Page 68 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Then I step towards the table, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the piano.
Getting onto the table turns out to be less “elegant spa client” and more “panicked squirrel trying to board a kayak.”
“Right,” I say, eyeing the table like it’s about to challenge me to a duel. “So I just…?”
Jasper gives a small nod and steps back, very deliberately turning away. “There’s a cover in the middle—just slip under it. Take off the robe, keep your underwear on. I won’t look.”
“Better not,” I mutter, already undoing the tie and trying to keep some level of dignity as I shuffle towards the table like a contestant in a deeply unglamorous reality show.
Twinklesocks watches with interest from the sofa.
I manage to shrug out of the robe without strangling myself, then quickly dive under the sheet like it’s a security blanket and the floor is lava.
Jasper waits a beat. “Ready?”
“Define ready,” I mutter from under the linen, one leg still tangled and very much not where it should be.
There’s an ungainly pause as I try to hoist myself onto the table. My foot slips. My knee knocks the edge. I let out a sound like a startled badger.
“Careful,” Jasper says, not moving but definitely trying not to laugh.
“Iamcareful,” I say, now half on the table, half flailing, fully betrayed by cotton.
Eventually, with a groan, a flop, and an accidental elbow to the face-rest, I get myself into position. Facedown, covered, and praying he didn’t see as much as I fear.
“I’m in,” I mumble into the padded hole. “I’m all yours.” I regret the words the minute they are out.
Behind me, there’s a very quiet chuckle. “Alright then. Close your eyes and try to relax.”
The first touch is light.
Just his warm, steady hands pressing gently onto the towel covering my back. No movement yet. Just weight. Intentional. Anchoring.
And yet somehow, my breath stutters.
He starts slow. No oil. No digging in. Just smooth, gliding pressure through the fabric—up my spine, down again. Over my shoulders. His thumbs pause at the base of my neck, where tension clings like guilt. He presses, not hard, but deep enough to make something unravel.
I exhale. A long, quiet sigh that tries not to sound too much like relief.
He says nothing. No small talk. No awkward commentary. Just quiet music, the faint scent of lemon, and his hands moving with maddening patience.
I close my eyes.
It’s fine. This is fine.
Just a massage. From a friend. A very attractive, unnecessarily competent friend who smells like soap and man and is currently pressing into the sore spot under my shoulder blade with surgeon-level precision.
I shift slightly and his hand adjusts with me, never straying. Always respectful. But still—oh, fuck, still—
How is this so hot?
Jasper’s touch isn’t demanding. It’s not even particularly sexual. But it’s attentive. Focused. Like he’s listening with his fingers.
My skin tingles.
Stop it.
My thighs press together under the sheet, instinctively, embarrassingly. I try to relax. Breathe deeper. Pretend my mind isn’t staging an entirely inappropriate one-woman show inside my head.
