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Ricco shrugs, so damn sexy in his button-down shirt, all rippled muscles and grace and masculinity.
“I wanted to see you. We have some practice to do before tonight. You know I paid for every one of those appointments.”
“Of course,” I say, opening up the computer to mark him as here. “I see —”
I see a fifty percent tip on each appointment. My heartstrings tug.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I lifted hard yesterday, and my shoulders are tight as fuck. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
My heart flutters as I step into the dimly lit massage room, my fingers brushing against the soft silk curtains. A mixture of nervous excitement and anticipation swirls in my stomach. Little does he know, I'm just as eager for that as he is.
I hit “Play” on my phone’s music app and start a diffuser. The room is filled with the soothing scent of lavender, and gentle strains of instrumental background music waft from the Bluetooth speakers. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. The rustling of the curtains signals his presence, and there he is, sitting on the massage table, unbuttoning his shirt.
“I’ll be right back,” I murmur.
Shrugging out of his shirt, his skin is bathed in the warm amber light. Our eyes meet. “I’ll be here.”
I step out of the room, completely aware of the fact that Ricco’s getting naked on the other side of that door.
That tonight, we’re doing a demo at Bella Notte.
That I, in the crass words of Jason… deserve earth-shattering orgasms and… happiness.
Happiness, dammit.
I knock gently on the door.
His voice is gruff and husky. “Yeah.”
The sheet’s over his naked form, his muscled arms over his head in languid perfection. I want to explore his body. I want to explore all of him.
Tipping his head to the side, he stares at me.
I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, but I hold his gaze with a newfound boldness.
Starting with practiced professionalism, I pour warm, fragrant oil into my palms, rubbing them together to create a comforting warmth. My hands make contact with his broad shoulders, and I work on the knots and tension with practiced ease. A low, appreciative hum escapes Ricco's lips, sending a rush of satisfaction through me.
“Fuck, that feels so good. Am I still carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders?" he playfully jokes, his voice a deep, velvety rumble that sends delicious shivers down my spine.
“I do believe it’s now the solar system,” I say with mock concern, as I continue to work my magic. I relish his every groan. I savor the warm feel of his skin beneath my hands.
Continuing the rhythmic touch, I move down his back with fluid motions. Yet, as my hands glide lower, closer to the small of his back, I can't ignore the electric connection between us. It's as if the air is charged, thick with an undeniable energy.
At the small of his back, I let my touch linger a fraction longer than necessary. I pause, my fingertips nearly to his perfect ass. I span the breadth of his waist.
“How’s that?” I whisper. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
“You’re not even close to too much,” he groans. Emboldened, I trace the contours of his muscles as they tense and relax beneath my fingertips. Working my way back up, his breath catches when my fingers graze the nape of his neck, eliciting a shiver that reverberates through him. It echoes across my own skin, his energy matching mine.
His eyes flutter open. Our eyes lock again, the intensity in his gaze fanning a need deep within me. The room feels warmer, the music a seductive backdrop to the growing tension. With a newfound confidence, I let my fingers trail along his jawline, my touch feather light. I massage his shoulders and do what I’ve longed to do, exploring every perfect masculine inch of him until my own body teems with need and my breath is hoarse.
"Is this still considered a massage?" Ricco's voice is husky, desire lacing every word.
Earth-shattering orgasms and happiness.
I’ve lived my whole life in fear.
I’ve started to believe that men are untrustworthy, and I can’t ever be intimate again.
No more.
No more.
Leaning in, my lips brush against his ear. My own voice heavy with longing, I murmur, “As long as we’re off the clock, it’s whatever we want it to be." I do have at have at least a semblance of professionalism.
Ricco's arm reaches out, pulling me closer.
“Don’t!” I protest. “I’m—too—I’m not—a small girl, Ricco, I’m—”
His palm slaps my ass, hard. My breath hisses out.
“You’re perfect.”
Our lips meet. I sigh, relishing the feel of his strong arms holding me. His mouth a contradiction of gentle strength. Time seems to stand still as we lose ourselves in the intoxicating sensation of our mouths moving against each other's, a symphony of longing and need. I moan at the feel of his hands on my body, unapologetic and bold. He rolls over onto his back and arranges me on top of him.
