He must have heard only pain. He was off her in an instant, sitting back on his heels and frowning down at her underwear. He frowned some more, more deeply, as if they offended him. Before she could puzzle it out, his hand was on her. Not in a sexual way necessarily, more like he was putting pressure on a wound. He rested his entire palm, warm and large, on the front of her panties, obscuring them from view entirely. She liked the look of his hand on her like that, the presumption of it.

She wanted to do the same to him, but all she could reach, given that he was, unintentionally or not, pinning her to the bed, was his torso. So she did it with her voice. Issued an order. “Take them off.”

He smiled and pulled them down as she lifted her hips. He returned his hand to the same spot. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“Are you sure?” He slid his hand down so the meaty part of his palm rested over the thatch of curls between her legs. He made little circles, as if soothing her, watching her like a hawk the whole time.

He was putting pressure on her clit, but indirectly, by dint of the weight of his palm. It felt good. She wanted more. She let her legs fall open, and he sucked in a breath as his gaze whipped down from her face.

She had done some overdue grooming in advance of her failed Tinder dates, she supposed because each time, she’d deluded herself into thinking she was going to actually do the deed. And she had fretted every time. She had been out of the dating pool for so long. Should she take off more? What was normal? What was expected? What was alluring?

She had no worries about that now. None.

Max had shifted his hand a little but hadn’t changed its angle. It was perfect—or almost perfect. Opening her legs had exposed her clit, and she wiggled her hips around until—oh. The perfect amount of pressure. He started to move his hand, and she shot hers out and clamped it down on his even as she rolled her hips, rocking against the base of his palm.

He got the message and pressed a little harder, causing a sharp, involuntary inhalation. She’d had hand jobs in her life, but they had always involved fingers. But there was something about the firm yet diffuse pressure of the edge of his palm that was working for her.

Well, come on, there was something about Max that was working for her. Her beautiful friend she trusted absolutely.

It didn’t hurt that, as he used to joke, he was very good at this. He kept up the pressure, moving his hand in tiny circles as he stared at her, the blue flames burning high.