He watches me, those amber eyes tracking every flicker of emotion across my face. He sees it all. The shock, the fear, the way my hands have started to tremble at my sides.
The silence stretches between us. One second. Two. Three.
I could run. I could scream. I could demand to know what he’s doing here and why he’s determined to weave himself into every corner of my life until there’s nowhere left for me to hide.
Or I can pretend I have no idea who he is.
I choose pretense.
“Welcome to the Palazzo Spa.” My voice comes out steady and professional, which is a small miracle. “My name is Mina, and I’ll be your massage therapist today.”
His brow rises slightly, but he doesn’t call me out on the absurdity of introducing myself to a man who’s known me our whole lives. He just inclines his head slightly, playing along.
“Thank you, Mina.”
My name in his mouth. I’d forgotten how it sounds, low and deliberate, like he’s savoring each syllable.
I force myself to continue, clinging to the script like a lifeline. “What type of treatment would you like today? We offer Swedish massage, deep tissue, hot stone therapy, aromatherapy…” I’m barely aware of what I’m saying, the words tumbling out while my heart pounds against my ribs. “Sports massage, reflexology, or I can recommend a combination based on your preference.”
“You know best, Mina.”
I falter. “I’m sorry?”
“I’ll have whatever massage you think is best.” His gaze hasn’t left my face. “I trust your judgment in these things. I always have.”
My heart pounds harder.
He trusts my judgment in how he likes to be touched.
“A Swedish massage. Full body, focused on relaxation.” I gesture toward the table. “If you’d like to disrobe and lie face down?”
He gets smoothly to his feet, turns around, and the robe drops from his body. Normally I’m already turning away to select oils as I point my clients toward the table, but today I’m not thinking, and Cristiano moves without hesitancy.
He’s standing in front of me naked.
Butt naked.
My eyes drop to his muscular ass as he reaches out to hang his robe on a hook.
I’ve seen hundreds of naked clients. It’s part of the job. Bodies are just bodies, and I learned years ago to view them clinically, without judgment or reaction.
But this is Cristiano, and I think a woman would have to be made of stone to not react to his body.
He’s taller than I remembered, broader through the shoulders, every inch of him carved with lean muscle. His skin is golden, like he’s spent years sunbathing under the Italian sun. I’m vaguely aware that he has some ink across his back, but I’m too transfixed by the sight of him to notice what it is.
Heat floods my cheeks. I look away quickly, but too late, and reach for a fresh towel.
Cristiano settles onto the massage table with an easy grace that shouldn’t be possible for a man his size. I drape the towel over his lower half, my knuckles accidentally brushing his skin. His ass is perfect beneath the white fabric, like the rest of him.
His body is a dream. A nightmare. Both at once.
I move to the warmer and retrieve the oil, taking longer than necessary, using the moment to steady my breathing. He’s face down now. He can’t see me or the way my hands are shaking or the flush that’s spreading down my neck.
I can do this. It’s just a massage.
I pour oil into my palms, warming it between my hands, and approach the table.
The first touch is electric. Even through the barrier of oil, I can feel the heat of him, and the tension coiled beneath his skin. I press my palms flat against his shoulder blades and begin to work, searching for knots, easing into the muscle. He’s quiet beneath my hands. I can see his ribs expanding and contracting with each slow breath. In and out. In and out. Deliberately controlled, like everything else about him.
