Page 20 of Naughty Nelle

“Oh, yeah.”

He sounds like a man on the verge of a major orgasm. His low, sexy rumble rouses me further, creating a tremor of excitement in my core. Making my way down his chiseled back, I have the sudden impulse to drag my tongue along the curve of his spine and taste him, then press my lips against his delicious skin and kiss him everywhere. My body is burning with lust. It takes all I have to concentrate on the massage.

“I feel so much better,” he mumbles, his voice muffled.

And I feel flush with fever. Delirious with desire. I’ve gotten out all his knots, but now I’m the one who’s tense, twisted, and on edge. Touching him has made me want to touch myself. And quell the pulsing ache between my thighs.

“Should I turn over?”

“Not yet,” I breathe out, trying to compose myself. “I want to massage your feet.”

I unstraddle him—far from a graceful move—and stagger to the end of the massage table. My heated body is still aflutter. “Bend your right leg.”

He complies wordlessly. After squirting more of the massage oil on my palms, I take his foot into my hands. Painfully aware of my body’s sensations, I admire the length and shape of it—so elegant and manly, and the skin is soft, not calloused. I dig my thumbs deep into the sole, pressing hard against various pressure points.

He hisses.

Good. He’s releasing stress. I rub and tug each of his beautiful toes. The truth: I’d rather be sucking them while bringing myself to a toe-curling orgasm with one of my talented hands.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs while I squeeze his little toe.

Silently, I repeat my motions with his other foot. His moans and groans grow louder, and he cusses again under his breath. Foot massage, formally called reflexology, is very powerful. It’s called reflexology because the nerves in your foot connect to all the nerves in your body. What you feel in your feet can be felt elsewhere. There’s even one spot that connects to your genitals. Women, in particular, have reported achieving orgasms when that trigger spot is massaged.

I ask him to flip over. With a groan, he twists onto his back.

Kenny G’s moving rendition of the Titanic theme song filters into my ears and my eyes widen. Make that pop out of their sockets. Holy smoke! His eyes closed, he’s got a Titanic erection. I underestimated it. It’s fucking monstrous! And it’s straining against his boxers, begging to burst through the slit. My breath catches in my throat; my heart beats like a jackrabbit’s. My pussy pulses madly. I’ve seen plenty of hard-ons, but nothing like this. I have a decision to make—let it sail or let it sink. I opt for neither.

The melody of the haunting song plays on. I’ve forgotten how much this song affects me. Auntie Jo and Pops took me to see the epic movie with Jeffrey opening day for my tenth birthday. Little did they know it would end with a drowning. Like Mama’s. In the ocean no less. I bawled my eyes out and made myself sick. So sick I had to stay home from school the next day. The unsung lyrics play in my head:

Every night in my dream

I see you, I feel you.

A surge of emotion overwhelms me. Tears well up in my eyes. I think of Mama. I think of him.

My eyes stay locked on his colossal cock. I want to touch it. Hold it. Stroke it. Possess it. Fill the deep need that’s stealing my breath.

Unable to control myself, my hand descends toward his mega erection. The heat of it, radiating right through the fabric of his boxers, draws me like a moth to a flame. I touch down lightly on it for a heart-stopping second. It stirs, and a soft, throaty “mmm” exits his lips. At the sound of the rumble, my hand jumps off as if it’s been singed. A twinge of guilt is followed by a twitch of his dick.

“Brandon, we’re done.” I barely manage the words. The tangle of emotions I’m feeling is strangling me while the erotic sensations are debilitating me. I’m shaking all over, from my head to my toes. I can’t go on like this.

His eyes blink open. He bolts up to a sitting position and faces me. His lids are hooded, his expression dazed and confused. “What do you mean?”

My eyes quickly shift from the outrageous bulge between his legs to his dreamy face, which looks even more beautiful in the warm glow of the flickering candle. His lush lips are slightly parted and his violet eyes flutter, adjusting to the light. My heart hammers painfully in my chest for the stunning man I can’t have. Touching him has touched me in all the wrong places.

“I mean, time’s up. In our contract, we agreed to a one-hour maximum massage.” I glance down at my watch. It’s way past eleven. “I’ve actually given you extra.” More than you’ll ever know.

“Oh,” he mutters. “I don’t remember that clause.”

Thank goodness for his memory loss. He has no clue I’m bullshitting him. My contract actually calls for me to be at his beck and call 24/7—even on Sunday, my one day off. I’m at his command. But right now, I need to get away from him. Desperately. The combination of touching him physically and this melody touching me emotionally has wreaked havoc on my body. I feel lightheaded and weak, short of breath. I cling to the corners of the massage table, thinking I may faint.

“Brandon, I’ve got to go,” I breathe out. “You need to get off the table.”

Brandon repositions himself, draping his long legs over the edge. Unable to move, I stare at him, memorizing every beautiful feature that basks in the candlelight. The Titanic love song, still playing, tears at my heart, tears me apart. I fight back the tears that are threatening to spill.

“Zoey, help me off the table.”

I don’t move. I don’t respond.

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