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Magdalena
Ipoint toward the bathroom. “In the cabinet by the tub.”
As Stirling walks away, I picture his shirtless back. The butterflies in my chest take flight.Don’t let this go too far, I warn myself.Just some healthy, medical-style massage to keep the blood flowing to my extremities. Not to my core.
He returns with the small bottle, opens it without speaking, and sniffs. It’s a custom blend I’d made a couple of years earlier for not-so-innocent massages.
“Is it still okay?” I ask.
He inhales deeply. “Bergamot … orange and frankincense … ” He inhales with his mouth open this time. “Something woody, spruce or cypress. And something else I just can’t put my finger on.” He scowls.
“The master has been bested,” I tease. “I can tell you—”
“No. I’m not giving up. It’ll come to me once I start working with it.”
My lady bits flutter since I intentionally misheard Stirling say, “you’ll come for me once I start working with you.”
He pulls the sheet that covers my legs to the side, exposing my calves. My sundress is modestly positioned just above my knees.
“Are your feet ticklish? Do I need to be prepared for kicking?”
“Not normally. But I can’t trust anything to be normal these days.”
Stirling dribbles a thin line of oil from my ankle up to my knee. “Do you prefer long, gliding strokes,” he runs his hands up the length of my right leg, “or more of a vibration-style?” Stirling places his palm against the meaty muscle of my calf and does a kind of trembling movement.
My answer is an embarrassingly long moan before I exhale the word, “both.”
“This is going to be fun,” he chuckles.
Over several minutes, I watch Stirling’s expression change from concentration to one that looks like he’s as relaxed as I’ve become. I’m already melting when he moves from my calf to my foot. He works his knuckles into the sole and finds spots I didn’t even realize were tense until he’s worked the tiny muscles loose.
“Sweet mother of all things holy. I need this every day for the rest of my life. How could I have made it to almost forty years old and never had this experience before?”
Stirling closes his eyes and releases the pressure.
“Why are you stopping?” Tension attacks my shoulders.
Stirling stands and walks toward the window. He speaks with his back to me.
“I need to do your left leg … but … I’m struggling to maintain focus,” he says with a slow, deliberate delivery.
“Are your hands getting tired?”
He looks over his shoulder. “No. Hands are fine. It’s … ” He turns to face me. His hands are cupped over his groin. Until they aren’t. And what they’d been hiding makes me gasp, an honest to goodness gasp of excitement and delight.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry. But you are so fucking sexy that if I don’t stop now, number one, I won’t be able to keep my hands below your knee and number two, I’m going to pass out if this thing gets any harder.”
I pull my sundress up my thighs, so high he can see my sexiest pregnancy panties—the light pink ones with a soft lace trim that sits below my bump. “The way you’ve been touching me has made me so wet I keep wondering if my water has broken.”
His hand goes straight back to his cock and he squeezes it through the fabric of his shorts.
“Can I, maybe, massage you?” I ask. “Try to soften that tense muscle?”
“Oh fuck, please.”
“Massage oil.”
Stirling gets the bottle from the dresser and I grab my mattress remote to change it from the anti-gravity setting to flat, so I can roll to my side.
