Her arm slips, and her elbow digs hard into tight muscle. I grunt, and she gasps.

“I’m so sorry!” And then her palm is on my ass, kneading the spot, and my dick once again thinks it should be next on the massage list.

After that she doesn’t give me any more advice or ask questions apart from whether the pressure is okay. By the time she’s done with my legs and my ass, I have the most insane hard-on. The top of my dick feels like it’s going to pop off.

She moves away from the lower half of my body after she covers it, and settles a palm in the middle of my back. “Lance?”

I grunt out a yeah.

“If you’d like to turn over, I can work on your quads.”

“No!” I don’t mean for it to come out so aggressively, but there is no way I’m turning over so she can get a load of my hard-on. “I mean, that’s okay. I’m good.”

“You still have another ten minutes. I could work on your neck and shoulders, if you’d like.”

“Do I have to turn over?”

“It would be easier.”

“But you can work on my neck like this?” Beyond not wanting her to see my problem, I don’t think looking at her face is going to help my situation. I might not have been paying close attention when she brought me in here, but she’s a natural redhead, and I have a serious weakness for them. They remind me of the good things about Scotland. And their personalities tend to be fiery like their hair, although I’m not so sure Poppy fits that mold. Either way, propositioning my massage therapist seems like something I’d definitely do, and certainly shouldn’t. Especially when having her touch me feels so damn good.

“If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Her fingertips trail a line up my spine through the sheet. At this point it feels like all contact is directly connected to my cock. It twitches between the table and my stomach. I fully expect the neck massage to help calm the issue below, because she’s no longer near that part of my body, but it doesn’t. Instead I get harder—if that’s even possible. I try to stay focused on something other than my goddamn hard-on, but it sure isn’t easy.

I’m almost glad when it’s over. Almost. And then the moment she finishes, I realize that unless I schedule another massage with her, she’s never going to put her hands on me again. Weird panic accompanies that thought.

“Take your time getting up. I’ll be waiting for you in reception.” The door clicks quietly behind her.

I flip over and throw off the sheet. My erection stands straight up. I wait a full two minutes after she leaves the room for my hard-on to deflate. While I’m waiting, I send a message to Balls to let him know I’m done.

Our next stop will be the impound lot where my Hummer is waiting to be picked up, and once I get home, I’m thinking I need a nap. For two days. But first I’ll have to rub one out or the ache in my balls is going to be unbearable.

My hard-on shows no signs of giving up, like it thinks Poppy’s coming back for a happy ending.

I’m almost positive I could make it happen in less than a minute, but that’s sketchy, even for me. Instead I get dressed. I’m fumbly and uncoordinated. I end up having to sit on the chair to get my sweats back on.

As I’m tucking the head into my waistband so it’s not too obvious that I’m sporting wood, I notice the wet spot on the sheets where my cock has been weeping tears of sadness over not being touched. For fuck’s sake. It’s like I’m a damn teenager.

I bunch the top sheet over to hide it.

I feel groggy and out of it as I adjust my baseball cap and prepare to leave, and I don’t think it’s just because most of my blood flow has been redirected to my cock. I move toward the reception area, rolling my head on my shoulders. I’m a lot less tense than I was when I walked in an hour ago—except for my dick.

Poppy’s standing at the desk, talking to the chick behind it. I take the opportunity to check her out, and my hard-on starts crying again. She’s short. Maybe five three or five four, tops.

She’s soft around the edges, nice and curvy. Her black yoga pants hug her ass. I can see her panty line. She’s rocking those boy short things.

Her strawberry blond hair is pulled up in a wavy ponytail, the end of which kisses the space between her shoulder blades. For some reason I have the urge to tug on the end as I approach her. I shove my hands in my pockets so I don’t. I also readjust my hard-on. I wish I had my Hummer, because I need to get my ass home so I can resolve my problem.

Poppy and the receptionist are whispering away when I reach the desk.

“Hey.”

She jumps and spins around, fumbling her clipboard. I catch it before it can hit the ground.

“Wow. You have amazing reflexes,” the receptionist says.

“That’s why they have me on defense.” I wink reflexively and turn to Poppy. The tips of her ears have gone pink, along with her cheeks. “Thanks for fixing me.”

She smiles, but avoids making eye contact. “It would probably be a good idea for you to schedule a follow-up appointment with your regular massage therapist for later in the week.”

“I don’t have a regular massage therapist.”

This time when she looks up she meets my gaze briefly. “But your team must have someone.”

We do, but now that I’ve had Poppy’s hands all over me, I kind of want them again.