Chapter 34 #2
Our server comes by and Matt orders an appetizer, four different curries—some with meat, some without—naan, and extra rice.
Cole
Watching TV. Grandma’s making me French toast and Bill’s cooking bacon. Did you see the Matterhorn?
Matt
Sure did. I’ll send you a pic.
A few seconds later, the picture Matt took earlier of the Matterhorn comes through.
Cole
Cool! Will you buy me something?
Matt
What do you want?
I lean back and fold my arms, watching him stare at his phone. He’s smiling, just faint enough that he probably doesn’t even realize it.
He glances at me. “Sorry, babe. I should put this away while we eat.”
I shake my head. “No, you shouldn’t. It’s Cole. Not work.”
Cole
Do they have cool jerseys there? And maybe some treats. But let Jordan pick those. You don’t like the good candy.
We both laugh and start typing our own responses.
His message comes through first, followed immediately by mine.
Matt
I’ll be on the hunt for a jersey. Candy’s Jordan’s department.
You got it, bud. I’ll find you the best candy in Switzerland.
Cole
“You two and your sweet tooth,” Matt mutters. “You won’t eat meat, donuts, or fried food, but you’ll devour an entire box of Milk Duds at the movies. Make it make sense.”
“It’s called balance. There’s a time and a place for indulgence. And the movie theater is that place for me.”
“Trust me, I know,” Matt says with a laugh. “I almost lost a hand last weekend.”
“Stop. I shared with you.”
“You gave me five.”
“Well, get your own.”
He laughs and shakes his head, eyes sparkling.
“You’d think you would have learned by now that I don’t share Milk Duds. It’s the one and only thing I’m selfish with.”
His gaze burns into mine as his laugh turns into a soft smile.
“Hmm,” he hums. “Some things never change.”
The server arrives with our food, and it’s enough to feed a family of seven.
“Oh my God,” I say. “This is insane.”
Matt flashes a grin. “Eat up, babe.”
After lunch, we spend the afternoon wandering Zermatt, then linger over dinner for hours with wine, laughter, and way too much eye contact. By the time we walk back into the room, my body is exhausted and my shoulders are killing me.
I change into sweatpants and a tank, then head straight from the bathroom to the balcony and crack the door a few inches.
“Babe, if you’re hot, just turn off the fireplace,” Matt says, moving toward it.
“No. Don’t turn it off. It’s cold. I just love the fresh mountain air,” I reply.
I reach across my chest and dig my fingers into my shoulder blade. I’m so mad at myself for falling asleep sitting up on the plane.
“You still hurting?” he asks, pulling his shirt over his head.
I try not to stare.
Immediate fail.
Matt’s body is a work of art, and I’ll never get over it.
When I was at boarding school in France, when things got too loud, I’d go to the Louvre and sit in the same room of oil paintings every time. I’d stare for hours at the same damn pictures, always noticing something new, falling in love all over again.
That’s how I feel when I look at him. I could stare for hours at the indentations of each muscle, the ink and intricate details of his tattoos, and every time it’ll feel like the first. Every time it sparks the need to stare, the urge to touch, the desire to feel his skin against mine.
It never gets old.
“Yeah,” I force myself to say. “It’s still really tight.”
“Why don’t you book a massage for the morning?” he asks, unbuttoning his pants.
“Really? I don’t want to ditch you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll go visit the site, work on my laptop. There’s always something I can do.”
He unzips. “Besides, I’ll be leaving you alone every day next week.”
The buzz from the wine settles in my head, making it suddenly feel heavy.
“That’s my point. I want to spend time with you here before you’re gone working every day.”
“Then lie down.” He gestures to the beds. “I’ll give you a massage. I’m no pro, but you’ve always said I was good at it.”
He pushes his pants down and steps out of them, draping them neatly over a hanger and placing them in the closet.
My brain stutters. “Why aren’t you changing in the bathroom like I did?”
“Because I love when you take that tone with me,” he quips with a grin. “Come on. We’re past that, aren’t we?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Oh, we’re past that? I remember you being very upset with me just for wearing my pajamas in front of you.”
“It’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m a guy.”
“Wow. Thank you for clearing that up. I had no idea.”
He huffs a laugh. “You know what I mean.”
He steps into a pair of joggers.
“What—you think I don’t get turned on like you do?”
He grins, walking toward me. “Nah. I know you do. It’s just not as obvious like it is with me.” He stops just shy of me, voice dropping. “But you’re not as subtle as you think, babe.” His eyes flick to the bed. “Lie down so I can get these knots out. Do you have massage oil?”
“I have coconut oil,” I say, heading back to the bathroom for my toiletry bag.
“Why am I not surprised?”
Thirty seconds later, I’m walking back to the bed with the jar in my hand. “I like to be prepared.”
I toss it to him, then lie on my stomach, shoving a couple pillows under my ribs so I’m not crushing my boobs into the mattress.
“But why coconut oil?” Matt straddles my hips, careful not to put his weight on me. “You’re not cooking.”
“I use it as lotion.” And because I’m still mildly irritated at him for changing in front of me, I add, “And lubricant.”
“Christ.”
That’s all he says. Then he tugs at the hem of my shirt. “What is this? Off. I can’t massage you with a shirt on.”
I turn my head. “I’m not taking my shirt off.”
“This isn’t sexual. I’m trying to help you.”
I sigh, and he shifts back so I can pull it over my head. I toss it aside.
Three seconds later, he unclasps my bra and pulls it loose.
I go still. “Matt. That was not part of the deal.”
“Relax.” His voice is calm. Too calm. “I’m not looking at you like that. Don’t know why you even care. A little side boob is nothing compared to what you wear to bed.”
“Whatever,” I mutter.
He opens the jar, and a second later his hands are on my back—sliding, warm, firm, kneading into the tension like he’s been doing this forever.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, relief crashing through me. “That feels so good.”
“See?” he murmurs. “Just relax. Enjoy, babe.”
My muscles loosen with each pass of his hands, my whole body melting into the mattress.
“You still want to do the five-lakes hike on Sunday?” he asks after a few minutes.
“As long as my neck feels better, I do.”
“The pressure’s on then.” He chuckles softly. “Do I still have it?”
“Do you still have what?”
His hands glide up and over my shoulders, catching on my bra straps.
“The magic touch.” He slips the straps down my arms. “Pull your arms out. It’s in the way.”
I do what I’m told because it feels too good to argue.
“Am I still good at it?” he asks again.
God, yes.
“Uh-huh,” I manage. “Really good.”
His fingertips trace down my arms, then return to my back, pressing deeper.
I’m in a trance. On a cloud.
“You talk to your pappoús yet?” he asks.
“No. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
His hands drag down my back to the base of my spine, thumbs dipping just past the waistband of my sweatpants before sliding outward, palms curving around my hips.
My pulse picks up.
“I don’t know what to say,” I admit. “Or how to fix it.”
He exhales. “It’s your pappoús. Grab lunch with him when we get back. He’ll understand.”
His fingers trail up my sides, lighter now. Barely there. Then his knuckles brush the sides of my breasts.
My entire stomach clenches.
It’s nothing, really. A graze. An accident.
Yet my body reacts like it’s never been touched before.
His palms flatten again at the top of my shoulder blades, and he presses his weight into the muscle.
The edge of his hand digs into my scapula and a sound slips out of me.
Oh, God.
A moan.
Fuck.
Matt lets out a low chuckle.
“Don’t,” I warn.
He laughs softly. “I didn’t do anything.”
And then he starts again. The same motions. The same pressure…
Only this time his thumbs dip lower.
His fingers spread wider.
And I swear to God my stomach falls from under me.
I try to think.
What were we talking about? What did he just say?
He shifts, one hand pulling back for half a second.
Is he… hard?
This has to be turning him on. It’s Matt.
He starts again—hands sliding, knuckles brushing, thumbs dipping.
His fingers wrap further around my hips.
Lower.
They graze the hem of my underwear, and a wave of heat rushes to the insides of my thighs.
The room goes still. Quiet.
Repeat.
He straightens his fingers when he reaches my breasts, letting the tips of them ghost over the sides. He hovers there, making delicate strokes, tiny circles, then traces a finger along the underside of my breast.
My breath catches.
And this is no longer friendly. It’s teetering the edge of something more. Something far too familiar and dangerous.
What am I supposed to do?
Pretend like it’s not turning me on?
Turn around and give in?
I want to.
God, I want to.
But then what?
Friends to marriage to sex to divorce—what the hell even is that?
I’m not mentally in a place where I can take the fallout. I can’t tie myself to him physically when I know there’s an expiration date. With no backup plan. No one else to warm my bed and take his place when he inevitably is gone.
His hands make their way down again, and he slides both palms into my sweats, cupping my cheeks.
My body moves before I can stop it, my ass lifting into him, that tingling sensation punching me in the gut.
Another moan slips out, and his chuckle skates along my spine, sending a chill over me.
I am so screwed.
My brain screams at me to stop this. My heart aches. But my body craves more of his touch.
His palms curl. His grip tightens.
My stomach dips.
His hands reach further, sneaking under the top of my underwear, anticipation building hot and fast.
I push into him harder, his firm cock pressing into me now.
I hold my breath as his fingertips inch closer and closer to where I’m begging for them.
He kneads tiny circles, closer. Slow. Deliberate. Tortuous.
I release my breath, a gasp slicing through the silence.
Just a little closer, I silently plead.
The thrumming between my thighs so strong it almost hurts.
Closer.
He reaches the top of my pubic bone, and a whimper spills out of me, desperate and mortifying.
He freezes.
No.
He pulls back, slow—painfully slow.
No. No. No.
The warmth of his skin slips further away from where I’m screaming for him to touch me.
And just like that, his hands are gone.
He leans forward, bare chest pressing into my back, his hard-on digging into me.
“That’s enough, babe.” His voice is rough, strained.
Then he sits up, gives my ass a light tap, and says, “Let’s get to bed,” like nothing ever happened.
I push up on my elbows and glare back at him. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
He swallows, jaw tightening, the muscles in his neck flexing.
“I know where your lines are, Jordan. Doesn’t mean I can’t stand close to them.” He lifts off me and stands, adjusting himself right in front of me without a shred of shame. “At least now you can stop pretending that you don’t want more.”
He smirks.
The bastard smirks. Like he knew what he was doing all along.
“It’s getting old,” he adds, before heading straight into the bathroom.
The shower turns on a moment later.
And I know exactly what he’s doing in there.