Page 33 of Saving Mr. Bell

Rudolf smiled. “Can you imagine? All my press coverage would be about how being blessed with musical talent was to make up for other areas. Which… in case you’re worried, I’ve had no complaints.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Because you like small cocks, or because you have no intention of going anywhere near mine?”

I rolled my head sideways to look at him, Rudolf lifting his head again with a look of challenge as he waited for the answer. “That’s a very direct question.”

“It is. Are you pointing that out so you don’t have to answer?”

“Possibly.” I shifted Rudolf’s feet off me to the sofa so I could get up. “Wait there. I’m coming back.”

“Where are you going?”

I ignored Rudolf’s question as I went into the bedroom and rummaged through my luggage until I found what I was looking for. I held it aloft as I walked back into the main room. “Massage oil.” Rudolf obligingly lifted his feet, and I maneuvered myself back into my original position, settling them back on my lap as I sat.

“Lube,” Rudolf said.

“No. Massage oil.”

“Same thing.”

“A condom would disagree.”

“Well, if you’re having arguments with condoms, I would say labeling liquids is the least of your problems.”

I squeezed some oil into the palm of my hand. “Are you ticklish?”

“I don’t know. No one’s ever massaged my feet before.”

It turned out he wasn’t. It also turned out that there were several places on Rudolf’s feet where digging your thumb in made him moan like he was having sex. At least that’s what I imagined he sounded like while having sex. “Stop doing that.”

“I can’t. It feels too good.”

“I’ll gag you.”

“Promises, promises.” Once I’d done one foot, I started on the other, Rudolf tucking a cushion behind his head so he could watch. “Did your hubby get this treatment?”

“Bruno?”

“Do you have another husband I don’t know about?”

“No.”

“Bruno, then?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

It was an excellent question. Why was I carrying out what most people would consider an intimate act on Rudolf when I’d been married for months and had gone nowhere near my husband’s feet, nor felt tempted to. “His feet aren’t famous. In years to come, I want to tell people I’ve massaged Rudolf Bell’s feet.”

“Thank you for not using my middle name.”

“Rudolf Good King Wenceslas Bell’s feet.”

“The extra bit is not required.”

I laughed. “No, but it’s funny.”

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