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After a few minutes, Bridget sinks into the sofa, turning to lean her back against the armrest and allowing me to pull her feet onto my lap. “Wow. Did you get a minor in massage while at UCLA?”
“It’s been a while, but I had a lot of practice with foot reflexology on a trip to Bali.”
I don’t add that it was with Kimberly.
“How long were you in Bali, and is it as magnificent as its reputation?”
“Just over two weeks, and it’s pretty sweet, but everyone has their own take.”
“What was the best part about Bali? The beaches?”
After applying pressure to the area of her ankle and toes, I work her heel.
“Mmmm,” she murmurs.
She seems to have forgotten her question. Her eyes have closed. In silence, I continue the massage, running my knuckle along the arch of her foot, then walking my thumb along the spine of one foot, then the other. Her body is responsive. I can sense the relaxation in her.
“Want me to continue?” I ask.
“Mmhmm,” she exhales.
I move to the area above her heel, the area connected to the pelvic region. Her eyes remain closed but her eyebrows lift. After a few minutes, I move to her big toe. Her bottom lip drops and her brow furrows. She looks like she’s in deep concentration.
I know that look. Seen it dozens of times just before a woman orgasms.
Abruptly, Bridget closes her mouth. Eyes open, she sits up, pulling her feet from me. She appears confused and dismayed.
“You want me to finish the massage?” I offer, leaving out, so you can get to the climax.
“I’m good,” she says. After being deeply relaxed, she’s now in the opposite state, her breath uneven.
I’m disappointed because I want to know what she looks like when she orgasms. The area about my own pelvis is churning with energy.
Avoiding my gaze, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Like her, I don’t move or say anything for a moment. I hadn’t intended for the foot massage to become sexual. Not everyone responds that way to reflexology. Kimberly didn’t climax from foot massages, but she did say the sex we’d had after a couples massage session was the best she’d ever had.
“I’m going to help myself to a glass of water from the kitchen,” Bridget says, getting off the sofa. “You want anything?”
I eye her closely. Coward.
I’m going to need something stronger than water to take the edge off the hardness in my pants.
“There’s a bar right here,” I say, getting up and walking over to get her a glass of water.
She drinks the whole glass. “Thanks. Should we help clean up?”
I stare at her. That’s what the hired help is for. Is she that bored or disconcerted with my company that she wants to pick up garbage?
But I surprise myself when the word that falls from my mouth is “sure.”
I need my head examined. And JD owes me for this.
