The voice is muffled by the headrest, his face buried in the hole, but the vibration of it hits me like a physical blow to the chest. It’s deep, rough, and carries a cadence that travels through the air and vibrates in my very marrow. A jolt of electric heat zips down my spine, leaving my skin tingling in a way I haven't felt in... ever.
I swallow hard, my throat dry. I can't run. If he’s who I fear he is—just another Russian looking for trouble—running will just turn this into a game. And I’ve seen enough of those games to know that the predator always enjoys the chase.
"I apologize, sir," I say, my voice steady, my "Elena" mask firmly in place. I move to the counter to pour the oil. "I was just checking the lighting. Would you like the deep tissue or the Swedish?"
"I like it deep," he rumbles. The smirk is audible in his voice, even through the padding. The sound of his voice is like gravel and velvet, rubbing against my nerves in a way that makes my breath catch. "I’ve never been one for half-measures. And don't be shy with the pressure. I’ve been told you don't mind a little struggle. That you're... efficient."
I want to ask him who told him that, but I can't because customers are Gods and you don't question Gods. Something Sofia reminds me of on a daily basis.
I move to the side of the table, my fingers slicking with the neutral oil. My hands are trembling, a fine, frantic vibration I can't control, but the moment I press my palms into his skin, the tremor stops.
He’s hot. Not just warm from the sun, but radiating a staggering amount of heat, like a furnace. As I lean my weight into the first stroke, pressing my palms into the base of his neck, a spark zips through my fingertips.
My fingers are tingling. It’s an involuntary, crazy reaction to the contact. It’s a pull, a magnetic attraction so intense it scares me. I’ve touched hundreds of men in the last six months—fat men, thin men, men who smelled like cheap gin and men who smelled like expensive soap—and I’ve felt nothing but a vague sense of disgust. But this? This is different.
Something is wrong. Very wrong.
My hands move down his spine, and I can't help but notice the way his muscles shift and roll under my palms. He’s solid, like granite covered in silk. My traitorous mind starts to wonder what those muscles would look like when they’re tensed in a different way. I imagine those scarred lats flexing under me, the weight of him pressing me into a mattress instead of a massage table.
Stop it, Irina.He’s a pig. A criminal. He probably has a wife and three mistresses back in the Motherland.
But the "Elena" in me doesn't care. She just wants to keep touching him. I find myself lingering on the curve of his lower back, where the sheet dips low enough to reveal the top of a V-line that disappears into the shadows. My thumbs trace the ridge of his spine, and I feel a low, thrumming ache start to build in my own lower belly. It’s a heat I haven't felt in years, a hunger that makes me want to rip the sheet away and see exactly what he’s hiding.
"Y-Your muscles are very tight," I say, my voice sounding far away, as if I’m watching myself from the corner of the room. I dig my thumbs into the thick knots near his shoulder blades, leaning into it, using the strength of my whole body. "You carry a lot of tension here. It’s like you’re waiting for a fight."
"I carry a lot of things," he grunts, his voice a low vibration beneath my hands that I feel in my own bones. The sound of it travels through my palms and straight to my chest, making my breath hitch. "Tension is the least of them. Most people find my company... stressful."
My mind is racing, flashing images of those large, calloused hands gripping my waist, pulling me against that furnace of a chest. I can almost feel the phantom pressure of him on top of me, his rough voice whispering filthy promises in my ear.
What in the world is wrong with me??
God, I’m pathetic.
I slide my hands up the sides of his neck, my fingers brushing the hair at the base of his skull.
A few months of celibacy and I’m ready to jump the first Russian who looks like he could snap me in half.
But goodness. The way hesmells. Like ozone and expensive leather and something purely masculine that calls to a part of me I thought was dead. I wonder if he's one of those men who like to do weird things. The ones who buy silence and skin.
Irina! What the hell are you thinking about?
Every time my skin brushes his, every time my fingers trace the edge of a tattoo or the ridge of a scar, my heart hammers harder.
He has such a massive presence. He takes up all the space in the room, making me feel small, exposed, and strangely, terrifyingly alive. My fingers are still tingling, the sensation spreading up my arms and settling into a heavy, wet heat between my thighs.
"How long have you been in Cancun, Elena?" he asks.
The name sounds like a joke coming from him. A secret he’s humoring because he finds it amusing. The gravelly depth of his voice sends a fresh wave of shivers over my skin.
"J-Just a couple of months," I answer, lying easily, focusing on the curve of his neck, trying to ignore the way my tunic feels suddenly too tight across my chest. "It’s a good place to work. People are generous."
"Are they?" He turns his head slightly in the headrest, though I still can't see his face. I can see the sharp line of a jaw that looks like it was carved from obsidian. "I find that people only come to a place like this when they want to forget who they were. Or when they want to hide from someone who hasn't forgotten them."
"I'm not hiding from anyone," I say, the sassy, stubborn Petrov pride I’ve been trying to kill for months suddenly flaring up in my chest. "I just prefer the sun to the New York winters."
I freeze. I didn't say New York. Why did I say New York? My heart is a drum now, beating a frantic rhythm that I’m sure he can feel through my hands.
"New York," he repeats, the words tasting like a threat. "I’ve heard it’s a beautiful city. Very cold. Very... unforgiving."
