I am not enjoying this.
I’m a live wire.
Javier tells me I have tension in my shoulders and I’m like, NO SHIT SHERLOCK.
“Try to relax.”
Impossible.
I catch a subtle lift of Noah’s smile, though he doesn’t open his eyes. Apparently, he enjoys how uncomfortable I am right now.
I try to relax, running through whimsical scenarios in my mind: a fawn in the woods, butterflies dancing in a meadow, a kitten playing with yarn, NOAH’S HANDS BETWEEN MY LEGS.
“Um, can I go to the bathroom really quick?” I ask Javier, embarrassed by how high-pitched and squeaky my voice sounds.
“Of course.”
He holds up a robe for me to don while he turns his back and I rush out of the room like my feet are on fire. In my bedroom, I feel better. I like that there’s a door between them and me.
I look in the mirror in the bathroom and blink at my appearance. My hair has dried into beachy waves. My face has new color from my time out in the sun. My skin is flushed and supple, covered in massage oil.
I turn on the tap, cup my hands under the faucet, and then dab some cold water onto my face. It helps, so I do it again.
When I turn off the water and pat my face dry, I realize I’ll have to return to the living room now. I can’t just abandon my massage halfway through.
Even so, I take my time, pacing in my room, trying to calm myself down.
Noah and I just need to have sex. That would help calm me down.
It occurs to me that I could put my own hand between my legs, but I can’t do it while three people hover one room away. It feels wrong.
I pinch my eyes closed, heave a heavy sigh at the door of my bedroom, and force myself to walk back out into the living room.
Javier and Gabriella are gone, but their massage tables are still in the center of the space. Noah stands beside one, waiting for me.
I frown and glance toward the front door, wondering if they just stepped outside to give me some privacy while I rearrange myself under the sheet again.
“I dismissed them,” Noah says, nodding for me to come closer.
“Why? Didn’t we have another thirty minutes?”
“I thought I’d finish your massage myself,” he says, reaching out to grab the two ends of the bow keeping my robe closed once I reach him. He tugs on them gently and the robe starts to slip off me. I reach to pinch it closed over my chest, leaning toward him. I like knowing I wasn’t the only one suffering before.
He was going just as crazy as me.
“Pity. I was actually enjoying Javier.” I’m testing him.
His gaze dares me to keep lying as he tugs my hands free and removes the robe for me. It pools at my feet and then he grips my waist to lift me up and onto the massage table behind me.
“Lie back,” he says, coming to stand where Javier was only a few minutes ago.
He doesn’t bother covering me with the sheet. Instead, he pushes it to the ground and arranges my hands flat by my sides.
Everything in me wants to cover myself. I’m too exposed up here, but he’s already reaching for the massage oil and dribbling a little of it onto my stomach, working it up higher on my chest. I lie perfectly still, wondering how far he’s going to take this. He starts to slowly rub the oil into my skin over my stomach and chest. Then higher. I hold my breath as he sweeps the silky oil over the outside of my breasts, then down, in the valley between them.
I’m slick under his hands as I take my lip between my teeth and fight the urge to close my eyes.
I’m slightly embarrassed about what we’re doing. I want to squirm and shy away from his touch, but then I remind myself that we aren’t doing anything wrong. We both want this. Badly.
His exploring takes his hands back down my stomach and over my thighs. He adds more oil to my legs, working it into my calves and feet. Then he slides his palms back up, letting his fingers dip dangerously close to the center of my thighs. I want him to touch me there, but he doesn’t, continuing to massage everywhere but there.
On his third sweep up my legs, his fingers graze the ties on my bikini bottom, loosening them a smidge. The material starts to slip off my hips, but it’s not enough to uncover me completely.
I whisper a plea, and his dark eyes glide up to mine.
He likes what he’s doing to me, likes the way I’m reacting to his touch. He cups my breasts and then leans down to kiss one of them. I arch up to give him better access. He obliges, but not for nearly as long as I’d like.
Then he’s back at it, massaging me like it’s his job, working my body into a pool of lust with every inch of my skin hypersensitized.
I part my thighs a little, trying to show him what I want, and he likes that. He smooths his hands so they flatten on my thighs and then he spreads them more. My bikini bottoms sit askew and I’m slightly bared for him. He moves down the table so he’s in line with my hips and then he reaches between my thighs and pushes his fingers beneath the material, gently feeling me for the first time.
My eyes close as he slides his fingers up and down. They’re slick with oil and me and it’s so easy for him to guide his middle finger inside me, to stretch me as I lie dutifully on that table for him.
He hisses under his breath, apparently enjoying how I feel. He works his finger in and out slowly, and when I peer at him with half-closed lids, I find his gaze between my thighs, watching his fingers as they pump into me.
He pulls out and sweeps his fingers a little higher. I’m so sensitive, it’s almost too much, but he does it again. Again. Again. And I’m coming so quickly, so suddenly, I reach out to hold his forearm as a way to keep myself from slipping off the table completely.
With a satisfied groan, he watches me come apart for him, and then the instant I’m done, he tugs me down to the edge of the table so I’m perfectly positioned for him as he yanks his boxer briefs down his legs.
He has a condom. I wonder if he got it while I was in my room earlier, but I don’t care to ask. It’s a miracle. I stare down between my legs, taking in his size as he rolls it on. He pumps his hand over his length slowly, his eyes catching mine. There’s a question there and I nod, over and over, letting him know I’m right there with him, wanting this so badly I could scream.
I do. When he brushes my bikini bottoms aside and thrusts into me, I release a throaty moan. I’m immediately overpowered by him, by his size, by his thrusts, by his domineering presence at the edge of the table. He has the advantage and he uses it, gripping my thighs and parting them as he pumps into me. He’s thick and unrelenting. My mouth drops open, but no sound seeps out.
What would I say?
More?
I can’t take more.
Stop?
Never.
“Lindsey,” he moans, reaching out to cup one of my breasts, using it to stabilize himself as he presses into me.
I cover his hand with mine and squeeze. I know I’m going to carry marks from this. Later, I’ll have evidence of our lovemaking written all over me.
His other hand slips between my legs again, swirling and tempting me toward a second orgasm. I’m staving it off, trying hard to stay with him, but then I have no choice. His fingers work their magic and I’m coming again, squeezing around him, listening as he breaks apart with me, pumping everything he has inside me.
It feels like the most wonderfully passionate moment I’ve ever shared with another person, like my nerves are all exposed for him on that table. He could touch any part of me he wanted right now. I’m not a person; I’m a puddle.