Read Sweet Release (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance) for Free Online

place. Not similar to Frampton Heights, I mean but, you know… money, and status and claustrophobia. Like I had to be one thing, and if I was anything else no one really understood—like I was some ignorant guy who didn’t understand how the world worked when I just didn’t like the way it worked.”
     
    Funny. You see guys like Mike and you just assume they’re hard, through and through. And maybe Mike was hard—he certainly felt it on the surface—but deep down we were more alike than I’d imagined.
     
    We chatted a little more, inconsequential stuff, shop talk, what I was doing to his muscles and why; eventually, I was done with the back of his body, and asked him to roll over.
     
    “Okay, boss,” he said, and flipped himself over while I suspended the sheet to keep him from pulling it off the table.
     
    When I lowered the sheet onto him, it clung to his body, damp with sweat. I tried to ignore the mound of his groin. He wasn’t hard, or anything, but somehow that just made it all the more intriguing. It was still considerable, and hard to miss. Focus; eyes front.
     
    I focused on his upper chest, and then his arms, and then there was still time on the clock so I worked his abs. He twitched when I touched him there, and he was washboard flat and toned; slick with sweat that hadn’t quite been wicked away entirely by the bottom sheet. I worked my way down into the lower abdominals, following lines of tension that really were there, but took me dangerously close to that sleeping monster.
     
    When I’d gone as far as I reasonably could, I switched to his quads. The tendons of his inner thigh stood out, pulled taut by the bunched muscles around his knee. So I picked his knee up to get a bend in his leg. “Gonna stretch right through here,” I ran a finger down his inner thigh. “Tell me if I push you too far.”
     
    “Will do,” he said quietly.
     
    I rotated his leg toward me, pressing the blade of my hand against his inner thigh as I did until I felt that tendon stand out like a rope under his skin. Not a lot of flexibility there just now, but I leaned into it a bit and waited until the muscle started to release. My hand sank a bit further in, and I moved it a hand-width up his thigh to press on the next portion.
     
    He breathed hard, but just gave me a nod when I asked if he was okay. So I kept going, pushing the stretch a little more, moving my hand up by inches at a time.
     
    It wasn’t that I meant to go where I shouldn’t have. Not consciously, anyway. The muscle in his groin really was tense, and intractable, and so I leaned into it and made long, slow circles with the heel of my hand to get it to let go.
     
    It just so happened that this particular spot was, I guess, for Mike… sort of a hot spot. That wasn’t uncommon—it was for me, too—but you can’t argue with anatomy; there were muscles and nerves all in the same place and they were going to cause problems for him if they stayed that tight.
     
    Mike gave a little grunt. Not the kind that said I was going to deep. It felt good. Really good. And I could have stopped… but I didn’t. I got a flush of mischievous amusement, and pressed deeper; rubbed slower. The leviathan under the sheet stirred, started to wake and swell.
     
    Mike was breathing hard. He swallowed, loud enough that I could hear it. “Jeez,” he whispered. “Sorry.”
     
    “It happens,” I said. “Just ignore it.”
     
    He didn’t answer. I gave him one more round, and on the last long, stretching stroke against his tendon I let my hand slip just a little too far. My fingers grazed him, and his cock stood straight up before it finally fell back against his stomach—not entirely, but not pointing at my face.
     
    “That’s, uh, probably good for today,” Mike said nervously. “Maybe we better ease me into it.”
     
    I repositioned his leg on the table, and nodded slowly, more to myself than to him—his eyes were still closed. Probably to ashamed