What the hell was he supposed to do? Flip around and wave his hands in the air?
What was the universal sign for Bad touch, make it stop or you’ll see a grown man cry?
He bit back a curse when her fist dug into his ass and twisted, then he nearly leaped off the table when her elbow replaced her fist, right underneath his ass cheek.
Five minutes went by. Then ten.
He counted. It was the only way to keep himself from strangling the woman or making a run for it—naked—down the hall.
Finally, the woman removed her hands and slid the sheet away from his leg, tucking it suspiciously close to his junk—again. His treacherous body perversely seemed to respond to her abuse, since he had a hell of a time keeping his dick from leaping into her hands. What the hell? She ran her hands down his thigh muscle and then dug into his calf.
Minutes whizzed by, and suddenly he was getting tapped on the shoulder.
“Huh?” He pressed his palms to his eyes and rubbed, then blinked, then rubbed again. She held the sheet up high like she wanted him to turn over but he still couldn’t see her face, not that it was important that he put a face to the woman who’d copped a feel and nearly killed him.
With a grunt, Brant flipped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling as a flash of dark hair entered his line of vision and then a hot towel was placed over his eyes. It smelled like lavender.
She worked out every knot in his hands, every single muscle strain in his arms. When the door clicked shut behind her, he jolted awake, feeling as if he’d just been taken advantage of, but in the best way possible. A little violence, a little pain, a lot of ass touching, and apparently a raging hard-on.
Huh. So her hands got him that turned on? Interesting. Maybe she was single? With a groan, he moved to a sitting position, an uncomfortable sitting position, and froze.
The air—he could have sworn he smelled her.
Damn it. Brant’s mind always had a way of playing tricks on him. How many times had he woken up from a drunken stupor to smell her against his pillow? Even though she’d been gone for years?
You’d think after a few years the vision of her would fade, the feel of her, the scent of her. If anything, his memories of her were stronger than ever.
He gripped himself in his hand and let out a moan.
Jet-black hair.
Red lips.
Dimples.
Soft laughter.
He pumped harder.
I have everything.
I’ve lost everything.
“Fuck.” Rage replaced every lust-filled thought, and then shame. Shame that he’d left, shame that she’d let him, shame that he’d had it all—and allowed it to slip through his fingers.
Brant slammed his hand down on the bed and stood on shaky legs.
Bikini wax, Grandma Nadine, Grandfather Naked. He looked down. Problem almost solved. With an exhausted yawn he reached for his clothes and slowly put them back on, then made his way to the door only to backtrack, pull a hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket, and drop it on the table. The least he could do was tip, right?
For some reason he was lingering. He inhaled. Exhaled. Closed his eyes, and tried to even his breathing. It was just a massage, and this? This was just another job.
His eyes flashed open. He glanced around the small room and slowly took stock of the candles, the oils that weren’t labeled. His eyes zeroed in on the table; dust had collected across the wood grain.
Frowning, he ran a finger across the table, and it came back dirty.
He immediately grabbed his cell, took a few pictures and wrote down a few notes, then jerked open the door.
Room five.
Best massage of his life or not—the woman clearly didn’t understand how important it was to have a work space that adequately represented a luxury hotel, and it was his job to make sure she did.
And if she refused to listen, he’d just fire her.
Chapter Six
Nikki took a giant gulp of water and sat down in the empty break room, then ate the rest of her pasta in glorious silence. No soft classical music, and no tempting man with muscles made for sin bulging beneath her fingertips.
She’d touched his hips twice, both times accidently brushing against—well, it clearly wasn’t his cell phone!
At first, she’d been pissed that he’d reacted that way to her touch.
But that feeling lasted for maybe two minutes—was it a simple chemical reaction, or was he thinking of her? Did her touch do something to him?
She shivered, a whole lot more turned on than she had a right to be. Damn it, she was a professional!
If she closed her eyes she could still feel his muscles beneath her fingers. Every inch of him was hard—every inch.
It had happened before, men getting aroused during the massage, but she’d always attributed it to blood flow. This felt different.