Mateo’s hands feel so good.
His hands move faster and faster, and everything in my body tightens and tightens and tightens. My breath quickens, and I gaze at Mateo and his beautiful face and his sweet concentration and his amazing, amazing hands.
And then my body dances, and I am not thinking at all.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Mateo
Cum spills from Florian’s body, and the room smells bleachy and masculine. I sit back, kneeling on my ankles.
Florian’s beautiful body shakes, then stills. His pale skin, a product of too little sunny vacations, is pink and delicious and sweat makes his already incredible planes of muscle glisten.
I want to crawl up to him and kiss him. I want to claim him and adore him and fuck him.
I want to tell him that he is amazing and move his long, powerful legs over my shoulders and do the sort of things no one has done to him.
But I am here to give him a massage, and I’ve already taken liberties that should have been untaken.
We met in a professional capacity, and I have betrayed my duties a thousand-fold.
But I wanted to feel that hard cock under my fingers. I wanted to memorize each vein. I wanted to feel his hardness pulse within my hand. I wanted to see his chest pinken andpinken and see his rosy peaks tighten. I wanted to hear his breath quicken and see him writhe on the bed.
But more than all of that I wanted him to have pleasure.
I wanted him to relax and let loose.
Because there is no one more perfect than he is. No one more good and virtuous.
And I wasn’t going to leave this apartment with him feeling awkward that I saw his bulge. I don’t want to imagine him sad and ashamed.
And so, I touched him.
I broke every massage therapist vow.
I acted like a sleazy person who hides behind my profession to offer things that should not be offered. The kind of people who make people raise their eyebrows when I tell them my profession, so I must say ‘not that kind of course’ and laugh, like it means nothing that there are massage therapists who are prostitutes.
It’s not like there are hockey players who are prostitutes.
Or neuroscientists who are prostitutes.
Or professors at Ludwig-Maximilian University who are prostitutes.
No. It was something with my profession, something I was sure I would never do, something I?—
Oh, God.
His family paid for dinner.
“I’ve never done that before,” I blurt.
He blinks. His eyes are dazed.
“Sorry.” I hop up off the bed and dash to the bathroom. I wet some tissues for him then hurry back, grabbing some dry tissues too.
I am not here to talk about my feelings.
