Something isn’t right.
When I’ve done this for Tom, for the boyfriends before Tom, hell, even the one time I did this for Susan, they all moaned. Groaned. Hummed with pleasure. Praised me. Begged me. Bree, on the other hand, no, not so much.
I grunt with exertion as I try to work her muscles. She’s so stiff that that I’m almost afraid that I’ll break her in two. I get more massage oil and dribble it on her back; it elicits the first sound she’s made since this started – a shocked gasp.
“Um. Yes.” Her voice is trembling, and the tension in her body only gets worse.
“It’ll warm up in a minute.”
“Problems with Rex?”
“No. Everything’s fine.”
It’s sort of cute, I guess, the way she thinks she’s still fooling all of us. I dig my thumbs into that spot that usually makes Tom turn to jelly.
Nothing. Perhaps I’ve lost my touch.
“This isn’t helping any, is it?”
“It’s fine,” she says, in the same tone the babysitter uses when I ask if the kids were any trouble before I pay her. “You’re right; this is absolutely helping with my back pain. I am so glad that I agreed to this instead of going to the chiropractor.”
“You’re a horrible liar, you know that?” I move a bit lower, past her ribs, to the small of her back, and she squirms. Uncomfortably. I head north again, my hands caressing her in smooth, fluid motions. The strap of the bathing suit that she insisted on wearing keeps getting in my way, so I undo the clasp.
“Lynette!” She rolls away from me, off the bed, grabbing the nearby towel and holding it to her chest. I wipe my hands on my pants as I sigh.
“Bree, if something’s wrong, you can tell me.”
“I like it when you do this,” she blurts out.
“Well. That's good."
She shakes her head as she fixes her suit. “You don’t understand.”
“Bree.” I reach for her, but she slips away, dashing out the door. “This is your house!”
Ah, well, she’ll figure it out.
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