Page 18 of Whiskey Splash

“Okay, I’m going to start with your shoulders and neck,” I explain. “Then I’ll move on to your arms, back, and legs. What firmness do you normally like for your massages?”

“Hard,” he says with a hot breath that shouldn’t sound sexy, but it does.

“Okay,” I breathe, wringing my slick hands. “If anything is too firm—”

“If I need you to back off, I’ll tell you,” Desmond says quickly. “But I’ve got so many knots in my back from tossing in that bed all night, that I think you’re going to need to give me all you’ve got.”

He couldn’t sleep? Last night? Didn’t he say something like that in his social media post? That’s got to be a coincidence. Unless he thinks I’ve seen it and he said that purposefully.

“Very well,” I say, swallowing hard, lifting my hands so they hover over his back.

I’m not ready to touch him.

I really shouldn’t touch him.

This is a complete conflict of interest.

The sight of his back has me imagining him wrapped up in a cocoon of sheets, frustrated, unsatisfied, tossing and turning. Does he sleep naked too? Or is that my brain projecting because he’s naked in front of me right now—torso sculpted, muscles knit perfectly in a group? He’s the kind of man that will be a pleasure to touch, if only to appreciate the design of how he’s put together.

The smell of coconut mixes with the scented candles and, lightheaded, I remind myself that he’s just a client. He’s like anyone else: a body needing my services. He’s got knots in his back like any other customer.

Knots—from a night of restless, unfulfilling sleep!

A familiar side effect, uncoincidentally!

I take a deep breath and force myself to dive in. I’m a professional and I can handle this!

I start with his shoulders, my palms gliding softly over his thick muscles. The connection is immediate, heat shooting up my arms as my fingers fan out over his body.

He moans softly, the texture of his flesh wildly erotic, and I don’t know if he feels that zap of energy as well, but my hands feel charged. I’m wildly aware of the difference between massaging a stranger and massaging someone with whom you crave something more. Skin is skin, until it’s charged with desire.

I scold myself for indulging in such a dangerous idea. He’s a client! I’m a professional. I’m not here to explore the possibility of all this flirtation!

So, I dig in—hard!

I press my fingers harshly into the thick of his shoulder muscle and gouge deep for the knots below the surface. Perhaps it’s the harshness of it or the change in pace, but Desmond moans hotly—the guttural pleasure ringing in my ears. It causes me to bite my lip, my chest blooming with the excitement of pulling such a wicked sound from him.

“Too hard?” I breath out, not letting up as I push and grasp and mold his skin under my palms.

He moans again and his breath deepens, a cue to put in a little more elbow grease. I change position and drill into his shoulder, searching for that knot. I feel the tension in his neck change as he grits his teeth, my thumb working into the ruby of tangled muscle under his shoulder blade. I dig harder and deeper, till I’ve worked that fist of tension down the grain of his muscle and out his spine. He softly groans as I sooth the tendril of worked flesh, gliding past it with less pressure, before I move to the other shoulder and do it again.

When my hands run down the width of his rib cage, I feel him start to relax. Much of the tension in his arms releases as I caress down the delicate bones. The width of his back is intoxicating, the oil creating a friction and warmth as my fingers prod at the sides of his abdomen.

His thick arms make me slow down and savor the strength of them, pulling and gliding from the shoulder all the way down to the wrist, my fingers kneading and massaging. The pads of his hands and his fingers are just as strong and muscular. And, as I dig into the firm cushion of his palm, my mind dallies to the thought of our roles reversed and what it would feel like if his hands were the ones teasing and kneading and wringing out my pleasure.

I swallow hard, realizing that’s what I’m doing right now. I’m in charge of his pleasure, his comfort, his relaxation. I’m in charge of his body and what he’s feeling. Maybe it isn’t sexual—per se—but it’s an exchange.

An awareness in our skin.

A connection.

I work through the thickness of his other arm, cherishing each stroke of muscle, feeling him give in and relax under me. My fists work down his spine to his lower back, finding a pulse and rhythm as I slide up and down. My fingers tease the top of his ass as the oil and pressure glides down his vertebrae, again and again. My focus is intent, it’s me and his skin, digging treasures out of his muscles, excavating them.

I move to his legs and start with his feet. A scale of tiny moans sing from him as I find the pressure points that release all the tensions we build up from walking.

The room is thick with the lather of coconut oil, a scent that’s sweet and full, matching the warm air that reverberates in my chest, hitting something sensual and base. I uncover one of his legs, folding the thin cotton sheet back so his entire flank is exposed—thigh, hip, the perfectly sculpted round of his buttock.

I work one leg at a time, grinding my thumbs into the stiff muscle of his calf, finding the knots and unraveling them. The oil on my hands glides over his thigh, igniting something warm in my core as I drive into his tough, firm muscle. It takes both my hands to cover his flank’s thickness, my fingers curled inward near the sensitive skin between his legs that I’m trying to be mindful not to graze.

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