Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Hark! The Herald Angels Blush
Jasper
My hands move in slow, deliberate strokes, when I sense her body finally fully relax beneath my touch.
The soft glow of the candles casts a warm light across the room, and the scent of lemon in the air is soothing.
I’m about to announce that we’re done, to tell her she can take her time getting up, when her voice breaks the silence.
“Lower,” she whispers, her tone barely audible. I pause, my hands hovering over her skin, thinking I must have misheard. But then she repeats it, her voice steady this time, leaving no room for doubt:
“Lower?” I ask, more to confirm than to question, my heart skipping a beat.
She nods slightly, her blonde hair brushing against her shoulder.
I take a deep breath, my fingers trembling ever so slightly as I push the sheet further down to expose the top of her bum.
I start massaging, my hands gliding over the curves, my touch gentle yet firm.
The room feels charged, the air thick with unspoken desire.
“Lower!” she demands with a slightly shaky voice. I should stop this because I am not convinced she is aware of what she is asking. But I don’t. I can’t.
I push the sheet completely off her and wait to see her reaction. She just sighs and slowly spreads her legs a tiny bit. It is a sign. An invitation. And nothing can stop me now.
As my fingers slide between her legs, I feel the dampness through her knickers, a warmth that surprises me.
Miranda’s breath hitches, and I pause again, unsure if I should continue.
But her body language is clear: she’s inviting me in.
Carefully, I push the gusset of her knickers aside, my touch deliberate, as if I’m handling something fragile.
Her wetness is undeniable, and I realise this isn’t just a massage anymore.
It’s something more, something intimate and unspoken.
I begin an intimate massage, my fingers tracing the contours of her body, my touch slow and purposeful.
Miranda lets out a soft moan, her hands gripping the edges of the table.
“Jasper,” she murmurs, her voice laced with desire.
I don’t respond with words; instead, I let my hands speak for me.
My fingers dip lower, exploring, teasing, until I feel her tremble beneath me.
Her wetness coats my fingers, and I can’t ignore the way my own body is reacting to her.
Before I know it, I’m inside her, my fingers sliding deep, responding to her unspoken invitation.
Miranda arches her back, her head tilting back as a soft gasp escapes her lips.
“Yes,” she breathes, her voice a mixture of pleasure and surrender.
I move slowly, my touch deliberate, my fingers fucking her with a rhythm that feels natural, as if we’ve done this a thousand times before.
My thumb draws circles around her clit whilst my free hand massages her shoulders.
My cock is rock hard and I am rubbing it against the edge of the massage table to get some kind of release. This is so wrong, but it all feels so right.
The room is filled with the sounds of her breathing, her moans, and the soft wetness of her body responding to my fingers.
I lean closer, my lips brushing against her ear. “Is this what you wanted?” I whisper, my voice rough with desire. She nods, her hands reaching back to grip my wrists, urging me deeper.
“Yes,” she says, her voice firm yet breathless. “Don’t stop.” And I don’t. My fingers move faster, my touch more insistent, and I feel her body tense, her muscles tightening around me. Her breath comes in short gasps, and I know she’s close.
“Jasper,” she moans, her voice pleading, her body arching off the table.
I press my lips to her shoulder, my breath hot against her skin, as I feel her climax ripple through her.
Her body shakes, her wetness spilling over my fingers, and I hold her there, my touch steady, until she collapses back onto the table, her breath ragged.
I stay with her for a moment longer, my hands gentling, then easing away entirely. The shift in the room is almost physical. The moment folds in on itself—still warm, still charged, but rapidly fraying at the edges.
“I’ll give you a second,” I say, voice quiet. Measured. I don’t look at her face. I don’t dare.
Instead, I cross to the kitchen and wash my hands whilst pretending, for both our sakes, that my heartbeat isn’t thudding through every joint. That my hands aren’t still warm from her.
Behind me, there’s the soft rustle of movement. The quiet sound of fabric against skin. The slight shuffle of her slipping back into the robe. Every small sound feels louder than it should. Or maybe that’s just the silence sitting between us now.
I let out a slow breath, centring myself. I’m hard. Obviously. No amount of steady breathing’s fixing that just yet. But this isn’t about me. Never was. I give it space. Let it burn itself down. Quiet the part of me that’s screaming to go back to the table and—
“Okay,” Miranda says, her voice back—not shaky, not soft. Just… composed. Dignified, even.
I turn around slowly. She’s got the robe tied neatly, her cheeks still flushed, her hair slightly mussed. She’s trying for casual. Pulling it off, almost. But her eyes catch mine, and something flickers.
“Feel better?” I ask, careful not to layer the words too thick.
She nods.
There’s a pause—not long, not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Weighted. Her fingers brush the edge of the robe’s tie, then drop.
“I should go,” I say, my voice a little rougher than intended.
She doesn’t stop me. Just gives a quick nod. “Thanks again… for everything.”
I grab my things slowly, methodically—the towel, the oil, the table. It feels weirdly ceremonial. Like cleaning up after something holy, only with a foldable massage table and a wildly unprofessional erection that I’m doing my best to pretend never happened.
At the door, I turn back.
She’s standing where I left her, near the sofa, back straight, chin up—but her eyes are following me like she’s not quite ready for me to be gone. Like part of her still hasn’t come down from wherever she was.
“Miranda.”
She locks eyes with me.
And I say it before I talk myself out of it.
“Would you have dinner with me?”
The silence stretches—not awkward, just... sharp. Like we’ve stepped onto a new line and neither of us is sure how deep the water goes.
Her brows lift slightly. “Dinner?”
“Not as a favour. Not as a thank-you. Just… dinner. With me. Because I’d really like to take you out.”
She hesitates for a beat, eyes flicking to mine like she’s searching for the catch. Then, softly, “I’m chaos.”
I smile. “I like chaos.”
That earns me the smallest laugh, real, if a little surprised. “Saturday, then,” she says. “SJ’s at his dad’s again.”
“Saturday it is.”
We stand there for a moment longer, both pretending we’re not still buzzing from everything that came before.
Then she smiles, properly this time. “Goodnight, Jasper.”
“’Night, Miranda.”
I close the door behind me. The air’s colder now, but somehow, I feel warmer than I have in weeks.