I'd been in this room so many times that I could see it with my eyes closed. Done up in gold and muted sage green, swaths of amber silk hung from slender rods to pool in designer heaps on the floor. It was supposed to be luxurious. I knew better. It was expensive. It was someone's imagining of tasteful and unassuming but it lacked both personality and character. Boring. Like the glass of water with its fancy slice of cucumber floating on the top, it had no flavor yet I was supposed to be impressed. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure this shit out. Quinn would have loved it. He'd have enjoyed the hushed footsteps of the massage therapists and estheticians as they all but wafted down the carpeted hallways gliding toward their next deeply relaxed client.
It was such bullshit.
I waited for Linda and tried not to sneeze. Two p.m. every Friday. Two o'clock. P.M. Standard. Weekly. No exceptions. How difficult could it be to arrive on time?
I looked at my watch. It was 2:04.
I didn't want to be obnoxious, but I was getting annoyed with Linda. She should be here working my shoulders and neck. Twelve months she'd been trying to ease the strain of my job and all those other disasters this year had wrought. Nikki's death. Quinn taking off for the Keys and making me buy out his half of the house.
Molly.
I flipped over onto my stomach, shifted around to find a comfortable spot, adjusted myself and shut my eyes. My forehead rested in that hole covered in cotton toweling. It reeked of lavender. Why did everything in the goddamn room have to stink of it? I opened my mouth to breathe. I always meant to complain about the smell, but by the time Linda was through working out the kinks in my back it didn't seem that important. It shouldn't seem important now. This was yet another indication that I was stressed out and irritated.
Irritated that it was currently 2:05 and still no sign of Linda.
The music was getting to me. Who would choose this shit? Birds warbled over Celtic fiddles and bagpipes and penny whistles and--holy hell, it was giving me a tension headache. A little Dave Matthews would have been appreciated. I was tired and tense and whining to myself. Even I didn't like me right now.
I rolled my shoulders and forced myself to relax by trying that technique Linda said would help. I was skeptical, however, I needed to do something productive. I began a slow tensing and releasing of each muscle group in my body in an effort to find my inner tranquility. That wasn't likely, but it would pass the time.
2:07.
I started with my toes. Squeeze. Release. Breathe. Try not to choke on lavender. Squeeze. Release. I worked up my legs. Squeeze. Release. Breathe. I tightened my thighs and clenched my ass tightly as the door opened with a soft click.
I froze, and then relaxed. I imagined my ass deflating under Linda's scrutiny. No matter. I wasn't here to impress her. I was here to pay her for services rendered.
"Mr. Weston?" A soft masculine voice surprised me and I jerked my head from the cushion. Just inside the room, a very attractive young man stood patiently. His dark hair floated around his head in curls that fell to his shoulders, his light eyes--I couldn't tell if they were gray or a pale blue in this light--were framed by thick, soot-black lashes. He waited politely for me to respond. I tore my gaze from his and took a gander at the rest of him.
Oh, here was a real numbnut. Soft flowing natural fiber pants (I was betting they were hemp) in the shade of mud stopped some few inches above the man's ankles. A snug black muscle shirt with a lotus in lime green hugged his spare, muscular form. His biceps were banded with Celtic knot tattoos. Good God. He was barefoot and wearing a toe ring and had a wide leather strap around his left wrist. A watch? No, it was a cuff.
Great.
"Where's Linda?" I grumbled, my voice rough due to the overabundance of aromatherapy candles. I cleared my throat and watched as the fey boy narrowed his eyes. He was stunning, with sharp features offset by a wide, plump mouth. But who the hell dressed this way? Ali Baba? I dismissed him, sticking my head back in the hole. My shoulders stretched the width of the bed and my big feet dangled from the end. They really needed longer tables. "I'll wait, but tell her get a move on. I've got to be someplace by four."
"Mr. Weston. My name.... "His soft voice trailed off into mumbling. "Linda sent ... daughter became unexpectedly ill and she had..." I strained to hear his benign, unassuming voice over the plinking of the Celtic bird band.
"What? Speak up." I nestled my head more firmly into the headrest, stretched my shoulders again and took a cleansing breath. What was this kid mumbling about? Linda not here?
"Mr. Weston." Good. Firmer. I could hear now. "Linda was called away. I'm her replacement. If this is uncomfortable for you, we can skip it. Or perhaps you could reschedule for tomorrow?" Was there an edge there? Intriguing. I smiled into flower-scented towels. "I want to make sure that you aren't opposed to having a male therapist."
I snorted. "Uncomfortable? Why would I be uncomfortable? Are you licensed?"
"Of course. We have to be. Some men would prefer a female therapist. That's all. I'm more than capable."
Somehow I doubted that. "Fine. I don't care who does it and I don't have a problem. Just get busy. Time's wasting and I paid for the hour."
I closed my eyes and waited to see if he'd leave or get on with it. I knew I could be brusque, but I had things to do and this conversation was pointless--although in all honesty, his rumpled feathers were sort of amusing.
"Is there a scent you prefer?"
"Anything but lavender."
The sound of a cap spinning and then the brush of warm body against my shoulder "I have something you may enjoy. It's organic shea butter and this carries no scent."
"Dandy." Who cared? Linda would have just started in. No talking. I didn't shell out seventy-five bucks to chit chat. I had to pick Molly up from the babysitter at four, swing by the office and figure out supper. Then the evening would stretch out before us. Endless. Molly, needy and quiet and small, and me unable to fill the silence.
We'd take Prissy for a walk. That would kill a half hour.
Hot hands slid shea butter over my skin. It soothed my ire almost instantly. That little man was strong. He worked my shoulders and back, his hands gliding smooth and firm, his thumbs digging deep to find the knotted mass that was my constant companion.
"I'm going to do some acupressure here, I think. Let me know if you find this unpleasant." I guess I wasn't supposed to answer because he dug his sadistic, bony thumbs straight into a knot the size of a quarter right in my shoulder blade.
"Christ!" I tried to stay loose but my body stiffened, nearly arching off the table. The heavy blankets and piled sheeting dipped low on my spine.
He pressed me back down with only his thumbs. "That's it. Just breathe. And three. Two. One." His soft voice encouraged me, although it was much firmer now and in control. The tight knot of muscle dispersed into a ray of heated release through my back. He rubbed the area briskly and moved on as I sank down gratefully into the blessed comfort of the massage table. "Was that too intense, Mr. Weston? We can work on a few more. You've got some spots of tension here."
"Keep going." The man's thumbs were magic. I felt that muscle-knot explode. Or implode. Whichever, it was a relief. And for now, the pain was gone. Amazing. I listened as he warmed more shea butter in his hands. What was his name? D something. Daniel. Darrell? I relaxed and let those gifted hands work my left shoulder and smooth on down my biceps. He gently lifted my arm and brought it forward so that it dangled off the top of the table. Linda didn't do this. What was wrong with her? Obviously I didn't know my way around a good massage because this poorly dressed man was exceptionally talented. What kind of guy did this kind of work? Didn't he have a real job? Maybe he was moonlighting. Working his way through law school--
A groan escaped me as strong, capable hands tugged and caressed the muscles down my arm, over my forearm, soothing, kneading and massaging their way to my wrist and then over the tired flesh of my palm. His hand slid onward to rub each one of my fingers. It was oddly intimate. The therapists' palm, for the briefest second, aligned with mine and for a fleeting heartbeat, I was sure I'd grip that hand and hold on despite all effort not to do so. I fought the compulsion to lace my fingers through his. Like a child being led or a lover in a moment of sweetness and trust.
Fuck, this was weird.
But Darrell, or Daniel, or David? David. That was his name. David moved on to my other arm, beginning the process all over again until I anticipated the moment he would once more align our palms in some horrible yet hopeful, almost desperate need for human contact. I forced myself to breathe normally and tried to calm my racing heart as David worked my wrist in a slow circle. Manipulating and rotating until his thumbs eased into the meaty flesh of my callused palm, the pads of my fingers, the tender center of my hand. My fingers curled toward his.
And my cock began to take notice. Oh, shit.
I concentrated on the music, now a bladder stimulating combination of falling water and Celtic fiddles and pipes. David efficiently placed my arm back onto the table and worked my shoulder, down the long sweep of my spine, to the small of my back. Able thumbs digging, pressing, swirling--releasing a year's worth of stubborn stress from my body. He wasn't taking any prisoners as he ground those muscles into submission. I groaned, stunned by how much my libido seemed to love it.
Shifting into the cushion, I attempted to discreetly ease the bend in my dick, maybe move it into a better position or to rub it harder into the flannel like a teenager fucking his mattress in the dark of the night--or as a grown man would later on this evening remembering an acutely sensual experience. I wondered if a wet dream could happen while awake. I had a feeling I was about to find out.
I started to feel uncomfortable. Started? Hell, I was going to have to turn over at some point in this adventure and then I'd truly feel like a pervert. Here it was: I understood why David made his little speech earlier. He wanted to save me the embarrassment of getting turned on. Shit. This had never happened with Linda.
)
All Seth really wanted was a simple massage--was that too much to ask? When his usual therapist is replaced by a sexy young masseur, Seth finds himself obsessed with the unpredictable--and wholly inappropriate--David Cooke. Pushed to the breaking point by forces both mysterious and not so mysterious, Seth must lose his rigid control to find the happy ending both he and David deserve.
