Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
His lips curve into a faint smile, and his intense gaze holds mine. "Ricco. Ricco Montavio," he replies, not meeting my eyes. “And I’m not sure. I’ve never been massaged before. I’m feeling tight and sore.”
I nod. “You lift?”
Unless he’s personally building replicas of the Great Pyramids by hand, there’s no way this man looks that good and doesn’t lift.
“Yeah.”
Guiding him to the massage room, my curiosity deepens as I catch glimpses of the tattoos peeking from under his sleeves. What stories do they carry, I wonder—sacred secrets etched onto his skin?
“Here’s a pamphlet with all we have to offer. Please, take your time with your selection.”
It’s almost amusing trying to keep this professional, when I’m fully immersed in the thought of his naked skin against mine, his weight pressing me onto this very table, his—
I didn’t know I was this desperate.
I pretend to tidy up the immaculate area while he looks over the menu.
“This one.”
I school my features and intentionally force my eyebrows back down when he points to “The Full Monty: Hot stones, massage oils, a full body experience created to smooth the body and soothe the mind.” Sarah made me put that one on and I never thought anyone would go for it.
It takes two hours and costs five hundred dollars.
We couldn’t start with… a hand massage or something?
“Excellent,” I say in my professional voice. “I’m going to step out of the room for a moment. While I do, please undress to your level of comfort and lie face down on the table. There’s a sheet you can use to cover yourself.”
Before I even leave the room, the hem of his tee’s balled in his hands as he begins to lift it, revealing a few inches of tanned, muscled, beautifully honed abs.
Oh, dear God.
As Ricco pulls his shirt off, I walk outside the door and deep breathe for a few minutes. In through my nose, out through my mouth, like my therapist taught me.
I close my eyes and imagine the tattoos beckon, telling tales of his life's journey. I imagine I trace their lines with a gentle reverence, my fingers moving as if decoding a mystery.
A few minutes later, I knock on the door and shiver at the deep rumble of his voice. “All set.”
The room is dim and calm, as I’ve planned it. I like my clients to relax and engage in the full experience.
“This is a two-hour experience, Mr. Montavio.”
“Ricco. Call me Ricco. And I know, that’s fine.”
I swallow and lick my lips. “Ricco.”
I turn my back to him. Warming the oil, I can feel his eyes on me, his anticipation palpable.
“Try to relax,” I say gently. “Let your body loosen.”
I glance over at the table. The sheet barely covers him, giving me a perfect view of the planes and contours of his muscled body, ink across his shoulders and back, a smattering of dark hair on his arms.
I begin the massage, my fingers dancing over his tattoos, mirroring his dominant presence. His muscles respond to my touch, a shiver running through him. The oil glistens on his tanned skin as I ply his taut muscles with my fingers.
His groans of approval fill the room.
“You’re tight,” I say in a gentle voice. “Especially in through your shoulders.” I run my hands along the breadth of his shoulders, relaying a silent prayer of thanks to the universe for sending me straight to second base with this Adonis. “It’s said that tension in the shoulders comes from carrying the weight of responsibility.”
“Yeah, sounds about right.”
I swallow.
“Some of my clients like to talk during their session. Others like to be silent. You can talk as much or as little as you’d like.”
I knead his shoulders, the oil warming between my fingers and his skin.
“I’m not much of a talker,” he begins. “But you’re easy to talk to.”
“Wait until you get some wine in me.”
I immediately wish I could take that back, until his deep chuckle reverberates in the room. I pretend the shiver that runs through me has to do with a chill in the air.
"Those tattoos," I venture, keeping my voice down. "They tell a story, don't they?"
There’s a brief pause before he answers, “I do.”
In silence, I continue the massage, reminding myself this is chaste and my desperation for male attention has nothing to do with Ricco and everything to do with my own struggles.
The exploration continues, and I imagine a connection forms. There’s a pull between us, blurring the lines of separation.
Our conversation persists in soft murmurs, my curiosity growing with each touch. “Why so much tension?” When he doesn’t answer at first, I realize what I’m doing and shake my head. “I am so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I don’t invade my customers’ private lives. I—”
“Dani, stop.”
His voice is rough and commanding and so damn dominant, I’m putty in his hands. He’s on the table beneath me and I’m standing above him, but it’s perfectly clear who’s the one in charge here, and a part of me thrills at that.