Chapter 9 Lucy
Lucy
Oh God, his hands are magic.
Actual.
Magic.
The second his thumbs press into the arch of my foot, my head tips back like I’ve ascended to another plane of existence. It’s embarrassing how good this feels. I can’t stop the soft groan that slips out.
The moment the sound escapes, my eyes snap open in horror. Did I—?
Harris smirks without even looking up. That slow, knowing, infuriating smirk. “Good?” he asks, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.
“Sure,” I say quickly, trying to sound indifferent, but it comes out more like a squeak.
“Want me to stop?”
“No!” The word flies out of me like a reflex. I wince. Way too eager. Way too loud.
His smirk deepens, and I hate him. And by hate, I mean I want to crawl into his lap and—oh no. Nope. Stop that. Brain, behave.
“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, his thumbs finding a new spot on my arch that nearly has me sliding off the couch in bliss.
I grip the armrest like it’s a lifeline.
OhmyGod.
Oh. My. God.
“Relax,” he says, glancing up at me with those warm, teasing eyes.
“I am relaxed,” I lie, my voice trembling like a bad alibi as another shiver runs up my spine.
He raises an eyebrow like he knows I’m full of it. “If you say so.”
Then his hands shift, his fingers kneading beneath my toes, and I swear the earth tilts off its axis.
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, my head falling back against the couch as my whole body melts into a puddle. My brain is screaming at me to get it together, but my body? Oh no, my body is fully committed to this. This is heaven.
“You good?” His voice is laced with a cocky edge, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me—and he does.
He absolutely does.
“Fine,” I whisper, though it’s clear I’m anything but fine.
“Fine?” His thumb drags slowly along the ball of my foot, and a strangled whimper escapes me.
“Great!” I gasp, trying to sound composed and failing miserably.
“Amazing. Now can you stop talking for one second?” He chuckles, and the sound is low and rich, vibrating straight through me.
My eyes flutter shut. For a second, I let myself get lost in the rhythm of his touch—firm, deliberate, and way too intimate for something that’s supposed to be platonic.
Each press of his fingers sends warmth spiraling through my body, pooling in places I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about right now.
Focus. This is a foot rub. A totally normal, innocent—oh my God, What is he doing with his thumb?
A soft, involuntary sigh slips out before I can stop it.
“Enjoying yourself?” His voice cuts through the haze, and my eyes pop open to find him grinning at me like the insufferable jerk he is.
“Shut up,” I snap, sitting up straighter and pulling the blanket over my lap like it’ll somehow hide my embarrassment—or the ridiculous heat crawling up my neck.
He laughs, leaning back like he’s got all the time in the world, his hands still casually massaging my foot.
Damn him. Damn his stupid hands.
Strong. Calloused.
Big.
Oh no. My brain is wandering to places it should not go. Places like—stop it! This was supposed to be a relaxing movie night. Not whatever this is turning into.
And yet, as his fingers work their magic again, I can’t seem to move.
In fact, I might never leave.
But then his thumb does something—a slow, circular pressure under the ball of my foot—and I swear to God, my soul leaves my body for a moment. My head falls back against the couch, and this time, I can’t hold back the groan.
“Oh, wow,” Harris says, mischievously. “I didn’t realize I was that good.”
I slap at his arm blindly, heat flooding my face. “Stop teasing me.”
He catches my wrist easily, his grip warm and steady. “Teasing? I call it flirting.”
I start to protest again, but the words die in my throat when his fingers glide up to my calf, kneading the muscle there with the same infuriating expertise.
Oh no. Nope.
This is risky territory.
“Harris,” I warn, though it comes out far weaker than I intended.
“Hmm?” He looks up at me, all wide-eyed innocence, like he’s not fully aware of what he’s doing.
“You’re . . .” My brain is scrambling for words, but all coherent thought has left the building. “You’re making it worse.”
“Worse?” His grin turns downright devilish. “You mean better?”
“No! I mean—” I gasp as his hands move higher, his thumbs digging into the back of my knee.
This is fine. Totally fine. Except it’s absolutely not fine because now all I can think about is his hands on my thighs.
“If you want me to stop, you can say so,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather and not driving me to the brink of insanity. “I can stop at any time.”
“I—” The word catches in my throat because, let’s be honest, I don’t want him to stop.
Instead of answering, I pull the blanket up higher, covering my face completely. Maybe if I hide, this whole situation will reset itself. Maybe he’ll forget I exist and leave me to die of mortification in peace.
But of course he doesn’t. Instead, I hear his soft chuckle, followed by his hands returning to my foot, kneading away like this is another normal evening.
“Still good?” he teases, his voice warm and low.
“So good,” I moan despite myself. “I admit it—you’re ridiculously good at this. Happy now?”
Harris chuckles, low and smug. “I knew you’d come around.”
I don’t even have the energy to glare at him anymore. Every muscle in my body is dissolving under his touch, and honestly? I don’t care. Let him have this victory. Let him think he’s a foot-massage god.
He kind of is.
“This is dangerous, you know,” I say, my voice softer now, more playful. “You’re setting the bar way too high. What if I get addicted to this and demand a foot rub every time I see you?”
He glances up, his lips curling into that maddeningly cocky grin. “I don’t mind. As long as you keep making those noises.”
My cheeks flush, but this time, instead of shying away, I lean into it.
“Oh, so you like my noises?” I tease, arching an eyebrow at him.
“Maybe.” His hands slide up to my calf, his thumbs pressing firmly into the muscle. “Depends. Got any other good ones?”
A laugh escapes me, light and unguarded, and I let my head fall back against the couch, the tension finally melting away.
“Those hands are magic.” I finally say the words out loud that I’ve been thinking since his thumbs pressed into the pads of my feet, my teeth biting down on my lower lip. “I’d pay for this.”
Harris’s grin turns wicked, his thumbs still kneading my calf with maddening precision. “Oh, you’d pay for it, huh?”
“Absolutely,” I say, my voice teasing, but there’s a slightly breathless edge to it that I can’t quite hide. “You’ve got talent, Bennett. Don’t waste it on lumberjacking.”
He chuckles, the sound low and smooth, as his fingers glide down, tracing slow, deliberate circles over my ankle. “I think I like the idea of you owing me more than a paycheck.”
The way he says it—quiet and suggestive—sends a shiver skittering down my spine. My head tilts back again, and I let out a soft, contented sigh, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “Careful. I might start thinking this is foreplay.”
His hands pause for a heartbeat; then he laughs—a deep, rumbling laugh that makes my stomach flip.
“Who says it’s not?” he murmurs, his voice lower now, his hands moving again, slower this time, more deliberate.
I snap my head forward, meeting his eyes, and the look he gives me is so warm and full of amusement, I can’t tell if he’s actually joking or testing the waters.
My heart skips, and I decide to test him back. “Well, if it is . . .” I lean forward slightly, a playful smile tugging at my lips. “You’re doing a damn good job.”
His grin widens, but there’s something sharper in his expression now, something that makes my breath catch. He shifts closer, his knee brushing mine, and his hands slide back up my leg, stopping below my knee.
“Good to know,” he says softly, his thumbs pressing into my knee in a way that’s both innocent and completely not at the same time.
The air between us is thick.
Heavy with unspoken words.
His hands still, resting on my leg, his fingers warm against my skin, and when I glance up at him, his eyes are locked on mine.
His hands linger, his fingers curling slightly, the heat of his touch radiating through me. I can feel the weight of his gaze, steady and unwavering.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick, a quiet invitation rather than a demand.
I don’t say a word.
I won’t tell him to stop, because I do not want him to, even if I can’t say the words out loud.
My body betrays me, leaning slightly closer as if drawn to him by some invisible force.
His hands move, gliding up slowly, teasingly, until his palms rest above my knee. The pressure is firm but careful, his thumbs brushing lazy circles over my skin. It’s intimate, dangerously so, and I don’t want it to end.
“You’re quiet,” he says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “That’s not like you.”
“I’m thinking,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
“About?” His hands shift again, sliding a fraction higher, and I suck in a sharp breath.
“About how unfair this is.”
His brow arches, the smirk deepening. “Unfair?”
“Mm-hmm.” My lips curve into a slow smile as I lift my chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “You get to be the one in control, and I’m melting into the couch.”
Like butter.
Harris’s chuckle is quiet, warm, but there’s a flicker of something darker in his eyes now. “You like it.”
He’s not wrong.
Not even a little.
His hands inch higher, fingers skimming along the curve of my thigh, and every coherent thought I’ve ever had flies out the window. The tension between us crackles like a live wire, and I swear the air in the room feels heavier, charged.
“This okay?” he asks, his voice softer now, his touch still but present, his gaze searching mine.
Better than okay. I nod, throat too dry to speak.
My body responds as I shift a little closer, the space between us shrinking by the second.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a crooked grin, but there’s no teasing in his expression now—a quiet intensity that makes my heart race. His hands slide up again, slow and deliberate, until they rest on my upper thighs.
I tilt my head, my lips parting, and the faintest, most teasing smile tugs at my mouth. “So. Are you gonna kiss me, or are you gonna keep pretending this is all about a massage?”
His laughter is soft, a low rumble that makes my stomach flip, but his hands don’t move. “Maybe I’m waiting for you to ask.”
His challenge sends a spark shooting through me, and suddenly, I don’t feel like teasing anymore.
“Consider this me asking.”