The door opens. Two therapists enter—Anya and Christoph, both serene, both completely unaware they're about to facilitate the most torturous hour of my life.
"Good afternoon," Anya says softly. "I'll be working with you today." She moves to Jane's table. Christoph settles beside mine.
"Please just relax," Anya instructs. "Let me know if the pressure is too much."
"Okay, don’t worry about me. I like it deep. Level four, please." Jane breathes.
Sweet mercy.
Christoph's hands land on my shoulders—firm, professional, completely irrelevant. Because my entire nervous system just locked onto the table next to me like a targeting system.
Anya works Jane's shoulders first. Slow, deliberate pressure. Jane lets out a small sigh—barely a sound, more an exhale.
My jaw tightens.
"You're carrying significant tension here," Christoph observes. "Try to let go."
Let go. Right. While Jane is right next to me and Anya is about to spend the next sixty minutes turning her to liquid.
Christoph moves lower. I feel nothing.
Anya hits a knot in Jane's upper back.
“Oh—" Jane's voice breaks on the syllable, breathless and unguarded. "Right there. Don't stop."
She's talking to the masseuse.
I'm dying.
My hands fist in the sheet.
I know exactly what that sound means. I heard it last night, against my mouth, when I—
"Mmm." Jane shifts slightly. "That's really good."
The blood drains south so fast I get lightheaded. My cock is so hard the sheet might as well be a tent. I wonder if she’ll moan just like that if I'm inside her.
Christoph is explaining something about fascia and myofascial release. I nod without hearing a word.
I hear Anya move and starts working deeper. Jane makes another sound—softer this time, almost a murmur—and I grip the edge of the table hard enough to whiten my knuckles.
So much for Game Day focus. This woman is dismantling me with a massage she doesn't even know I'm listening to.
"Oh," Jane breathes. "Right there."
I close my eyes.
Christoph works on my right shoulder. I catalogue every sound Jane makes—the small catches, the quiet exhales, the way her breathing goes slack when Anya finds the right spot.
"Your heart rate is elevated," Christoph notes, mildly concerned. "Are you sure you want to continue?"
"I'm fine," I say through my teeth.
Anya asks Jane to shift position—turning her onto her back so she can work her front. Jane moves with a rustling of the sheet, and I keep my eyes shut, but I hear the adjustment. Hear the sheet settle against skin. Hear the small intake of breath as Anya's hands find new territory.
I turn my head and open my eyes. Just a fraction. Just enough.
Jane is on her back now, sheet draped across her chest, one arm resting at her side. Anya works the other arm—fingers pressing into the muscle of Jane's forearm, drawing out another quiet sound that does things to my pulse I'm not going to examine.
