1 - JENNA
Oh, my God. That feels so freaking good.
“Right there,”I hissed as his strong, warm hands caressed my back, pinching and kneading the tight muscles.
Grasping the edges of the table, I struggled to keep still and not moan any louder as waves of pleasure rolled through my naked body. This man was turning me into mush. The room smelled like lavender, and I focused on the soft music coming from the speaker in the corner as he moved lower, down past my shoulders to a tender spot right above my butt.
“A little to the right.” The breathy voice squeaking through my lips was so unlike my usual bravado, but I could have cared less as the thin white sheet slipped further down my exposed back.
Don’t stop.
A soft moan escaped my lips, and my toes curled when his hands hit that one particular area that needed all of his concentration. I gripped the table harder and closed my eyes as he dug his thumbs in deeper, dimpling the skin.
What was his name again? Fred? George? Ron? Honestly, it didn’t matter, as long as he kept touching me. I moaned again, but it must have sounded like a grunt because he stopped his caresses. Sitting up, I tried blowing my hair out of my face but somehow only managed to make him back up further.
“Um, are you okay?” he said.
Propping my elbows up and ensuring my boobs were covered, I turned to glare at Mr. Muscles. There he stood in all his tall, Norwegian glory. He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, waiting for me to tap-out, or at least speak.
“Yes. I’m more than okay, Mr. Muscles. No safe word here. Do your worst.”
Oh. My. God. Backtrack!
“I mean. I’m sorry, Sir. Please continue.” Mumbling and mortified, I hiked the sheet up higher before face-planting back on the massage table. It was the only way to save myself the embarrassment of looking into his ice-blue eyes.
After another second and some serious telepathic communication, his hands began their firm caresses again, moving down my legs and to the balls of my feet.
Thank goodness I remembered to shave.
The last thing I needed was to damage his perfect hands with my prickly leg hair.
Just once, I’d like to not worry about shaving, pedicures, and the thousand other little things we, women, do to look presentable. There was nothing wrong with a bit of makeup and self-care, but most days, I came home covered in dog hair and cat scratches—the life of a vet and all that. I mean, a ferret peed on me yesterday, but at least my manicure was on point.
My nameless guy with the magic hands pressed down hard on the arch of my foot, and another moan slipped out. This time, I didn’t hide the sound. I whimpered and shuttered, making him press down harder.
“Is this too much for you, Miss Crews?” he said, using those magic hands to caress the pressure point he’d agitated.
“No,” was all I managed to whisper before he continued to mold and reshape my body into one that wasn’t overflowing with stress and indecision. I breathed deep and closed my eyes, focusing on his hands, the music, and how good I felt.
Either I dozed off or passed out with pleasure because all too soon, he closed the door with a click and told me quietly to get up and dressed when I was ready, and there’d be cucumber water with strawberries waiting for me up front. I swear I heard him say it was a pleasure serving me today, but my body still had to be high on endorphins from the last hour spent under his spell.
“Cucumber water? Count me in,” I said to myself as I groaned and stood up. The promise of fruit and hydration was the only thing keeping me from pulling the thin sheet higher and falling back asleep.
My muscles felt looser than they had in years, and I stumbled around for my clothes, trying to regain the feeling in my legs that Mr. Magic Hands had turned into jelly. Dragging on my green scrub pants and a matching top with tiny porcupines wearing pink bows, I turned on my phone only to be rewarded with several text messages, all from the same person—the bane of my existence—Dr. Duvall.
He hadn’t always been an ass, and I didn’t understand what was with the sudden mood swings.
When we first met, he took a chance on me, right out of vet school, and welcomed me into his practice,Animal Medical Clinic, AMCfor short, but the vet techs and I had noticed a change within the last year. He’d become short-tempered and more concerned with making money instead of the animals under our care.
Peering at my phone, I sighed and shook my head at what he’d sent—an itemized list of the treatment plan I used on a sweet, stray dog before a young couple adopted him. Of course, I’d pay the cost like always, but this time he ended the message with a snarky comment about prohibiting stray animals into the clinic.
I started working with him four years ago when he said he was looking to partner with someone straight out of vet school, someone for him to take under his wing. At twenty-eight, it wasn’t like I was a teenager, but that was how he treated me most days.
All the work Mr. Magic Hands had done was gone. A tension headache started as I made my way to the front of the spa. The receptionist handed me a tall glass of cucumber water and motioned me to one of the lounge chairs, where a small plate of fruit was waiting. My phone beeped again, reminding me that my responsibilities came first, no matter how frustrated I was with Dr. Duvall and what he was doing toAMC.
Annaleigh: Hope you enjoyed your day. It only took you three months to use your present, lol. Thank you again for always taking care of my boy. Love you!
Me: Anytime. Drinking delicious cucumber water before heading back to the clinic.
