I scrunch my eyes shut. There’s no way this guy has been through formal training. They would have taught him not to say things like get in there.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs.
His hands are on my shoulders, and I know what he means, but still. If I’m not allowed to moan, he’s not allowed to say I’m so tight.
“Feel free to vocalize,” he says.
“Very good work,” I say quickly. “Yes, I’m enjoying this massage exactly how it’s going, thank you.”
He chuckles and keeps working.
His fingers knead the muscles between my shoulders. Just when the pressure starts to become too much, he moves down. His hands on my spine are a revelation.
My whole body tingles with happiness. My skin feels like it’s glowing.
He moves back up to my shoulders, then my upper arms. When his long fingers wrap around my biceps, his hands feel bigger than ever.
Images of Luca come to mind. He’s fixing a bike, and there’s dark oil on his hands. He looks up when I walk in. I’m wearing a tight shirt and sexy black leather pants, like former good girl Sandy in the end of the movie Grease.
This is all happening in my imagination, where I don’t look at all ridiculous in my leather pants. Luca stands and crosses to the sink to wash his hands. I tell him not to bother washing up, because I can’t wait. And I want to feel dirty. So dirty.
“You look good,” he growls.
“Tell me about it, stud.”
His upper lip curling up, he grabs a loose rag and gives his palms a quick wipe as he walks toward me. His hands are magically clean. He reaches down and grabs my ass. My ass feels like a million bucks in my tight leather pants.
He groans near my ear, “Your ass feels like a million bucks.”
“I know.”
I jump up and wrap my legs around him. He catches me with perfect timing. We start kissing, and he carries me over to the wall. He keeps kissing me, but he’s also looking over at the calendar on the wall next to us.
I get mad at him for looking at one of his pin-up girls. He laughs and pulls the calendar off the wall to show me. It’s not some model, but a picture of me. I totally forgot how I hired a boudoir photographer and made that calendar for him!
He tosses the calendar aside and returns to kissing my lips and neck, all the while grinding into me against the wall. Magically, our pants disappear. The pants are gone. And then…
“Are you asleep?” a male voice asks.
My eyes fly open, taking in a limited view of the slate tile floor. I can see the massage guy’s feet. He’s wearing socks with sandals. Total turn-off.
“I think you were asleep just now,” he says.
I moan groggily. “Maybe I did drift off.”
“You sounded like you were having a good dream. You were moaning.”
I lift my head up to give him a stern look. “I dreamed I was eating pancakes.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, quirking his eyebrows. “I won’t tell your girlfriend.”
“She was in the dream, too.”
Grinning, he walks over to the sink and starts washing his hands. The massage is finished. “Let me know if you need anything else,” he says.
I shoo him away with one hand. “You’ve done more than enough, Mr. Big Hands,” I mutter under my breath.
After he leaves, I sit up and wait a minute for my sinuses to clear. Humans weren’t made to lie face-down.
I grab my robe and head to the changing room.
That was absolutely the best massage I’ve ever had in my life, but now I’m miserable.
I’m miserable because I can’t afford two hundred dollars to get touched like that every week. Even if I did have the money… yuck. Just yuck. Paying Mr. Big Hands to touch me is just wrong.
I get dressed, doing some mental math.
Technically, I could afford this about once a month, if I cut back on shopping.
Dressed again, I walk out to the cafe, where Rory is already seated for high tea.
“Your face is weird.” She pours me some cinnamon-scented tea.
I rub my forehead. “These lines will disappear after I drink some water. I’m probably dehydrated.”
“No, I mean you’ve got a goofy look on your face. It’s a look I haven’t seen in a long time.”
I use the silver tongs to transfer a tiny cucumber sandwich from the tray to my plate. “Okay,” I say, barely paying attention.
The food looks good, and I’m starving. I could eat a hundred of these tiny sandwiches. I could grab them by the fistful and stuff them all into my mouth, Godzilla style.
Rory leans in and whispers, “Did that massage guy… touch you?”
“Yes, Rory. That’s pretty much the definition of a massage. They have to touch you.”