The Bachelor Contract(22)
The rest of the tour went better. If “better” included Brant and Cole not killing each other.
“All right.” Cole rubbed his hands together. “I think that’s it. I’ll see you later tonight at the masquerade cocktail reception. A mask will be brought to your room, and I believe that your tux has already been delivered.”
“Thanks.” Brant held out his hand.
Cole stared at it. Angry again.
“Seriously?” Brant exhaled.
Cole shook Brant’s hand. Hard. So hard that Brant was surprised his fingers didn’t make a popping noise.
“Where are we on that massage?” Brant asked.
They were standing in the spa lobby, with its choking incense and beauty products.
“Everyone’s booked,” Cole snapped.
“Oh! Actually…” said the receptionist, beaming at Brant.
“Annie,” Cole warned.
“What?” She shrugged. “We just had a cancellation for—”
“Great!” Cole yelled, running toward Brant like he was about to dive over a grenade. Was he sweating? “Why don’t I go back and check to see if she’s…” His eyes were darting back and forth over the computer monitor that he’d jerked toward him. “Yup, okay she has an opening in fifteen minutes, how”—he choked—“awesome.”
“Are you gonna make it?” Brant whispered. “Seriously? What’s wrong with you? Do I need to do a drug screening for all employees?”
“Ha.” Cole had a look that said, I wish I were on drugs right now. The hell was his problem? “I’ll just go…help her get the room ready, since you wrote her up last time, I would hate to see her get into trouble because you find a microscopic piece of dirt in a potted plant or something.” He glared at the receptionist, who paled.
When he was gone, Brant turned the monitor back toward Annie and shook his head. “Don’t worry—he can’t fire you.”
“Cole?” She gave a half shrug. “He’s the nicest boss ever. Seriously. He wouldn’t hurt a flea, let alone fire me for doing my job. He’s just”—she swallowed slowly—“protective.”
“Of his employees?”
“Right.” She chirped and flashed a smile. “But, sometimes…men don’t know everything, you know?”
“You get that I’m a man, right?”
“She’s ready for you.” Oh good, Cole was back. Insert sarcasm. “Just remember, she doesn’t speak.”
“How could I forget when you keep reminding me?”
Cole stomped off.
Brant shook his head and made his way to the massage room, slowly at first, only to end up half-running. Something was seriously wrong with him if he was that excited over a damn massage that had nearly killed him the day before.
She’d been so rough he’d nearly died on the table. And then he’d been so turned on he almost preferred the roughness.
He went to room five, stripped, and laid facedown on the bed. A minute or so later, a soft rap at the door broke the silence, and then it opened, closed.
Alone. He was alone with her. The woman who had haunted his dreams the night before.
She could be an eighty-year-old troll with a lazy eye, and he’d have no idea. Hell, she probably had a unibrow. And yet, no matter how many times he tried to convince his body of all those fun possibilities—it still reacted to her scent, her touch.
He inhaled as her hands rubbed together. He tensed, stopped breathing, waiting in anticipation.
Rub, rub, rub. The sound of her hands slicking oil all over each other had to be one of the most erotic sounds he’d ever heard.
Rub, rub, rub.
Okay just how much oil did she need?
Rub, rub.
He was going to die on that table. Die from anticipation. Die from want.
Rub, rub, rub, rub.
Fucking hell!
And then, the barest of touches across his neck, and the sheet slid down. He froze. Her hands slid down the middle of his back, then spread wide before going down his sides.
Bliss.
Heaven.
Hell.
It was torture. The last thing he should do was respond, moan, do anything that showed her how he felt, but not reacting was almost as painful as whatever the hell she was doing with her damn elbows.
The first part always felt good.
The middle hurt like hell.
The end.
Sweet God.
The end.
His eyes strained to make out the size of her shoes, like a freak, as she walked toward the front of his head.
She was short. But those hands—yeah, her nickname should be Mighty Mouse.
A knot twisted beneath her elbow. “Hell,” he breathed.
Feet. Look at her feet. Focus, Brant! Her Nikes couldn’t be any bigger than a size seven, maybe a six and a half? Small feet. Delicate.