Except maybe me.
She startles, turning toward me with her hand on her chest, bringing my attention there, and now all I can think about is sucking her tits into my mouth and leaving bruises for me to look at later.
“Sorry, everything here is just so beautiful. I love how dark and cozy it is.”
“Is that so?” I look around, trying to see what she sees. “Most people think it’s depressing.”
“Oh no. Not at all. I could picture myself snuggling up on the couch with a book.” She gestures to the fireplace. “That would be lit, some hot cocoa to drink, and—” She stops abruptly, snapping her mouth shut. “I’m sorry. I’m just really nervous. I say weird things when I’m nervous.”
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted this cold or not?” I hold up the bottles, needing to get on the subject of something safe. Bumbling isn’t a quality I find attractive,yet this young woman is fascinating. I find her gracelessness endearing, her innocence sweet. And those big green eyes of hers are enthralling. Which is all completely fucking insane.
“Oh, cold is fine.”
I nod, handing her the cold bottle and putting the other on the coffee table.
She cracks the bottle of Fiji open and takes a long sip. I stare at her throat as she swallows, imagining her swallowing my cock and all my cum too. It stirs in my pants, which is not what I need. Laying on an erection during a massage isn’t comfortable. And if she starts me off on my back, well, that’s going to be awkward.
I’ll admit, I hadn’t actually planned on her giving me a massage today. We were going to talk about the situation at hand. What she saw, what she knows, and what she plans to do with it. But now that I’ve seen her, seen those hands, I want them on me, and this may be the only chance to make that happen. Maybe this is sick, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen something I want so badly, and I’m not in the habit of giving up things I want.
“So, should we get started on your massage?” she asks, capping her water.
“Yes, I think that’s wise. Right this way.”
I move out of the parlor and toward the back of the house where the in-home spa is.
Plenty of people have told me my house is too small for the land, but I think it’s the perfect size. It’s spacious with three bedrooms, one being a master, and all of them with ensuites. Aside from that, there are three other bathrooms—all full. There is a library, an office, a five-car garage, kitchen, dining room, parlor, theater that seats twenty, butler’s pantry, and a wine cellar.
In the back, through the solarium and outside, is an in-ground pool and a greenhouse where fresh herbs, vegetables, fruits, and flowers are grown.
Being someone in development, I find wasting space silly. I wanted my home to be something I both enjoy and use. A ton of extra space for the sake of showing it off, just because I can, is dumb. It’s also a waste of money. I’m not in the business of wasting money.
As we walk, I hear Seraphine’s whispers of surprise each time we pass a room. I can’t help but smile to myself, enjoying her excitement over the home I live in. I take pride in my work, and I love when people approve of what I’ve done. I guess I’m a sucker for praise, what can I say?
“You know I’m in property development,” I say.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Harrison mentioned that.”
I nod as we continue on, reaching the spa which isn’t too far off from the solarium—one of my favorite places in the house. There is nothing like sitting in the hot tub with a glass of whiskey, looking out at Elliot Bay. It’s a ways away, at the edge of the property, but the view from here is spectacular.
“Here we are,” I say once we’re in the spa room.
Like she did to all the other rooms, she looks around in wonder.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been to my son’s condo. Five years, I suppose, considering that’s how long he’s lived there. It may not be as big as this house, but the same woman who decorated my office and my house did his, as well. This young woman can’t be this impressed over my home, can she? It’s not like she hasn’t seen money if she’s been with my son for so long.
“I can’t believe you have this in your house,” she says in shock as she moves deeper into the room. It’s not a big place, just enough for what it needs to be.
I look around, never having thought much of having a spa in my house. I don’t use this room as often as I thought I would, preferring the solarium when I’m home. But it’s good to have in case I need it. Like today, for example.
“Is that…” She takes a few steps deeper, then laughs. “That’s a shower.”
“To rinse after a massage. I don’t like the way the oils stay on my skin.”
“Have you tried different products?” she asks, looking over the wall of lotions and oils. Her fingers run along the bottles as if they are fragile and not plastic. “This brand tends to be oily, but they have some that rub in better. You go through more of it because of it, but if it would make for a better experience.”
Seeing her hands running over bottles of oil and speaking of massages andrubbinghas me thinking of her touching my dick again.
“I’m fine showering afterwards,” I say, knowing I’ll likely never use these products or any other brand again. I’ve lived inthis house since I moved to Seattle and have never once gotten a massage here. In fact, I’m not even sure the table will hold me, it’s so old, but I guess we will find out. Had I intended on getting a massage when I called her, I’d have ordered a new one. The only reason I know the oils leave a residue is because they’re the brand used by the massage therapist I went to years ago, after dislocating my elbow.
