His Cocky Cellist Read online Cole McCade (Undue Arrogance #2)

Categories Genre: BDSM, Erotic, Gay, GLBT, M-M Romance, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Undue Arrogance Series by Cole McCade
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Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
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Although if men were known by the company they kept…

But he plastered on his most professional smile, and stepped forward to clasp that offered hand. Victor Newcomb had warm hands, with a callused palm hardened almost sharp enough to cut at the edges. Although his clothing was finely tailored and well-fitted, wealth radiating off him like an unconscious aura in the poise with which he carried himself and his impeccable grooming, that hand said he was no stranger to hard work. The grip of his fingers was sure and confident, and held just a little too long before letting go and drawing back.

“Mr. Newcomb,” Amani said. “It’s a pleasure. I’m Amani, and I’ll be your masseuse for the day.” Turning to one side, he gestured toward the room he generally claimed for his own, set out with his service station and the tools and oils he preferred to use, decorated with his particular ambience. “If you’ll come this way, please.”

“Of course.”

Mr. Newcomb ducked past him, flashing another of those smiles, but it slid off Amani like water off glass; it was the kind of smile that rich men generally reserved for service people whom they didn’t actually see, but felt an obligation to be nice to. He started after Mr. Newcomb, only for his mother to lean over the reception desk, catching his arm and moving in to murmur in his ear in soft Dariji.

“Ask him if he’s married.”

“Mama!” Amani protested, then flicked her arm and followed his client for the next hour into the room.

He found Victor Newcomb standing awkwardly in the middle of the room with his hands stuffed almost doggedly in his pockets, like a scarecrow that didn’t quite know what to do with itself, staring at the padded massage table as if not sure if he should just jump right on or wait to be told what to do. His self-possession, Amani thought, was entirely a façade; he was no doubt entirely in control in an executive meeting or at an expensive restaurant with clients—but take him out of his element in a small corner massage parlor in the Bronx, and he was utterly at a loss.

It might almost be cute, and most certainly hinted at certain possibilities…

But Amani didn’t mess around with clients, and he wasn’t going to change that today.

He crossed to the sink, turning on the warm water and pumping a quick foaming dollop of pleasantly scented green tea soap into his palm before scrubbing his hands off quickly. “First time, Mr. Newcomb?”

“Er…yeah.” He laughed sheepishly, the sound as warm and deeply velvety as the way he spoke, with just a hint of a husky burnt edge to it. “Is it that obvious?”

“You’re still wearing your clothing, so yes.”

He made an odd sound in the back of his throat. “I’m supposed to strip?”

“Most people generally do, yes. It’s hard to give a good deep tissue massage through your clothing.” Amani glanced over his shoulder at him; was this tall, sharp-looking arrow of a man actually blushing, or was that just the pale pink light filtering through the gauze-covered lamps? “If you’re not comfortable, though, I can work around your clothes. The goal is to relax you, not to upset you further.”

“No! I…er…I can deal with being nude.” Newcomb cleared his throat and caught the first button of his waistcoat, only to freeze when Amani shook his head, biting back a laugh.

“Behind the screen,” he said, and nodded toward a standing screen of narrow bamboo slats painted with a minimalist watercolor design. “You can leave your clothing on the shelf there. You’ll find towels for your convenience. Wrap one around your waist when you’re done, come out, and lie face-down on the table.”

“Right then.” The way Victor Newcomb squared his shoulders and cleared his throat, clearly an attempt to regain his composure and illusion of control, bordered on adorable. He gave Amani an odd look, then nodded once in a stiff, short jerk and vanished behind the screen.

Shaking his head, smiling to himself, Amani finished washing his hands and dried off on a towel, before starting to flex his fingers out, stretching and working them, rolling his wrists. “Would you rather try a massage with oil, or without?”

The sound of rustling clothing came from behind the screen, Newcomb a faint silhouette against the bamboo. “I don’t really know the difference.”

“Some people prefer just the warmth of bare hands on skin. Others find oils therapeutic, especially deep penetrating blends and aromatherapy infusions.”

Newcomb made an amused, self-deprecating sound. “I’ll leave it in your hands.”

“We’ll try a light warmed argan oil. Most find the scent pleasant and soothing.” Amani selected a bottle of oil from the little tiered bamboo shelf where he kept his supplies, and emptied a small amount into the warmer before lighting a taper and circling the room to refresh the vanilla pillar candles scattered about the room—just a little light for ambience, and the scent of the vanilla tended to mix well with the argan oil for relaxing aromatherapy. “Music or none?”


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