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He was built, like he’d been carved out of marble. “You want me to get your back?”

I knew I could say no. I was hyper-aware of every inch of his hands as they pressed against my body, the heat of his skin, the rough texture of his palms, the skilled pressuring of his fingers. I was red, hot and throbbing down there, and a big, jock senior was soaping up my ass. Unless you want the whole team to bombard you with whistling and clapping. He started soaping himself up casually, not a trace of insecurity, running the lather across his chest and down his arms with a casualness that made my skin crawl with envy—and something else I wasn’t ready to acknowledge. Then his touch shifted—just a bit firmer, more deliberate. My eyes shot open, maybe it was an accident, I thought.