Chapter 11 #2
The first ten minutes, she worked up and down my spine, one vertebra at a time, finding the ones that had gotten out of line. Her hands were firm, unhurried. When I tensed from a spike of pain, she held until the spasm released. My breathing went from shallow to deep without me meaning for it to.
When she finished the back, she moved to the arms. She worked each muscle from wrist to shoulder, squeezing the oil in with a slow, methodical pulse.
I’d taken a lot of punishment in those arms: swinging lines, pulling triggers, carrying skeletons, and salvage to a temporary storage place for sorting and assignment.
She worked out memories I’d kept locked in my biceps and the thickest part of the forearm, pain that didn’t even register as pain until it left.
She moved to the lower back and hips, then down to the legs.
She uncovered them one at a time, no rush.
I felt the line of her hand working each muscle: hamstrings, calves, then down to the ankle.
At one point, she pressed a thumb into a spot behind my left knee, and the whole leg twitched like she’d stuck a live wire in me.
“Sorry,” I said. It came out thick, a little slurred.
“Normal,” Teva replied, and didn’t break her rhythm.
The oil was scented, faint but there. I tried to put a word to it and came up empty. It was a floral note, but deeper, maybe found in one of the houses, or maybe Autumn made it.
When she finished the legs, she placed both hands on my shoulders and left them there, a full minute of stillness. I felt the warmth move from her skin into mine.
“You are holding too much,” she said, low. “Let it out.”
I thought about laughing, but she was right. I let go, little by little, until my breath sank to the bottom of my lungs and back up again.
After a long time, she tapped my shoulder. “Turn over.”
The room was bright now, sun streaming in across the floor.
I rolled, not bothering to hide the erection that had half-swollen under the towel.
It was just a body, and she looked at it with the same calm she’d used on my shoulder blade.
She repositioned the towel to lie over my hips, but made no move to hide the fact of it.
Her eyes tracked the scar across my stomach instead.
She started on my chest, the strokes long and even, spreading the oil from the center outward, then down along the ribs and across the sternum.
I watched her face. She kept her expression blank, but the pulse in her neck beat visibly below the skin.
Her hands worked higher, tracing the path from collarbone to shoulder to upper arm.
The only time she made a noise was when she hit a knot, and then it was a soft hum of concentration, not unlike the ones Autumn made when focusing on a spell.
“Your body is different from the other human men I have known,” she said. She didn’t mean it as a compliment, or maybe she did. “It is harder. But there is more energy here. Like a field of heat.”
“Side effect of my abilities,” I said. “And the food. High protein.”
She smiled, then leaned in and pressed her ear to my chest, as if listening for a second heartbeat. “The fairy dust made this better,” she said, rolling the thought around as she lifted her head. “The world. Even after everything that happened, it is still possible to be… happy.”
She let the sentence go, then moved down to my abs, her hands wide and gentle this time, working the muscles in slow, overlapping circles. The touch was more intimate, but not sexual. It felt almost like reverence, or gratitude, or some other word I wasn’t used to having aimed in my direction.
The last area was my thighs, and she worked them the same way as before, first long strokes, then both hands together squeezing the meat in counter-rhythm. When she worked the inner thigh, the towel fell to the side, and my erection stood out like it belonged to someone else.
She paused, then looked at me. “Human women also become aroused in massage, but it is less visible,” she said. “I like that it is honest with you.”
“Would be weird to apologize,” I said, deadpan.
She giggled, then circled the base with my cock with her thumb and forefinger.
The oil she used here felt different, slicker, with a heat that started at the tip and spread fast. Sensitivity climbed hard and fast, like every nerve had been turned up far past normal.
I felt it in the root of my spine, in the deep muscle behind my sac, in the way my whole pelvis wanted to arch off the table and meet her hand.
I watched her while she worked. Teva stood between my legs, topless, blue skin glossy with oil and sweat.
Her breasts moved with every stroke, the soft weight of them lifting and falling in time with her arm.
She kept her eyes on what she was doing at first, then lifted them to my face.
Her expression stayed focused, almost serious, but there was heat under it.
When the first full stroke drew a sound out of me, her mouth opened a little and her cheeks darkened.
She stroked slowly at first, steady pressure, the oil letting her hand glide without friction.
Her other hand settled lower, warm fingers cupping and kneading my scrotum with the same unhurried care she’d used on my shoulders.
The combination was almost too much. Every upward stroke sent a sharp, clean jolt through me.
Every downward stroke left a lingering burn that made the next one hit harder.
I watched the way her breasts swayed with the motion, the way her free hand braced against my thigh for balance, the soft bounce of blue flesh that matched the pull of her grip.
I couldn’t speak. The buildup stayed controlled for a stretch, then turned volcanic.
She adjusted her grip but kept the same rhythm while her lower hand kept working.
When I came, it was silent but powerful, the first pulse rocketing out and up.
Teva didn’t break stride. She milked every drop, slowing only when the last of it left me, then cleaned the area with a towel she’d left folded at the end of the table.
I lay back, eyes half-closed, the sunlight painting orange bars across the inside of my lids. My heart hammered once, twice, then settled into the lazy drift of aftershock.
Teva stayed close, one hand resting on my thigh, her thumb rubbing slow circles in the oil-slick skin. A faint sheen of sweat shone across her collarbones and the upper curve of her breasts.
When she spoke, it was almost a whisper. “I hope that was acceptable.”
“Perfect,” I said, voice hoarse. “What was in that oil?”
“Nothing harmful, I assure you.”
She stood and moved to the window, letting the sun wash her face. “You needed that, I think.”
“I did,” I said, and realized it was true.
The world outside had gone quiet. I looked at the lamp, at the golden light leaking up the stairs. Someone must have lit it as the day went late.
Teva handed me a clean towel, and I wiped the oil from my chest and arms, then dressed in slow increments, enjoying the looseness of every joint. I felt five years lighter.
I watched her move as she finished cleaning up. “You do this for everyone, or am I just special?”
Teva laughed. “I save the best for the Alpha. I know the rules. Only you and pack may receive such service.” She finished wiping the table, then poured two new cups of wine.
“Autumn has been with the elves most of the last week,” she said, handing me the cup.
“She seems happier, but also more distant. Did you know that Lyubor trusts her more than any human in the pack? Even you.”
I took the cup and drank. “Yes. And it makes sense. Autumn never lies, and she’s never afraid of looking foolish. Plus, if you understood their history, the war on their world, it would make sense.”
Teva’s face was still, but her eyes glinted in the low sun. “She is going to change this place, James. Not by accident.”
I nodded. “I know.”
We stood at the window, side by side, the light painting our reflections in the old glass. Teva’s hand found mine, held it for a moment, then let it go.
“Thank you for letting me serve you,” she said.
“You’re on the list,” I replied. “And I intend to return the favor when the time is right.”
She smiled, then turned and started down the stairs, her hips swaying in the easy, confident way that told me she wasn’t planning what to make for dinner.
I lingered, looking at the lights coming on in the Casino, at the ripples on the channel below. The wind had picked up. I could see the line of the horizon, blue and sharp.
I dressed, put my shirt back on, and let the oil sink into my skin. The tension was gone, replaced by a low, contented ache.
I walked out, steps easy, and let the door bang behind me as I crossed the porch to the waiting night.