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“But also, whatever you want can happen. If you want my tongue to explore slowly, oh so achingly slowly, every curve and crevice of your body, that’s certainly what I want. If you want to be massaged and licked, inside and out, that, my dear, is what I had in mind when I sat down on this bed with you last night. It’s been in the back of my mind the entire time we’ve talked of other things because the scent from between your legs drives me mad with want. What do you think about that?”
I think some sort of incoherent high-pitched noise comes from the back of my throat in answer.
I nod and flip over so that my stomach faces the mattress. “Sure. A massage sounds great.”
I hear a chuckle from above me. “A massage, eh? That’s what you choose from the menu I proffered?”
Being facedown and not having to look him in the face might give me a tad more hutzpah because I dare to say airily, “A massage to start with, anyway. I’ve had a very trying few days being yanked all through the air this way and that.”
“Oh, you have, have you?”
I shrug. “You’re the one going around offering massages.”
I’m not ready for how close his lips are when they suddenly whisper behind my left ear. “Any excuse to get my hands on you, little consort. Will you take off your coverings for me? I want to see you.”
I slip the small straps of my nightgown off over my shoulders, and he drags it down my back until it gathers at my waist. At first, I think he’ll stop there. But no. He demands, “Up,” and I lift my hips.
Then his big, cool hands drag the silk down my bare ass. I enjoy his hiss of surprise at the fact that I’m not wearing any underwear before he’s got the fabric down my upper thighs and slipped off my legs completely.
I’m absolutely naked, face down on the bed. My fingers fist in the fabric. Just a massage. Right. I only want a massage. Excitement gathers in my belly.
His big, cool hands come back to my shoulders, slightly wet with some kind of sweet-smelling oil. He doesn’t do any usual massage I’ve ever had before. Using his palms, he just starts to rub. He’s at my shoulders, but somehow the massage is already sensuous. I don’t know how to describe it, except maybe in the way he digs in his fingers, trailing at the end after his palm has dug into my muscles. Deep, too. He’s not just playing on the surface.
He’s getting real acquainted with my body. And then there’s the way I can see it clearly affecting him. He’s not an impersonal masseuse at a spa. I turn my head to watch as his whole body bends over me, his soft fingers digging in and rolling. The concentration on his face, along with the pressure of his knowing hands—damn.
I about come from that alone. Especially when he works his way to my lower back, deeply grasping onto my hips like he’s a moment away from flipping me and riding me hard.
When he lifts to get more oil on his hands, I take a huge breath and flip onto my back. I want to cover my eyes, but I’m trying to be strong. I’m trying to be better than the girl who fled her cheating boyfriend and allowed herself to believe it was her fault because she wasn’t pretty enough. I want to be all that I am and be her proudly.
So I bare my breasts, and I don’t cover my eyes, and I at least pretend that I’m proud and believe that I’m as beautiful as he proclaims I am, even if half of me is horrified he’ll run or say something beneath his breath that will break my heart. I try to remind myself that he seemed to like what he saw the other day at the lake. But insecurities war with my attempt at reasoning. At the lake, I was being wild and spontaneous. Here, there’s far too much time to think.
He gets rid of the excess oil on a cloth on the nightstand. Then, reverently, eyes on mine as if checking in to make sure I’m still with him, he hovers there without touching.
I nod even as I hold my breath.
But then he cups both of my breasts, hefting them in his palms as if to feel their full weight and shape.
“They’re real,” I say, then feel stupid for saying it. If there’s one thing I’m proud of, it’s my big, round boobs. Silly, since the only reason they’re so big is because all of me is so big. But hey, I’ve always claimed they’re my best feature, and assholes have liked them in the past.
“They’re glorious,” Remus says, holding them fully in his hands and kissing each nipple carefully.
But then he completely bypasses them and starts massaging down my stomach to one of my fat rolls.
“What are you doing?” I squeal, sitting up and unconsciously covering my breasts.
He looks confused. “Worshipping and massaging every inch of your glorious flesh.”
My mouth drops open, appalled. “Well, not there.”
Remus’s eyes look down my stomach, the last place I want him looking, and I let go of my boobs, all but doubling over to keep him from zeroing in on what I look like. “Stop it! Don’t look at me there!”
Remus’s eyes come back to mine, completely bewildered. “Why not?”
“Because,” I sputter, reaching over and dragging the sheet up over myself. “That’s not a pretty part of a woman. Go out into the hallway while I put my nightgown back on.”
“Wait. Why can’t I look at you there? It is as beautiful as every other part of you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “Don’t be a liar.”
