Page 39 of Untether

—Milton,Paradise Lost

Iheard what Cal said to the camera, and my always-on editor brain does a little happy dance at what will probably have women all over the nation reaching for their vibes before I forcibly shut down that part of my consciousness.

I’m not here to edit.

I’m here to be undone.

After a five-minute wrangle between the crew and the lights, the door clicks softly shut and Cal and I are alone. I can appreciate, now, the overall effect he’s created with the candles. The music. The massage table. The space is dim and womblike and serene—not at all like a sex club and exactly like a high-end spa. Except I’ve never been to a spa where the masseurs are this hot.

He stands in front of me, impossibly gorgeous, his fittedblack clothes showing off that gym-honed bulk. He’s made everything all about me, so far, buthe’sthe most important part of this entire experience. Which is a vague way of articulating the fact that I can’t wait to get his clothes off at some point.

I can’t wait to see that body. Feel those muscles.

The idea of lying naked underthatis so insane that it makes me feel a little woozy if I dwell on it too much.

‘You doing okay?’ he asks softly.

‘Yeah,’ I tell him. I mean it.

‘Good.’ He pats the bed. ‘Take the robe off and get yourself on the bed, face down, under the towel. The eye mask is up to you, but I thought it might help to cut out stimuli. I’ll turn around.’

I have to stop myself from smiling, because he sounds exactly like a professional masseur, and I can’t help but find it adorable that he’s trying so hard to put me at ease. I do as he says, laying my robe on a chair and sliding my naked body between the fluffy towel and the heated bed. I even put the sleep mask on, though I suspect his reasons for suggesting it have less to do with stimuli and more to do with removing some layers of self-consciousness.

He’s a sweetie.

And this is already heaven.

Believe me when I say that as a single mom, I find even getting a bikini wax relaxing. Lying on a bed in relative silence for twenty minutes? I’ll take it. But, as Callum moves around the bed, tugging the heavy towel upwards so it covers my shoulders and smoothing firm hands over it, I feel cared for in a way that I haven’t since my last facial. I get daily, nightly cuddles from my boys, of course, but caregivers they are not. So having a guy who’s slowly becoming a friend perform this simple ritual for me is as touching as itis intimate. I cradle my head in my arms and let out a contented sigh as my eyes drift closed.

‘I’m going to go slowly,’ Cal says. ‘I want this to feel as much like a regular massage as possible. I meant what I said out there—there’s a happy ending if you want it, but it’s optional. Let’s see how we go. Today’s about getting you used to me touching you and letting you see how much I like it. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ I echo easily, because I’m on board, and the tension is already leaving my body.

‘Good.’ He’s bending over, his breath warm on my ear. ‘Because I can’t wait to get my hands on every inch of your gorgeous body.’

I make a nervous, high-pitched noise at the back of my throat that I’m not proud of, but I sense him moving away and hear the clink of bottles. I adjust my head so I’m facedown in the bed’s padded hole. Then he’s back, and I’m hit with the most wonderful scent. It’s similar to whatever candles are burning in the room—heady and rich and rounded, and I sniff appreciatively.

‘Here are a couple of options for your massage oil,’ he says. ‘This one is the restorative one, and this one is more energising.’

He waves another scent under my nose. He’s right. It’s fresh and zingy—grapefruit, maybe? It’s lovely, but I’m not here to be energised.

I’m here to be restored.

‘The first one.’ I wonder if he did that masseur thing where he dabbed a little of each oil on a cotton pad? It almost makes my heart hurt to think about it.

‘Great. I’m going to start with your legs. If you want me to stop at any time, I will. Just say so.’

I hum my acknowledgement, and he’s off, lifting acorner of the towel to expose one calf and foot. I’m momentarily chilly, but then his big hands are on me, smoothing warm oil down my leg and rubbing at the arch of my foot with thumbs so strong I practically moan with pleasure.

‘Pressure okay?’ he asks.

‘Perfect,’ I mumble. I’m in a darkened, sightless cocoon, my front warmed by this fantastic heated bed and my left leg in sensory heaven. And, right here and now, I decide to take this moment for what it is. It’s not some intimidating gateway leading to a terrifying path of debauchery. It’s a massage. A free one. And mothers do not turn down free massages, period. Nor do they fail to wring every last drop of pleasure from them.

Cal finds his rhythm, and he’s so convincing, so sure of himself, that I almost forget who he is and why I’m here. I allow myself to be lulled into a state that’s fifty percent contented sleepiness and fifty percent awareness that having this gorgeous man’s hands commanding my body like this feels seriously great.

After he’s worked my calf and foot until I’m practically purring with pleasure, he lifts the towel higher, so it’s grazing the crease where my ass meets my thigh. More oil goes on, and his strokes grow longer, more decadent, sweeping easily down my lubricated thighs and calves. His large hands cover their ground easily, his thumbs dragging down my inner thighs.

The overall sensation is so wonderful that I have to remind myself that this is okay. That the warmth spreading through my lower half at his touch is allowed. He’s not some poor random guy. If I start to fantasise about those hands of his moving higher, that’s okay. I’m not violating him.

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