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I flash a cocky smile her way. “You think so?” Challenge accepted, I pick up a bottle of massage oil and pour a healthy dose into my hand.
“We’ll see,” she teases back lightly.
Warming it in my palms, I start with broad strokes on Abi’s back, causing her to moan.
“Mmm . . . where’d you learn this?” she asks.
I work down her spine slowly, stopping just short of the puddle of sheet at her lower back, and then move back up her sides again, my fingertips brushing the sides of her squished breasts. “One of the chef jobs I took was on a cruise ship,” I tell her, remembering the six-month stint at sea. “I picked up quite a few skills on the Rotterdam.”
“Like what?”
I start on her shoulders, keeping both my conversation and touch light. “For one, I can strip and remake a bed in under two minutes.”
“Is that one thing, like stripping and remaking the bed, or two separate things like stripping, and also making beds? Very different things, if you know what I mean? Are you holding out on me? You got some Magic Mike moves I haven’t seen?”
“You’ve seen my dance moves,” I remind her, remembering how we’d run off the sunset cruise ship’s dance floor to find the nearest room with a lock and gone after each other hard and fast. I also remember what I felt, what I said.
Heat builds inside me, my skin suddenly too small for everything I’m feeling. Lust, need, care, doubt, and questions all swirl, but Abigail draws me back to here and now.
“That I did,” she agrees on a moan as I push into a knot between her shoulder blades. She’s carrying a lot, and while I can’t get all the tension out without going to painful extremes, I do soothe her body.
She jumps lightly when I start on her toes, her breath catching when I start massaging her foot with some reflexology strokes that have nothing to do with relaxation at all. From there, I work up her gorgeous calves to the backs of her thighs, again stopping just below the edge of the sheet before switching legs.
“I know what you’re doing, Lorenzo,” she whispers huskily. “And it’s working.”
“Good,” I reply, leaning in and kissing the tip of one toe. She moans, her thighs parting and making a dark cave under the sheet for me to imagine. I’m pulsing hard, my cock oozing precum and wanting me to hurry up.
I don’t. I do everything in my power to control my urges, to focus all of my attention on Abigail and what she needs. Finally, I finish both legs, and I’m faced with the toughest decision of all.
If she turns over and I see those soft, pillowy breasts, I’m not going to be able to resist devouring them. But to be able to knead that ass . . .
I reach for the sheet and slide it off to leave her fully bared, Abi humming happily when I do so. I reach out, starting with my thumbs at the dimples on either side of her spine, and work my way down, promising myself that I’m going to actually work her muscles.
That lasts until the second tight squeeze I give her ass muscles because Abigail shudders and spreads her legs invitingly.
Fuck.
No, Lorenzo . . . control. I work my hands lower, smirking when my oily hand brushes over her pussy lips and her hips jerk off the table and into my touch. “Fuck, Lorenzo . . . yes,” she hisses even as I continue to massage her ass while brushing my thumbs over her lips. She’s wet even without my oil, and soon, her pussy’s open, gleaming and begging for more.
Abigail moans deeply, lifting her ass to meet my strokes, and I prop her up with a rolled towel before sliding two fingers deep inside her.
“Mmm . . . more, please,” Abi begs as I curl my fingers inside her, stroking her inner walls and finding every little spot that gives her pleasure. As my thumb brushes over her clit, I explore her ass with my other hand and she pushes against my fingers encouragingly. “Yes.”
I’m tempted to take her sweet ass, but instead, I just massage her while pumping my fingers in and out of her tight, perfect pussy. “That’s it, mia rosa,” I whisper to her as I add a third finger. “Take it. Come on my hand, and then I’m going to fuck you as deep as you can take it. Give my fingers a taste.”
Am I speaking English or Italian? I don’t even know. My brain is short circuiting, but she must understand because she grips the edge of the table, pushing back into my plunging digits. She arches her back, her body trembling on the edge, her breath coming in deep gasps. “Lorenzo . . . fuck me, please. Fuck, I need you.”
