Chapter 7Claire
7
Claire
T he next evening, I step into the gray guest room, now transformed into a massage suite. The space is soft and intimate. The soft gray walls are inviting in the glow of dimmed lighting, and the crisp cotton scent of fresh linens hits my nose. Everything is carefully arranged, yet my hands still tremble while I adjust the dimmer switch.
Valerian’s presence presses against my back, making the hairs on my neck rise. He lingers in the doorway, watching me, his gaze heavy and unreadable.
“You seem nervous, Claire.” His voice is low and edged with amusement.
I force a professional smile and busy myself arranging the massage oils. “Just making sure everything is perfect.” I turn to him. “Which essential oil would you prefer? Lavender for relaxation, eucalyptus for clarity, or peppermint for invigoration?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Surprise me.”
I nod, selecting the lavender, more for me than for him. Its calming scent fills the air as I adjust the diffuser settings. “The room temperature is adjustable. Do you have a preference?”
“It’s fine as is.” His deep voice vibrates through me, unsettling in a way I can’t afford to acknowledge.
I focus on arranging the fresh towels, willing my hands to stop shaking. “Any particular areas you’d like me to focus on? Any injuries or chronic pain?”
“My shoulders carry some tension,” he says. “Otherwise, I’ll leave it to your expertise.”
I take a steadying breath. “Alright. If you’d like to disrobe and lie face down, I can step out to give you privacy.”
“No need.”
I turn just in time to see him shrug off his robe. It pools at his feet, leaving him completely bare. A gasp slips through before I can stop it. Valerian is all hard lines and smooth skin, his body a map of muscle and sex appeal. A sleeve of intricate Russian tattoos runs down his right arm, disappearing into geometric designs that span his chest.
I hate that I notice how defined his abs are, and how his powerful thighs flex as he moves. I snap my gaze away, heat creeping up my neck.
Valerian climbs onto the massage table with effortless grace, settling face down. “I’m ready when you are.”
I exhale slowly, initiating routine. “I’ll start with your back and shoulders,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Let me know if the pressure is too much or too little.”
Warming the oil between my palms, I press my hands to his back. His skin is hot, muscles tight beneath my fingers. I begin with long, sweeping strokes, easing into the work.
“That feels good,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against the face rest.
I increase the pressure, working out the knots in his shoulders. When I hit a particularly tight spot, he groans softly, and I try to ignore the way the sound affects me. The way that it makes heat pool down low in my body.
“You’re very good at this,” he says after a few minutes.
“Thank you.” I focus on a stubborn knot near his shoulder blade. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“How long have you been a massage therapist?”
I hesitate, surprised by the personal question. “About five years now.”
Valerian hums, the sound deep and considering. “You have talented hands.”
I’m grateful he can’t see the flush rising to my face. “Thank you. I take my work seriously.”
Silence settles between us, punctuated only by the soft rhythm of my movements. It’s almost comfortable until he speaks again. “Tell me about your brother, Claire.”
I pause, caught off guard. “What would you like to know?”
“Whatever you’re willing to share.”
I resume my motions, choosing my words carefully. “Jay’s… trying to find his place. He has a good heart but a terrible gambling addiction.”
Valerian makes a quiet sound of acknowledgment. “And you? Did you always want to be a massage therapist?”
“No.” I work on his right arm now. “I wanted to be an artist when I was younger, but life had other plans.”
“How so?”
I laugh. “A stunning lack of talent was what really held me back.”
His back rumbles under my hands when he chuckles. “That would make it difficult to be an artist.” He’s silent for a moment. “Do you still create art?”
His question catches me off guard. “Sometimes, when I have the time and inspiration, but I’d never show it to anyone.”
“What medium?”
“Watercolors, mostly. I like the way they blend and flow.”
“I’d like to see your work sometime.”
I swallow hard. “Trust me. You wouldn’t.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he says, amusement lacing his tone.
I shift focus to his legs, the powerful muscles making me acutely aware of his nakedness again. “Your tattoos,” I say, desperate to change the subject. “Do they have special meaning?”
Valerian doesn’t answer right away. Then quietly says, “Each one is a little piece of my life.”
I focus on Valerian’s tattoos, tracing the intricate designs with my fingertips. “Can you tell me more about them? What do they mean?”
His muscles flex beneath my touch. “Each one has significance in the vor v zakone —the thieves’ code.” His voice is low. “The stars on my shoulders mark my rank. The cathedral on my back represents time served in prison.”
My hands glide over his skin as he speaks. “What about this one?” I ask, touching a stylized cross near his shoulder blade.
“It means I’m a ‘thief in law’, a made man in the brotherhood.” There’s a hint of pride in his tone.
I move lower, working the muscles of his lower back. “And these symbols?”
“They tell my life story. My crimes, my triumphs...” He pauses. “My losses.”
The vulnerability in those last words startles me. I want to ask more, but I’m not sure I should push. I get near his buttocks and hesitate.
Valerian turns his head slightly. “Are you going to continue?”
Heat rushes to my face. “Of course,” I say, trying to sound professional. I’ve massaged countless backsides before. This is no different.
Except it is. Valerian’s body is all lean muscle and hot skin. As I work the firm muscles of his glutes, I’m acutely aware of every flex and twitch. My breath quickens, and I silently curse my traitorous body.
A soft groan escapes Valerian’s lips, and I nearly jerk away my hands. Instead, I force myself to maintain a steady rhythm.
“Your technique is excellent,” he murmurs, his voice husky.
“Thank you,” I manage, grateful he can’t see my flushed face. I clear my throat. “I’m going to move on to your legs now.”
I shift my focus to his calves and thighs, desperately trying to reclaim my professional demeanor. “So, um, how long have you had these tattoos?”
“I got my first one at sixteen,” Valerian says. “The rest came over time, marking different Chapters of my life.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “That must have been painful.”
“Pain is temporary,” he says. “The meaning lasts forever.”
His words hang in the air between us. I work in silence for a few moments, mulling over the glimpses into his past.
“What about you, Claire?” Valerian asks suddenly. “Do you have any tattoos?”
I laugh softly. “No, nothing so permanent. I’m more of a temporary henna kind of girl.”
“Ah, the impermanence appeals to you?”
“I guess I like the idea of change. Of not being stuck with one decision forever.”
Valerian hums thoughtfully. “Sometimes, the permanence is what gives something its value.”
I consider his words as I finish working on his legs. “Maybe you’re right,” I say softly, “But sometimes it’s the fleeting moments that are the most precious.”
As I step back, signaling the end of the massage, something has shifted between us. The air feels charged, electric.
He sits up slowly, the sheet pooling around his waist. His eyes meet mine, intense and unreadable. “Thank you, Claire. That was... enlightening.”
I swallow hard, suddenly very aware of how close we are. “You’re welcome. I hope it helped with the tension.”
A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, it most certainly did.” He stretches languidly.
I avert my gaze as he reaches for his robe, but it’s impossible to miss his huge erection, even though I only view it peripherally.
“Much better.” He ties the belt loosely, almost hiding the bulge. Almost. “You have a gift, Claire.”
I busy myself with cleanup, hyperaware of his presence and trying not remember the glimpse of his cock. “I’m glad I could help.”
He steps closer, and I force myself to meet his gaze. His eyes are intense, searching. “Thank you for the massage, and for sharing a bit of yourself with me.”
I nod, my pulse unsteady. “Same time tomorrow?”
A small smile curves his lips. “Whatever I need.”
He turns and walks out, leaving the air charged behind him.
I let out a shaky breath. What have I gotten myself into?
I rush out of the massage room, my heart skittering and skin flushed. The hallway feels too small and too confining after that far too sensual massage. I didn’t treat him any differently than any other patient, but there’s no pretending it didn’t feel different. I’ve never been aroused massaging a patient before, until now. I need air. I need space. I need to get away from Valerian and the effect he has on me.
My suite is nearby, but even as I close the door behind me, I still feel the heat of Valerian’s skin under my hands. The memory of his muscled back, the curve of his spine, and the way he groaned when I rubbed his ass all floods back, making me dizzy.
“Get it together, Claire,” I mutter, pressing my palms against my burning cheeks.
The bathroom beckons, promising relief. I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor. It’s so unlike me, but I can’t bring myself to care right now. The shower knob squeaks as I turn it, cold water cascading down.
I step under the icy spray, gasping as it hits my overheated skin. The shock of it should clear my head and wash away the lingering sensations of Valerian’s body beneath my hands. Instead, it only seems to heighten every nerve ending.
My mind wanders, conjuring images unbidden of Valerian’s strong hands on my waist. Trailing his lips down my neck. His body weight pressing me into the mattress…
“Stop it,” I say aloud, turning the water even colder. My teeth chatter, but the fantasies persist.
I stand under the frigid deluge until my lips turn blue, and my fingers prune. When I finally step out, I’m shivering violently, but the heat in my pussy refuses to be extinguished. Wrapping myself in a fluffy towel, I pad into the bedroom. My suitcase sits open on a chair, and I rummage through it, looking for something—anything—to distract me. My fingers brush against the spine of a book, and I pull it out. A historical romance novel. Perfect.
Naked, I curl up on the bed, opening to a random page. The words swim before my eyes, refusing to make sense. I catch phrases here and there, “heaving bosom,” “strong arms,” “passionate embrace”, and slam the book shut with a groan.
“This isn’t helping,” I mutter, tossing aside the novel.
My gaze lands on my work bag. Inside is a journal for massage therapists—dry, technical writing about muscle groups and therapeutic techniques. Surely, that will cool my overactive imagination.
I retrieve the journal and flip it open, determined to focus on the clinical language, but as I read about proper hand placement and the importance of maintaining boundaries with clients, my traitorous mind keeps substituting Valerian’s name into the text.
When working with Valerian, be sure to use firm, consistent pressure...
Maintain professional distance from Valerian at all times...
Never allow personal feelings to interfere with your treatment of Valerian...
I snap the journal closed, frustrated and more wound up than ever. The clock on the nightstand reads 11:30 p.m. I should be exhausted after the long day and intense massage session, but sleep feels impossibly far away.
Restless energy thrums through me. I pace the room, running my fingers through my damp hair. Every sound makes me jump. Is that footsteps in the hallway? Is Valerian still awake? What would happen if I went to him now?
“Don’t even think about it,” I scold myself. “You’re here to work off a debt, not to fall into bed with a dangerous man.”
But oh, how tempting it is. I’ve never felt this kind of attraction before—this magnetic pull that makes me want to throw caution to the wind. It would be so easy to give in, to let Valerian consume me.
I shake my head violently, trying to dislodge the thoughts. This isn’t me. I’m practical, responsible Claire. The one who always does the right thing, who puts her family first. I can’t let a few moments of sexual tension undo everything I’ve worked for.
Determined to exhaust myself into sleep, I drop to the floor and start doing push-ups. The burn in my muscles is a welcome distraction. I count each rep, focusing on my form and on the way my arms shake as fatigue sets in.
When I can’t manage another push-up, I flip onto my back and start crunches. The repetitive motion is almost meditative, and my naughty thoughts begin to cool. By the time I finish, my abs are on fire, and sweat coats my skin.
I drag myself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror looks wild-eyed and flushed. I barely recognize her.
Back in bed, I stare at the ceiling, willing sleep to come, but every time I close my eyes, I see Valerian. I toss and turn, tangling myself in the sheets. The clock ticks away the minutes, then hours. Outside, the moon rises high in the sky, casting eerie shadows across the room.
At three a.m., I finally drift into a fitful sleep. My dreams are a chaotic swirl of images—Valerian’s hands, my brother’s pleading face, stacks of money, and wilting flowers. I wake with a start just before dawn, sheets damp with sweat.
As the first rays of sunlight filter through the curtains, I sit up, rubbing my bleary eyes. The memory of last night’s massage session floods back, bringing with it a fresh wave of heat and longing.
I groan, burying my face in my hands. How am I supposed to face Valerian today? How can I maintain a professional demeanor when just the thought of him sets my body on fire?
But I have no choice. This is my reality now. I’m living under his roof, working to pay off my brother’s debt. I can’t let my attraction to him jeopardize everything. With a heavy sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. It’s time to start another day in this gilded cage, with the most dangerous and desirable man I’ve ever met.