My massage therapist is a ginger. A strawberry blonde. A redhead. A real one. Like me. Even though I’m lying facedown on the table, I can envision all that long, pretty hair hanging down her back, her sweet body and perfect round ass hugged by black yoga pants. She’s wearing running shoes—I can see them right now through the hole in the face holder—and her feet are small.

I didn’t get a chance to study her face all that well, since I’m busy freaking out about this whole situation. She looks familiar, though. But that’s often the way it is with redheads. We’re all a little familiar-looking to each other, because we’re such a rarity.

I’d been ready to tolerate the physical discomfort of having her hands on me for a prolonged period of time, but my anticipated reaction never comes. I’m tense as her palms and fingers move down my back, because that’s a conditioned response when someone of the opposite sex makes skin-to-skin contact, but the sensation I usually associate with it is absent.

Instead of feeling like there are bugs crawling under and over my skin, all I feel is warm. Warm skin. Warm hands. Warm. And that sensation radiates through me, shooting through my veins and jump-starting my adrenaline. A wave of goose bumps flashes across my skin, and I have to work to suppress a full-body shudder. What the fuck is that about?

“Are you cold? Should I get the heating pad for you?” she asks.

Even her voice is familiar and warm. I feel like I’m being wrapped in it.

“I’m fine.”

I’m actually not fine at all. I don’t know how to deal with this new development, especially while all I can do is lie here and take it.

“If you get cold, let me know.”

“Sure.”

She smoothes her palms down my back and back up again. And then her touch is gone. I’m about to express my displeasure at this when her hands return. This time they’re slick. She starts circular motions up and down my back—a light touch that I want more of. Which freaks me the fuck out, because I never want hands on me.

Not even when I was with Tash. I tolerated her touch because it was expected, but I never liked it. It never felt good—not like this.

I honestly don’t see how this girl can be effective, considering she has to be a foot shorter than me, but she’s strong—like, crazy strong. When she hits a knot, and there are loads of them, she runs her forearm over it, repeating the motion several times. She moves on to my shoulder, and I groan. The aches there are worse; maybe because I deflected a bunch of punches.

“Is that too much?” She pauses, but she doesn’t lift her palm from my skin. I’m starting to feel high from the contact.

“It’s just sore,” I grumble. “You can keep going.”

“If the pressure is too intense, let me know and I’ll ease up.”

I don’t say anything unless she asks me a direct question. I’m too busy focusing on the feel of her hands and how it should be unpleasant but isn’t.

Eventually she moves down to my lower back, which is really sore, probably from landing on the table. I don’t know how long it’s going to take for those aches to go away, but I’m going to need a lot more painkillers over the next couple of days to take the edge off.

“Would you like me to massage your legs?” she asks as she pulls the sheet up over me again.

I don’t want her to stop touching me, and if she’s done on my back I guess it makes sense to hit the lower half of my body. “Uh, sure.”

“Would you like me to include your glutes?”

It takes me a second to understand the question. “You mean massage my ass?”

I hear a puff of breath leave her; it sounds a little like a laugh. She clears her throat before she answers. “It’s a fairly common area for athletes, especially hockey players because of the high level of muscle strain and use.”

When she puts it that way, it sounds much less like she wants to feel my ass up, and more like she’s trying to do her job.

“Right. Sure.” If her hands feel good everywhere else, I’m sure they’ll feel just as great on my ass.

She rearranges the sheets, exposing one of my legs, and runs her hands down the entire length. It’s a strange sensation. I think the only place I’ve ever been touched on my leg is my thigh—when a bunny is getting ready to ask me if I want to go somewhere private so we can stop talking and start fucking.

Based on my body’s reaction, it seems like my dick thinks it’s the next thing Poppy’s going to massage. That reaction wanes when she gets to my IT band, which kills as she uses what feels like her shoulder to dig in.

“Does your trainer encourage any of you to do yoga?” she asks.

“No, why?”

“It might help with this.” She runs her forearm across the outside of my thigh, and I hiss.

“I don’t think yoga’s my thing.”

“Maybe not, but more stretching could be helpful. I can give you some exercises to do at home, if you want.” Her hands smooth down the back of my leg again.

“You could, but I probably won’t do them.”

She laughs. It’s a pretty sound. “At least you’re honest.” She starts working on my ass, which isn’t nearly as sexual as I expected. It actually hurts a lot.

“At the very least you should try to soak in an Epsom salts bath for a good twenty minutes after this.”

“I have a hot tub; will that work?” I get this odd feeling, like this isn’t the first time I’ve had this conversation with her. But that doesn’t make sense at all.