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I nearly lose control before I remember I came here tonight to take care of her, not myself.
I break away from the kiss even though my lips don’t want to yet. “Sit back. Put your feet up on me.”
Her eyes pop open, her brows knitting together. “What? No, you don’t want my gross feet on you.”
I lean in, so when I speak, my breath brushes her cheek. “I would let you put your beautiful feet all over me if you wanted to.”
She laughs. “That might be a little too weird for me.”
I shrug an acknowledgement, then reach out to stroke her cheek. Her skin flushes pink under my touch. “That came out differently than I meant it. Will
you just do what I say for once? Lean back and give me your feet.”
Sighing, Martha pivots to lie back on the sofa and picks her feet up off the foot massager and plops them up onto my lap.
“First, we’re going to take off these tights,” I say.
“I’ve been on my feet all day, they are going to stink…”
I shake my head. She has got to let go of this stranglehold of control. “Well, I’m not going to massage you through these woolen Amish tights.”
She giggles. “Okay, fine, let me just…”
I put my hands over her busy hands and lower my voice. “I got this.”
I keep my eyes locked on hers in an admonishing stare.
My hands slide up her calves, over her knees, and all the way up her thigh. I thank my lucky stars that these are thigh highs and not waist-high tights.
Taking my time, I roll one stocking down gently, rolling it over on itself, all the way down her thigh, pushing with both my palms flattened against her bare skin.
When I reach her feet I pop the stocking off all the way and then my hands go to work on her other leg, repeating the same action.
“That was a nice massage, thank you,” she says.
I smile at her. “I’m not done, sweets.”
Starting at her left foot, I press the pads of both my thumbs along the sole. The firm motions continue around her ankle, her heel.
“If you lose your license to practice law you can be a massage therapist because this is lovely,” she sighs.
My palms slip over her strong calves, where the smooth, creamy skin is taut over her tense muscles. I work them over and switch to her other leg.
“I’m not interested in putting my hands on a bunch of random people,” I say.
She laughs softly. “Oh, just me then?” Her eyes go dark when she sees my gaze turn another shade darker.
“Yes, Martha. Just you.”
My hands travel upward, paying attention to her tired knees, one then the other, before advancing on her thighs.
My greedy hands each take one of her soft thighs for themselves. When she lets out a small sigh at my light brushes under her skirt, I nearly give in to the need.
The struggle to restrain myself must be showing on my face because Martha’s eyes widen in anticipation and perhaps a whisper of fear of the unknown. She studies my face, trying to predict what I might do.
What I do is press the meat of both my palms deeply into her inner thigh muscles, working out all the tension that I can find.
Her skin warms under my touch, her body melts and yields. She breathes out a surrendering sigh, surprising me by opening her legs wider to me. My hands pause. I look up to her face and Martha’s lips are parted. Her tongue swipes to moisten them, her eyes hooded.
