CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Layla
Taking a deep breath, I stare at myself in the mirror outside the treatment room.
Looking at my mother’s eyes inside of my own, I wonder how she lived a life with no temptation, how she made it through each day giving to everyone else but never herself and still always having a smile on her face.
To leave Sean standing there looking like every fantasy I’ve ever had was difficult to say the least, but I remind myself that I did leave and maybe that’s a small victory in itself.
I’m pretty sure he expected that he’d show me his beautiful body and I’d just be putty in his hands.
And although I almost was, I refuse to be like every other woman he’s rustled his belt for and had them drop to their knees.
In Chantel’s words, I have the pussy. I have the power.
There’s something incredibly strengthening about knowing that, even though I’m at Sean’s mercy, he’s moving at my pace, not the other way around. I don’t think he does that a lot.
When I knock and push the door open a few minutes later, he’s face down on the table, arms under his chin. I close the door as I always do.
“You can put your face in here,” I say, patting the donut at the end of the table. He glances up at me and my stomach drops. All his dark, delicious beauty is focused on me as he lets out a sigh while I try to ignore how perfectly the height of his face lines up with my core.
“Tuck your arms here, if you can,” I tell him, running my hand along the very limited space on either side of his thick body. That fucking body, goddamn.
Any. Other. Client.
“That was longer than a few minutes,” he comments, as I check something on his paperwork about his back.
“I was checking in with reception.”
And trying to find the guts to come back in here and forget about how big and hard you were under your jeans.
I decide the only way I’m going to get through this massage is to talk.
And by talk, I mean explain all the technical things I’m doing to him as I go.
To keep some semblance of the professional barrier between us.
Every step of the way, I’m hoping it serves as a reminder for both him and me that this is my job, and whatever I’m feeling for him, however intense, shouldn’t happen here.
As much as I feel the urge to run my tongue over the expanse of his wide back and the defined muscles of his shoulders, I focus intently on the ink in his skin as I grab my oil from the counter beside the massage table.
“This is coconut oil,” I advise him as I gently shake the bottle. “Your chart didn’t mention any allergies.”
Sean’s three biggest scars on his back, including the one I’ve already felt, run in jagged disarray over his skin.
“No allergies,” he says, as I notice how the scars weave through the letters tattooed on his lower back, but they seem older than the ink, as if the ink surrounds them. HOUNDS OF HELL. All capital letters, the same as his cut, and a glaring reminder of the world this man comes from.
“I’m just going to adjust your sheet,” I tell him as professionally as possible.
I pull the soft cotton down with a shaky breath and fold it neatly, tucking it just under the band of his boxers, below the two dimples above Sean’s really, really incredible ass. An ass you just know comes from years of intense physical training. The ass of a fit-as-fuck soldier.
The entire right side of his upper back is free of ink, but the left houses a very detailed piece that takes up most of the space.
Bodies, many of them cloaked and faceless, all shaded in black and gray, lie haphazardly in a pile, bloodied.
Above them, coiled in a tight spiral, is a snake.
Maybe a cobra? A mean-looking one, jaws open, fangs out and ready to draw blood.
I fight the urge to trace the lines and ask him what they mean, and force myself to move to the head of the table instead.
More writing on his shoulder in a thin, cursive font is where I choose to drop the small amount of oil that I need to begin his massage.
Liberation of the human mind from the dominion of religion.
Liberation of the human body from the dominion of property.
Liberation from the shackles and restraint of government.
And right below that:
The pact of three:
Soldiers. Brothers. Blood.
I contemplate what it all means—why he has these bodies and these words inked into his skin.
I shudder with the obvious thought of them being people he’s maimed himself, because there are so many.
Somewhere deep inside me I know there are things about him I might not be able to comprehend or want to know, yet I think I like that somehow.
The unexplainable heat and want that rushes through me at the danger he represents threatens to obliterate the professional line between us.
With him, I struggle to keep it in place.
I massage people every time I’m in the clinic.
It always feels medical, closed off and therapeutic, and there are clear boundaries.
Which is one of the reasons I was happy to get a placement here.
I’ve never had to worry about my clients ever getting inappropriate.
But there is absolutely nothing professional about the way I feel the second my fingers connect with Sean’s warm skin.
I stand above him and take a deep breath in as silently as I can, grateful for the spa music that I turned up much louder than normal in the hope that it would break the tension between us.
Sean stiffens, but otherwise doesn’t give any indication I’m affecting him one way or another as I slide my shaky hands from the base of his neck downward, beginning to massage, beginning to warm him up.
And almost causing me to overheat in return.
“I’m going to begin by connecting and clearing the deep muscle tissue and fibers in your upper back,” I tell him.
He doesn’t answer, so naturally I ramble on.
“The reason is b-because of the nature of human tissue.” I silently curse myself and the way my nerves are making me stutter as I slide my hands down his spine, the pads of my fingers pressing into his sacrum.
He’s so big and solid, he makes me feel small, like he could swallow me whole, and I’ve never wanted to lose myself to someone like this.
“It’s tight,” Sean grunts as I work my magic on the knots under his shoulders.
Stress knots.
I wonder again about the probable horrors of his daily life, and what he saw as a soldier.
“It is,” I confirm. “But I’m going to do my best to help with that.”
These aren’t sexual words, so why am I sweating?
When my hands press deeply, sliding over his sacrum, he groans.
It’s a deep, sensual sound and my knees feel weak.
I fight with everything in me not to keep going and slide my hands lower, squeezing his perfect ass in my hands.
Fuck, I’m like a cat in heat just from touching him.
I blink and try to swallow, going back to my professional plan, making sure to keep my eyes on the space I’m massaging.
“In order to improve things, we need to do this twice a week at least. Muscle tissues want to go back to doing what they’ve always done, but connective tissues we can structurally align by doing this sort of work regularly.”
“And that’s what you’re doing now?” he asks, acting like he’s actually curious.
“No, not yet,” I tell him as I work his QL muscle. “First you have to warm up the muscles. You don’t want to …” I swallow. “Go in too deep, too fast.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he hums.
Oh God. I’ve never been more glad that I don’t have to look someone in the eye than I am right now.
“Why?” he asks, and I note the hint of amusement in his tone.
Right away I know he’s trying to make me uncomfortable, but the joke’s on him.
I’m already at my breaking point with him being practically naked, laid out before me, while I stand here knowing what it feels like to have his hands on my body.
The air is thick between us and I’m hanging on by a damn thread while I answer his question as honestly as I can.
“Because if you go in too deep, too fast, the body just isn’t ready. It’ll fight you. You want these muscles nice and warm,” I say, pressing into his mid-back. “Ready to … take it harder, before you really get to work.” My voice is almost breathless.
I add a little more oil and run my hands down his sides, pressing harder now, knowing he can take it.
I spend the next few minutes working the area where I know his disc was damaged, loosening him up and ridding him of various knots in places that I can feel need the most work.
I don’t know how I manage to do it and keep myself together.
Through it all, Sean breathes deeply and evenly, and by the end, I’m a hot, disheveled mess.
When I’m almost satisfied with my work for this first session and thoroughly turned on, I ask him to flip over so I can finish working the trap muscles that connect his neck to his lower back.
I hold the sheet up so he can roll over easily, but when I let it drop back down it does nothing to conceal the heady bulge of his swollen cock in his boxers.
He reaches up and folds his arms behind his head with a smug look that says he isn’t even remotely embarrassed that he’s turned on. It’s almost admirable.