your dad told me to keep my hands off you.” “Yeah, well, he didn’t tell me to keep my hands off you.” A quiet, strangled noise lodges in my throat as her hands flutter over my skin. Somehow, that one sentence from her lips has all my blood rushing in a singular direction. And suddenly, things feel awkward. Altogether too quiet. Too personal. “Thank you,” I mutter, it’s so much easier to say without looking her in the eye. She rests her hand flat against my back for a few beats and quietly replies with, “You’re welcome.”

And then she’s slathering it over my shoulder, hands gliding against my skin with such tenderness that it doesn’t even hurt. She massages gently, and I let my eyes fall shut, my shoulders drooping when I didn’t even realize I had them tensed up.

“These muscles are hard as rocks,” she mutters with a thread of annoyance in her voice. Yeah, and so is something else. When her fingertips push up the line from the top of my shoulder into my neck, I groan.

“Is that the medical diagnosis? Fucked muscles?” I ask as she brushes my hair aside. Her responding laugh is quiet, but then her hands are on my neck, digits digging in at the base of my skull and pulling down, thumbs working hard. And when I groan this time, it’s in pleasure, not pain. I lean into her touch like a dog getting a scratch behind the ear. I hate seeing the tour doctor on the best of days, but after The Summer Treatment, I will definitely dread his thick, rough hands when I could have her careful, soft ones instead. My cock throbs between my legs, and I’m momentarily grateful for my loose sweatpants. At least she’ll never know.

And for a moment, I let myself imagine that she really likes this. Doting on me. Caring for me. Putting her hands on me. That it’s not just a job. That she isn’t just trying to prove herself in what I’m assuming is a brutally cutthroat industry. When she pulls away, I bite my tongue to stop myself from asking her to keep going.

I scrub at my beard, feeling a little embarrassed by her involvement here, but also relieved. Because I’m tired. Tired of hurting. Tired of knowing my body isn’t keeping up but pretending

The t-shirt falls over my body, and she gives me a forced closed-lip smile. She brushes my shoulder, as though there’s something there, and then quickly turns away. Almost like she can’t get away from me fast enough. And who could blame her? I’m sure dressing a grown-ass man wasn’t what she imagined for herself when she went through law school. “Thank you, Summer.” My voice comes out gravelly in my dry throat.

incredible tonight. You should be very proud of yourself.” She says it as she walks out, not looking me in the eye. Which is fine, because she’d see how much it bothers me that she’s just doing her job. Because it does bother me, and I can’t put my finger on why. The worst part is, it doesn’t bother me enough to stop me from limping over to the bathroom and fucking my hand while thinking about her cherry lips the minute she shuts the door.