Page 19 of Whiskey Splash

The whole side of his body is beautiful, every inch made strong and built with perfect intent. He has the type of body artists would want to sculpt, marble stone giving way to sinews and muscle tone.

My fingers spread wide, fanning over his whole flank, swirling and kneading. Then I use my forearm, up to the elbow, to grind against the side muscle. The firmness of my padded bone glides over the side of his ass and up his hip. It’s the most intimate part of a massage. I’ve exposed his buttock when folding the sheet back, and now I follow the same track with my hands, moving in full strides, stroking his hip and ass and thigh, over the perfect mounds of his muscle, across and down. It’s an aggressive motion, my hands covering the toned cheek of his ass with each pass, and for a hot moment I imagine what it would be like to touch him in a different context, for me to be clutching his ass instead of massaging it, gripping his sculpted behind as his hips thrust with me beneath him.

My core throbs with the visceral heat of such an image. The fact that I’m actuallytouchinghim causes my breath to shallow and my body to grow heavy.

I move to the second leg and repeat the process, but my mind is a mess. I know the actual feel of his body now. The images fluttering through my imagination have tactile sensations to fuel them—and I’m suddenly aching.

I dig into the knots of his flank, chanting to myself to be professional. Ignore his perfectly sculpted ass. Ignore his strong and powerful hips. Ignore the thickness of his thighs and how wicked it would feel to straddle them!

My clit pounds and it’s my turn to muffle a moan.

I’m wet. The dampness of my undergarments is as slippery as the coconut oil that glistens on Desmond’s skin. My body is ready. My vagina thawed and eager to do more than just be imagining.

I squeeze my legs together and force myself to focus on my hands, on my simple fingers digging and sliding. Simple hands on skin, his skin, his body. Nothing more than hands and oil and the digging out the knots. Hands and oil and—

I step back, breaking the connection.

I’m close enough to finishing the second leg that I hope he’s not suspicious, because I need a second to breathe without touching him. I reset the sheet so he’s covered and walk back over to my station, my fingers buzzing.

I use my yoga techniques to focus on my breathing—in through the nose and out through the mouth, in through the nose and out through the mouth—intentionally elongating each breath so they aren’t so shallow and ragged. I stand in front of my station for far too long, preparing myself for the fact that we’re only halfway through this massage.

“Okay, Desmond,” I say softly, facing the wall and trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m going to need you to flip over onto your back and then I can massage your front.”

I’ve said that phrase a thousand times to all my other clients, but suddenly saying it to him, with my body so turned on—it sounds hotly sexual. Asking him to flip onto his back feels wildly intimate, and I realize there’s a distance that exists when I’m massaging his back, an ease to the fact that his face is hidden and I can’t actually watch his reactions. But with his face turned upward, I’ll be able to see every exhale and twitch of his lip—and hotter still is the fact that Iwantto see them. Iwantto see the effect I have on him.

Desmond is silent.

The fact that he isn’t turning over sends a cold chill up my back as he stays face-down on his stomach. He probably heard the heat in my voice and knows exactly what I was thinking. After all, I’m completely unable to hide my emotions. Shit! I’ve probably made him so uncomfortable, he’s trying to concoct an exit plan so he can get out of here and report me to my boss.

“Desmond?” I whisper tentatively, hoping he’s just so relaxed he didn’t hear me the first time. “I’m, uh, I’m done with your—”

“We have a bit of a problem,” Desmond says quickly, not moving, and ice splinters down my back.

Shit! He totally knows. I should never have taken him on as a client!

“A, uh, a problem?” I breathe out, tightness constricting my throat. “And what, um—?”

Desmond moves his arms up to the top of the table where he can lift up his torso. He shifts enough to lift his head and I brace myself for whatever angry I’m-going-to-get-you-fired look is about to hit me.

“Well—” he hesitates, not looking at me yet. “Let's just say you're very good at this.”

“I’m—?” I tilt my head to the side, not understanding. “What?”

Desmond laughs softly, a hint of embarrassment in his tone, and the cold icing my back spreads exponentially. He’s afraid to say how inappropriate I’ve been!

“You're a professional,” he continues, finally turning his face to me, and I want to apologize for the fact that I really haven’t been! When, he says, “I'm sure this happens to you all the time.”

I frown. This doesnot happen all the time!

But then, his eyebrows raise and I swear a hint of color feathers his cheeks. “How about we say—” he continues. “That this has been a very relaxing and, well …stimulatingmassage.”

His eyes narrow, waiting patiently, and it’s not until he flicks his chin toward his hips and my eyes shoot down his body that I get it!

“Oh God!” My eyes widen. He hasn’t flipped over yet because—“You have a—” I slap my hand over my mouth to make sure I don’t say it out loud.

Erection.

Holy shit!

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