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ChapterFifteen
After I squeezeout something along the lines of “affirmative,” he plops on the table, his powerful back on display. As I lay my hands on his thickly muscled calves, I lose the gift of speech—which seems to be fine with him, as he lies there contentedly. I begin the massage and realize he was right. I’m far from a professional, but even I can feel the tension in his leg muscles.
Taking a deep breath, I focus on fixing the problem in front of me, and not on whether I can do a little carpet bumping right here and now without him noticing.
“That’s nice,” he murmurs when I move my ministrations to his thighs—mostly because I really want to feel how hard they are. “Can you do my back too?”
“Okay.” I just barely stop myself from adding, “Massages are totally platonic and casual, right?”
It’s a miracle I don’t explode from hormone overload by the time I’m done with his back. My clit will be in danger of blistering once I get home.
Except I’m not getting home anytime soon.
Maybe I can rub one off right here in the banya bathroom? But what if—
“Hey,” he says softly. “Would you feel comfortable doing my glutes? Going on pointe is killer on that muscle group.”
Glutes.
As in, touch his butt?
Have I won some kind of sex lottery?
“It would be over my underwear,” he adds.
Damn it. I stalled too long. If he hadn’t said that, I could’ve touched his naked ass.
Before he can change more of the parameters of this amazing request, I grab myself a handful.
Wow. I think my palms are having an orgasm—a palmgasm. But I’m greedy. I want to bend down and nibble on his glutes, for a mouthgasm—or is it toothgasm?
But no. I have to stick to actions that can at least loosely be interpreted as a massage technique.
A bunch of new rules for our marriage are swirling in my head, but most are not appropriate, like “I shall be allowed to grab this butt any time I want.”
Still, there’s one rule I can’t help but blurt out. “While we’re married, can we agree not to sleep with anyone else?”
There. I know that’s unfair to the rest of womankind, like inventing a fat-free, sugar-free doughnut that tastes better than the regular thing but making it so that only I can eat it. No, wait. I can’t eat it either, not according to our platonic rule.
He turns his head, revealing a serious expression. “I thought that was implied. We can’t have extramarital affairs. If that were to go public, it would ruin everything.”
Why am I so relieved? Do I want him to have blue balls to match whatever is happening to my ovaries?
He puts his head back down. “Ten more minutes?”
Even though he can’t see me, I nod and resume touching him wherever I want—within the limits of his facedown position, of course.
Under the pretext of a head massage, I run my fingers through his silky hair. Then I grab a handful of his deltoid muscles, followed by biceps and triceps. Handgasms explode in my palms as I go.
Ten minutes later, I owe myself at least a month of finger-blasting. Reluctantly, I pull my hands away as he turns his head and says, “Thank you.” He then leaps off the massage table. “We’re getting cold. Let’s head back into the banya.”
Back to wet heat? What I really need is that icy pool and then a cold shower, but hey, horny beggars can’t be horny choosers.
I follow him through the bathhouse. We make a few stops on the way to get the funny hats and all the rest, then return to our table “to take a few more photos” before we do the banya thing again.
His salad is already waiting, but no fruit or blins yet.
“Want to take another picture with the shots in our hands?” he asks.
