The Unhoneymooners Read online

  • • •

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE HE FLIPPED us off before his buddy shot us,” Ethan growls. “Smug little shit.”

  We’re in the relaxation room of the hotel spa, waiting to be called back, and dressed in matching white robes. We are both so sore we didn’t even balk when we remembered what the couple part of a couple’s massage entails: being naked and oiled up in the same room together.

  The door opens and a smiling dark-haired woman walks in. We follow her down a long, dimly lit hall to an even darker room. A sunken hot tub bubbles in the center; steam rises invitingly.

  Ethan and I make eye contact and then immediately look away. I clutch at my robe, aware that I’m not wearing anything underneath. I thought we’d head straight for the massage tables, enduring only a few quick moments of awkward maneuvering while we slipped under our respective sheets.

  “I thought we were just scheduled for massages?” I say.

  “Your package comes with time in the whirlpool for a presoak, and then your therapists will meet you.” Her voice is feathery and calm. “Is there anything else I can get you, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas?”

  Instinct has me opening my mouth to correct her, but Ethan swoops in.

  “I think we’re good,” he says, and smiles his megawatt smile. “Thank you.”

  “Enjoy.” She bows, and then quietly closes the door behind her.

  The hot tub gurgles between us.

  His smile slips away and he looks up at me, grim. “I’m not wearing anything under here,” Gesturing to the ties of his robe, he adds, “I assume you’re equally—”

  “Yep.”

  He considers the steaming water, and his longing is nearly palpable. “Look,” he says, at length. “Do what you’ve got to do, but I can hardly walk. I’m getting in.”

  The words are barely out before he tugs at the tie and I get a flash of bare chest. Turning abruptly, I’m suddenly very interested in the table of snacks and bottled waters against the wall. There’s some shuffling and the sound of fabric falling to the ground before he moans, deep and low, “Holy shiiiiiiit.” The sound is like a tuning fork, and a shiver rockets through my body. “Olivier, you have to get in.”

  I pick up a little cup of dried fruit, take a nibble. “I’m good.”

  “We’re both adults here, and you can’t even see anything. Look.”

  I turn and reluctantly glance over my shoulder. He’s right, the bubbling water reaches just below his shoulders, but it’s still a problem. Who knew I had such a thing for collarbones? His mouth tugs up into a smile and he leans back, stretching his arms across the sides and sighing dramatically. “God, this feels amazing.”

  Every one of my bruises and sore muscles practically whimpers in reply. The steam is like a set of fingers luring me in. Bubbles, jets, and the subtle scent of lavender everywhere.

  Naked collarbones.

  “Fine,” I say, “but close your eyes.” He does, but I bet he can still peek. “And cover them, too.” He cups his palm across his eyes, grinning. “With both hands.”

  Once he’s sufficiently blinded, I wrestle out of my robe. “When I signed up for this honeymoon, I had no idea it would involve so much nudity.”

  Ethan laughs from behind his hands, and I dip my foot into the water. Warmth engulfs me—it’s almost too hot—and I hiss as I sink deeper into the water. It feels unreal, the heat and bubbles all along my skin.

  I let out a shaky breath. “Oh God, this feels so good.”

  His back straightens.

  “You can look. I’m decent,” I say.

  He lowers his hands, expression wary. “That’s debatable.”

  Jets pulse against my shoulders and the bottoms of my feet. My head lolls to the side. “This feels so good, I don’t even care what you say.”

  “Well then, I wish I had the energy to say something really bright.”

  I snort out a laugh. I feel drunk. “I am so glad I’m allergic to shellfish.”

  Ethan sinks lower into the water. “I know we’re paying the price, but did you have fun today?”

  Maybe it’s the fact that the hot water has left me more Jell-O than sore muscles and bruises, but I actually did. “Even considering I had to throw away my favorite tennis shoes and can barely sit? Yeah, I did. You?”

  “I did. Actually, aside from the whole Sophie thing, this vacation hasn’t been completely terrible.”

  I peek at him through one eye. “Whoa, easy on the flattery.”

  “You know what I mean. I thought I’d hang by myself at the pool, eat too much, and head home with a tan. I thought I’d tolerate you.”

  “I feel like I should be offended by that, but . . . same, really.”

  “Which is why it’s so crazy to be here.” Ethan motions around us before stretching to reach a pair of bottled waters on the ledge of the tub. My eyes follow the movement, the way the muscles of his back bunch and then lengthen, the way droplets of water roll off his skin. So much skin. “God, your sister would freak if she could see us now.”

  I blink back to attention, reaching for the bottle he hands me. “My sister?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My sister thinks you’re cool.”

  “She . . . really?”

  “Yeah. She hates all the trips you and Dane go on, but she doesn’t get my Ethan hate.”

  “Huh,” he says, considering this.

  “But don’t worry, I’m not going to tell her I’ve enjoyed small snippets of your company. A smug Ami is the worst Ami.”

  “You don’t think she’ll be able to tell? Don’t you guys have some kind of twin telepathy or something?”

  I laugh as I twist open my water. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no.”

  “What’s it like having a twin?”

  “What’s it’s like not having a twin?” I reply, and he laughs.

  “Touché.”

  Ethan must be warm because he slides back a little before moving to a different bench inside the hot tub, one that’s a little higher and leaves more skin exposed to the air.

  The problem, you see, is that it also leaves more skin exposed to me.

  A lot more.

  I see shoulders, collarbones, chest . . . and when he reaches up to push his hair off his forehead, I’m shown several inches of abs below his nipples.

  “Have you guys always been so . . .” He trails off, waving a lazy hand like I know what he’s asking.

  And I do. “Different? Yeah. According to my mom, since we were babies. Which is good, because trying to keep up with Ami would have driven me insane by now.”

  “She’s definitely a lot. Is it weird now that she’s married?”

  “It’s been different since she met Dane, but that was bound to happen, you know? Ami’s life is plugging along like it’s supposed to. I’m the one who stalled out somewhere.”

  “But that’s all about to change. That’s got to be exciting.”

  “It is.” It’s strange to be talking about this stuff with Ethan, but his questions seem genuine, his interest sincere. He makes me want to talk, to ask questions. “You know, I don’t think I know what you do for a living. Something with math? You showed up to Ami’s birthday party in a suit and tie, but I just assumed you’d evicted some orphans or put small mom-and-pop shops out of business.”

  Ethan rolls his eyes. “I’m a digital identification planner for a research company.”

  “That sounds made up. Like in Father of the Bride when she tells Steve Martin that her fiancé is an independent communications consultant, and he says that’s code for ‘unemployed.’ ”

  He laughs over the top of his water bottle. “We can’t all have jobs as self-explanatory as ‘drug dealer.’ ”

  “Har, har.”

  “Specifically,” he says, “I specialize in budgetary analysis and breakdown,
but in simple terms I tell my company how much each of our clients should spend on digital advertising.”

  “Is that fancy for ‘Boost this Facebook post! Put that much on Twitter!’?”

  “Yes, Olive” he says dryly. “That’s often what it is. Mostly, you’re right, it’s a lot of math.”

  I scrunch up my face. “Hard pass.”

  He lets loose a shy smile that rattles my bones. “Honestly? I’ve always loved geeking out about numbers and data, but this is next level.”

  “And you seriously dig it?”

  He shrugs, lifting a distractingly muscular shoulder. “I always wanted a job where I could just play around with numbers all day, looking at them in different ways, try to crack algorithms and anticipate patterns—this job lets me do all of that. I know it sounds super geeky, but I genuinely enjoy it.”

  Huh. My job has always just been a job. I love talking science, but I don’t always love the sales aspect of the position. Basically, I tolerate it because it’s what I’ve been trained to do and I’m good at it. But Ethan talking about his job is surprisingly hot. Or maybe it’s just the water, which continues to bubble between us. The heat is making me drowsy, slightly light-headed.

  Careful to keep the boobage below the surface, I reach for a towel. “I feel like I’m melting,” I say.

  Ethan hums in agreement. “I’ll get out first and let the therapists know we’re ready.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He uses his finger to indicate that I should turn around. “Not that we haven’t seen everything already,” he says. I hear him drying off, and the image of it does weird, electric things to my body. “The Bathroom of Doom sort of took care of that.”

  “I feel like I should apologize,” I say. “You did throw up directly afterward.”

  He laughs quietly, under his breath. “As if that would be my reaction to seeing you naked, Olive.”

  The door opens and closes again. When I turn to ask him what he meant, he’s gone.

  • • •

  ETHAN DOESN’T COME BACK TO get me, and as soon as Diana, our new massage therapist, leads me down to the couples’ massage room, I see why. He seems to be frozen in horror, staring at the massage table.

  “What’s with you?” I ask out of the corner of my mouth as Diana walks across the room to dim the lights.

  “Do you see two tables in here?” he whispers back.

  I look back and don’t get what he’s saying until— Oh. “Wait,” I say, looking up at him. “I thought we were each getting a massage?”

  Diana smiles calmly. “You will, of course. But since I’ll be teaching you, and you’ll be practicing on each other, we can only do one at a time.”

  My head whips up to Ethan, and we share the exact same thought, I know it: Oh, hell no.

  Diana mistakes our terror for something else, because she laughs lightly, saying, “Don’t worry. Many couples are nervous when they come in, but I’ll show you some different techniques and then leave you to practice them, so you don’t feel like you’re being graded or supervised.”

  Is this a brothel? I want to ask, but of course don’t. Barely. Ethan stares bleakly at the table again.

  “Now,” Diana says, walking around the table to lift the sheet for one of us to climb under, “which of you would like to learn first, and which wants to receive the massage?”

  Ethan’s answering silence has to mean that he’s doing the same mental calculation I am: Do we have to stay?

  Particularly given his exit line about reacting to seeing me naked, I have no idea how this question shakes down in Ethan’s brain, but given my newfound fascination with his collarbones, chest hair, and abdominals, I’m actually tempted to go through with it. And I’m wondering whether it would be easier to receive a massage first so I don’t have to touch him and pretend to be unaffected. That said, one look at his enormous, strong hands and I’m not sure having those fingers oil-slicked and rubbing all over my naked back would be that much easier.

  “I’ll learn first,” I say, just as Ethan says, “I’ll massage her first.”

  Our wide eyes meet.

  “No,” I say, “you can climb in. I’ll, um, do the rubbing.”

  He laughs uncomfortably. “Seriously, it’s cool. I’ll massage first.”

  “I’m going to grab some towels,” Diana says gently, “and give you time to decide.”

  Once she’s gone, I turn to him. “Get in the sheets, Elmo.”

  “I’d really rather do the . . .” He mimes squeezing, like he’s going to honk my boobs.

  “I don’t think there will be any of that.”

  “No, I just mean—” He growls, wiping a hand down his face. “Just get on the table. I’ll turn around so you can slip in. Naked, or whatever.”

  It’s dim in here, but I can tell he’s blushing. “Are you—oh, my God, Ethan, are you worried about getting a boner on the table?”

  He lifts his chin, swallowing. It’s a good five seconds before he answers. “Actually, yeah.”

  And with that one single word, my heart gives an aching jab against my breastbone. His response was so honest and real that my throat becomes tight at the thought of teasing him.

  “Oh,” I say, and lick my lips. My mouth is suddenly so dry. I look over at the table and feel my skin grow a little clammy. “Okay. I’ll get in the sheets. Just—I mean, just don’t make fun of my body.”

  He goes totally silent, totally still, before whispering an impassioned “I would never do that.”

  “I mean, sure,” I say, feeling acutely the way my voice comes out a little strangled, “except when you have.”

  He opens his mouth to reply, brow furrowed in deep concern, but Diana returns with her stack of towels. Ethan huffs out an incredulous breath through his nose, and even when I look away, I can tell he’s trying to get my eyes back on his face. I’ve always appreciated my body—I even sort of like my new curves—but I don’t want to be in a position where I feel like anyone has to touch me and doesn’t want to.

  Then again, if I don’t trust him and don’t want him touching me, I could just tell Diana we aren’t up for this today.

  So why don’t I?

  Is the truth that I really, really want Ethan’s hands on me?

  And if he doesn’t want to, he can tell her himself, right?

  I look at him, searching for any sign that he’s uncomfortable, but his sweet blush is gone, and instead he wears a look of heated determination. Our eyes meet for one . . . two . . . three seconds, and then his gaze drops to my lips, to my neck, and down the entire length of my body. His brow quirks, lips part a little, and I catch how his breathing picks up. When he meets my eyes again, I hear what he’s trying to tell me: I like what I see.

  Flushed, I fumble with the tie of my robe; we’re supposed to be married, which means we’re supposed to know what the other looks like naked, and although we definitely got flashes in the bathroom on the boat, I’m not sure I’m ready for Ethan to get such a lingering, steady look when I drop the robe and hop up on the table. Thankfully, as Diana holds the sheet up and turns her face away to give me privacy, Ethan also makes a show of fiddling with his robe tie. Quickly, I drop my robe and scurry into the warm, soft cocoon.

  “We’ll start with you facedown,” she says in a gentle, soothing voice. “Ethan, come stand on this side of the table.”

  I roll onto my stomach as gracefully as I can, fitting my head into the foam face rest. I am shaking, excited, nervous, and so warm all over that the pleasure of the heated blankets has quickly worn off and I want to kick them to the floor.

  Diana is talking softly to Ethan, about how to fold back the sheet, laughing about how if we do this at home there’s no need for the same kind of modesty. He laughs, too; charming, breezy Ethan is back, and I admit it is easier like this, staring at the floor instead of making ey
e contact with the man I still hate but also suddenly want to fuck into a coma.

  I hear a pump, then the wet sound of oil on hands, Diana’s quiet “About this much,” and then, “I start here.”

  Her hands come over my shoulders, kneading gently at first and then with pressure. She talks through what she’s doing, explaining how to move away from the point of muscle insertion, spanning the length and shape of the muscle. She explains where to apply pressure, where to avoid tender places. I’m starting to unwind, to fall deeper into the mattress, and then she gives a gentle prompt: “Now you try.”

  More oil. A shifting of bodies beside the table, and a deep, shaking breath.

  And then the heat of Ethan’s hands comes over my back, following the path of Diana’s, and I am melting, biting my lips to keep a moan inside. His hands are huge, stronger even than hers—a professional—and when he reaches up with a gentle finger to sweep a strand of my hair off my neck, it feels like a kiss.

  “This okay?” he asks quietly.

  I swallow before speaking. “Yeah . . . It’s good.”

  I feel the way he pauses, and then works lower at her encouragement, shifting the sheet away to expose my lower back. Even with the awareness that Diana is standing beside him, I don’t think I’ve ever been this warm or this turned on. His hands stroke my skin, fingers kneading, slick and warm.

  “Now,” Diana says, “when you get to the backside, remember: push together, don’t spread.”

  I cough out an incredulous laugh into the face cradle, grabbing a fistful of the sheets. Beside me, with his hands hovering just above my tailbone, Ethan laughs under his breath. “Um. Noted.”

  Carefully, he folds the sheets down to my upper thighs. I’ve had massages before, so of course I’ve had my butt massaged by professionals . . . but I have never felt more exposed in my life than I do right now.

  Strangely, I don’t hate it.

  More oil, more slick sounds of hands rubbing together, and then those enormous hands come down on my backside, pressing the heels into the muscle, doing just as Diana instructs. Behind my closed lids, my eyes roll back in pleasure. Who knew a butt massage could be so awesome? It’s so good, in fact, that I forget to be self-conscious, and instead let out a near-moan, “Who knew you were so good at this?”