I shed the robe, suddenly too aware of my nakedness, of his presence on the other side of the door. Candles filled the room with lavender and vanilla scents and danced flickering shadows over my skin. I laid on the table, pulling the sheet up to my chest, and then lowered myself until I was flat, my breasts tickled by the soft fabric, my head encased in a soft pillow. I closed my eyes and waited nervously for him to return.
Why was I nervous? Massages, once a foreign treat, had become commonplace in my new life of luxury. My body had been accustomed to strange hands, to men and women alike oiling up my body, to nudity a hairbreadth from gentle touches. I should be calm, relaxed, and ready for a treatment I have had fifty times before. But I wasn’t. I was tense. Jittery. Wet. Why the hell am I wet? The panicked question flitted through my mind at the same time as I heard him enter.
The sound of the door first. It opened, then soft steps, the pad of feet against carpet, a sound I had to strain to hear. When he spoke, I flinched, my nerves a bundle of live wires. “Do you have any sensitive areas? Or places you’d like me to focus on?” He spoke softly, the husky tone sending a shiver through my body.
Sensitive areas? A few. Places I’d like him to focus on? Yes, please. “No. Just a normal Swedish massage, please.” My voice behaved, coming out casually and unaffected, the right amount of offhand decorating its syllables.
“I understand. Mr. De Luca left very particular instructions,” he said the words with a hint of seduction, his sentence causing my eyes to open.
Particular instructions from Brad? That could be worrisome. His earlier threat echoed in my mind. Be careful what you wish for … I had wished, hopefully he hadn’t granted.
I let out a quiet breath. Willed my body to loosen, willed my tense muscles to stop telegraphing my stress. Why was this so difficult? Maybe I could blame it on the fact that we were in a bedroom instead of a spa. But more likely it was the tan Adonis whose hands were feeling a little too perfect. Mr. De Luca left very particular instructions. Trouble. I was definitely in trouble.
My nervousness melted a little with his movements, confident strokes of sensuality, attending to safe areas: my hands, forearms, and biceps. When he moved higher, I tensed; his hands kneaded me back to butter, his focus on my neck and shoulders. He slid his hands into my hair, used his fingers to massage and release tension. I exhaled, my lips parting slightly, and he traveled, a scent of candlewood and eucalyptus trailing behind him, and ended up at my feet, starting at my soles and working upward.
Ten minutes later I fully relaxed, still on my back, almost asleep, almost convinced that this was a standard service and not some fantasy come true, when his hands started their massage of my upper thighs. The sheet was tucked tightly around my body, and the flow of his hands over and around my thighs created a small puff of wind under the sheet, hitting my bare and waiting sex.
It was a reminder, suddenly alerting me that I was, in fact, naked, his hands inches away, nothing but air between them and me. He moved higher, his hands separating, one on each thigh, and he slid them upward, dipping slightly under the sheet before continuing-his hands on top of the sheet.
I breathed easier, having the sheet between us-a barricade of sorts, and one that should keep my sinful thoughts at bay. His hands traveled, two palms across my body and then, I lost my breath.
They moved, in practiced, perfect paths, skimming across my breasts, the sheet underneath his hands only an additional weapon in the game of seduction. My nipples responded, instantly hardening, every light sweep of his hands a throb to my lower half.
They swept, twin weapons of passion, down the sides of my stomach, the sheet dragging a little with them, hands moving back and forth, from breast to hip, a delicious sweep that moved a little lower with every pass, my pussy tightening in response, the thin sheet sticking to the moisture between my legs. I fought my pelvis, which, with each stroke of his hand, seemed to tip upward, trying to shorten the length and allow his fingers to reach my sex.
His hands slowed, his strokes shortened, and then, to my utter dismay, stopped.
“Ms. Campbell, if you could flip over, I will start on your back.” His voice was professionally calm, an embarrassment, since I was at the point of practically gasping with need.
Flip over? Are you fucking kidding me? “Sure. That’s fine.” Miraculously, I didn’t sound like a wanton slut, barely hanging on to her sanity. I sounded almost, practically, normal.
“Thank you, Ms. Campbell.”
I turned over carefully, and he repositioned the sheet, exposing my back.
“You’re so tense,” he whispered, running his hand down the scoop of my back, his hands fanning out along the curve of my ass.
Shocker. I tried to relax, letting out a breath that ended up sounding like a moan. A sexual moan. Fuck.
He massaged, slow circles along my spine before making long swipes of his hands from one side of my back to the other. Traveling up along my back, he moved closer and closer to the sensitive skin along the side of my breasts. He slowed his movements, his fingertips grazing the outer swells of my breasts, my breath hitching despite myself.
Oh my God. I was getting wetter. I was naked, underneath the cool sheet, and could feel the moisture pooling between my legs, threatening to drip from my shaved lips. This was so bad, and I did some kegels, trying desperately to stop my body from reacting to his touch.