"Relax," he murmurs, close enough that I feel his breath against my ear.
His fingers work into the knots along my shoulders. He finds every tender spot with unnerving accuracy, applying pressure that borders on pain before releasing.
"Your straps are in the way." His voice is rougher now. "Can I move them?"
"Yes."
He slides the first one, then the other strap off my shoulders. His fingers return to my skin, working the muscles of my upper back with a thoroughness that makes my head start to feel heavy.
I let it fall back against his shoulder without thinking.
"Better?" The word is practically a growl.
"Mmm."
His hands move lower, thumbs working the length of my spine. I feel the heat of his chest against my back, solid and warm. The jets pulse around us, creating a cocoon of warmth and sensation.
"So, what nickname would you prefer?" he asks, hands still working magic on my lower back, sliding his thumbs between us.
I shift slightly in his lap, trying to ease into the pressure—and freeze.
Because I feel him.
Hard and thick behind me. It's unmistakable.
"Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Yes, you did." His hands grip my hips, holding me still. "And don't apologize."
The air between us changes.
Before I can process what's happening, he lifts me smoothly—as if I weigh nothing—and repositions me on the corner seat. Directly over a jet.
The pressure hits exactly where I need it, pulsing against my center through the thin fabric of my bikini bottoms. My body reacts immediately, involuntarily. A gasp escapes my lips, my fingers digging into his thighs to keep myself grounded.
"How does that feel?" His voice is right beside my ear now.
I can only nod, incapable of words.
His hands settle on my waist, steadying me as the jet continues its relentless rhythm. Every nerve ending in my body seems concentrated in that one point of contact, pressure building with each pulse.
"Can I kiss you here?" His fingers glide over the side of my throat, feather-light.
I nod again, not trusting my voice.
His lips pressed against my pulse point, soft and deliberate. The contrast between his gentle mouth and the insistent pressure of the jet makes my head spin.
"How about here, Nattie?"
Nattie.
The nickname makes something in my chest twist. It sounds intimate. Personal. Nothing like the teasing distance of 'Bunny Hill'.
His mouth moves to my collarbone, then lower, kissing along the edge of my bikini top. A small moan escapes before I can stop it.
He makes a sound low in his throat, half-groan, half-growl, and pulls me back against him.
I feel him fully now. The hard length of him pressing against my lower back, thick and wanting. The same cock I glimpsed that morning in the shower when he couldn’t wait for me to get out.
