Chapter Nineteen #2
"That depends." His voice is lower now, rougher.
He watches me settle onto the bench across from him, arms still stretched wide in a pose that displays every corded muscle of his shoulders and chest. The waterline hits just below his pecks with his long torso submerged.
"What would you like me to call you, Natalia? "
The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with temperature.
"I mean, it's my name. Seems like the obvious choice."
"It’s too formal." He tilts his head, studying me with that Russian intensity that makes me want to squirm. "You need something softer."
"You think I’m soft?" I ask.
His lips curve slightly at my question. "I suppose there’s only one way to find out. I bet you could be, under the right circumstances… in the right hands."
I should change the subject. I should make a joke. I should definitely not hold his gaze like this, like we're in some kind of staring contest where the prize is something neither of us should want.
"By the way… those asshole kids that scared you on the slopes won’t be bothering you anymore."
I shake my head and close my eyes for a brief second. This man can’t help being a walking liability for me, even if the fact that he made threats for my safety is a little sexy. "Do I even want to know what you said to them?"
"Probably not."
I let out a snicker because what else can I do? I certainly can’t control what the man said out loud. Instead, I lean back, my shoulders against the jets. I wince at the pressure.
"Tight shoulders?" He asks.
I nod, "I'm so sore from skiing, I can barely move."
"Is that right?" Something predatory enters his eyes. "I could help with that."
And there it is. The trap I just walked into with both eyes open.
"Are you offering me a massage?" I try to keep my voice neutral. As if we're discussing the weather and not the fact that he just offered to put his hands on me.
"If you want one."
"That's very kind of you." I can hear the careful distance in my own words. "But you don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." He shifts forward slightly, arms dropping into the water. "The question is whether you want me to."
Do I want this? Yes.
Should I want this? Absolutely not.
"It's just a massage," I say, more to convince myself than him.
"Just a massage," he agrees. But the way he says it suggests we both know it's a lie.
"Okay, then," I agree.
I move through the water toward him, hyperaware of every ripple, every displaced bubble. He turns slightly, making room for me to sit between his thighs, back to his chest.
The first touch of his hands on my shoulders made me inhale sharply.
"Relax," he murmurs, close enough that I feel his breath against my ear.
His fingers work into the knots along my shoulders. He finds every tender spot with unnerving accuracy, applying pressure that borders on pain before releasing.
"Your straps are in the way." His voice is rougher now. "Can I move them?"
"Yes."
He slides the first one, then the other strap off my shoulders. His fingers return to my skin, working the muscles of my upper back with a thoroughness that makes my head start to feel heavy.
I let it fall back against his shoulder without thinking.
"Better?" The word is practically a growl.
"Mmm."
His hands move lower, thumbs working the length of my spine. I feel the heat of his chest against my back, solid and warm. The jets pulse around us, creating a cocoon of warmth and sensation.
"So, what nickname would you prefer?" he asks, hands still working magic on my lower back, sliding his thumbs between us.
I shift slightly in his lap, trying to ease into the pressure—and freeze.
Because I feel him.
Hard and thick behind me. It's unmistakable.
"Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Yes, you did." His hands grip my hips, holding me still. "And don't apologize."
The air between us changes.
Before I can process what's happening, he lifts me smoothly—as if I weigh nothing—and repositions me on the corner seat. Directly over a jet.
The pressure hits exactly where I need it, pulsing against my center through the thin fabric of my bikini bottoms. My body reacts immediately, involuntarily. A gasp escapes my lips, my fingers digging into his thighs to keep myself grounded.
"How does that feel?" His voice is right beside my ear now.
I can only nod, incapable of words.
His hands settle on my waist, steadying me as the jet continues its relentless rhythm. Every nerve ending in my body seems concentrated in that one point of contact, pressure building with each pulse.
"Can I kiss you here?" His fingers glide over the side of my throat, feather-light.
I nod again, not trusting my voice.
His lips pressed against my pulse point, soft and deliberate. The contrast between his gentle mouth and the insistent pressure of the jet makes my head spin.
"How about here, Nattie?"
Nattie.
The nickname makes something in my chest twist. It sounds intimate. Personal. Nothing like the teasing distance of 'Bunny Hill'.
His mouth moves to my collarbone, then lower, kissing along the edge of my bikini top. A small moan escapes before I can stop it.
He makes a sound low in his throat, half-groan, half-growl, and pulls me back against him.
I feel him fully now. The hard length of him pressing against my lower back, thick and wanting. The same cock I glimpsed that morning in the shower when he couldn’t wait for me to get out.
His hand slides over my belly, fingers splaying wide, pulling me tighter against him.
"Luka," I manage, though it comes out breathy and weak. "You're my client."
"You only said you don't sleep with your clients." His mouth is against my shoulder now, words vibrating against my skin. "So that only means my cock doesn't enter you... but you never said anything about my fingers."
His hand travels slowly down my belly, each inch deliberate and measured. When he reaches the top of my bikini bottoms, he stops. Waiting.
"Tell me if you want this, Nattie." His voice is rough. "I can make you come without sex. Just one time... give me one time to show you."
I should say no. I should remember every rule I've ever set for myself. Every boundary that keeps me safe and professional, and in control.
Instead, I nod, eyes closed. Head against his shoulder. Surrendering my whole body to his touch.
His index finger finds the top of my clit through the fabric, swirling in a slow circle. The jet continues its pulse below, and the combination makes me arch into him involuntarily.
My ass pushes harder against his cock.
He makes a strangled sound, mouth pressing into my shoulder. I feel his breath coming faster, matching mine.
Then his fingers slid beneath the fabric.
Skin to skin.
The sensation is electric. Every nerve ending fires at once. He finds me aroused, ready, aching for his touch. His fingers move, circling and stroking while the jet provides relentless pressure from below.
I moan out a mumbled version of his name.
He turns my head with his free hand, mouth finding mine. The kiss is deep and consuming, swallowing my gasps as his fingers work me higher, his tongue slipping into my mouth.
I can't take it. The building pressure. The dual sensation of his hand and the jet. The feel of him hard against my back, wanting me but holding to the boundary I set.
I pull out of his hands and turn.
His eyes widened slightly as I straddled his lap, but his legs widened immediately, dropping me back onto the jets. The pressure hits me from a new angle, and I gasp.
He reaches for the tie at my hips.
"Yes?" he asks, even now seeking permission.
"Yes."
He pulls the strings slowly, deliberately. My bottoms float away. Then his hands move to my back, unclasping my top. It follows the bottoms into the water, leaving me completely naked.
His eyes darkened to almost black.
"Fuck, Nattie."
His fingers return to my center, finding that perfect spot, working it with focused intensity. His head drops to my breast, mouth closing around my nipple—hot and demanding. His other hand buries in my hair, holding me to him.
The combination is too much. The jets. His fingers. His mouth. The hard length of him pressed against me, separated only by thin swim trunks.
I explode.
His name tears from my throat as I shatter in his hands, body shaking, world narrowing to just this—just us—just this moment of perfect release.
He holds me through it, fingers gentling but not stopping, drawing out every last wave until I collapse against his chest.
We stayed like that for a long moment, my forehead against his shoulder, both of us breathing hard.
"What about you?" I finally manage.
"What about me?" His voice is rough like gravel.
"You need a release too."
"Nattie—"
"No," I pull back to look at him. "Fair is fair."
Something fierce and hungry crossed his face. He lifts me gently, laying me back against the edge of the hot tub. The position exposes me completely to his gaze, and I should feel vulnerable. Instead, I feel powerful.
"Fuck, you look beautiful like this."
His hand dropped below the water. I can't see what he's doing, but I can see the effect on his face—the way his jaw clenches, pupils blowing wide. The prominent vein in his forearm as his fist moves in a steady rhythm.
He holds my gaze the entire time, never looking away. There's something raw in his expression, something vulnerable beneath the hunger.
When he comes, he pulls me closer, releasing on my belly.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Then he reaches for one of the towels on the deck chair, wetting it in the hot tub before wiping me clean with careful, gentle movements.
When I'm clean, he pulls me back into the water, tucking me against his chest. His arms wrap around me, solid and secure.
"How many of your rules did we just break?" he asks quietly.
I count them in my head. Professional boundaries. Emotional distance. The careful separation between crisis manager and client.
"Too many to count."
His chest rumbles with silent laughter. "Do you regret it?"
I should. By every measure of professional conduct and personal safety, I should absolutely regret this.
"No," I admit. "But I know that I should."
His arms tightened around me.
We stay like that, wrapped up in each other, until the cold air starts to win its battle against the hot water. Until reality begins creeping back in around the edges of this perfect, reckless moment.
But for now, I'll let myself have this. Let myself be held by a man who carries darkness in his blood but touches me like I'm something precious. A man who respects my boundaries even as he destroys them.
A man I'm absolutely, catastrophically falling for.
Tomorrow I'll deal with the consequences. Tonight, I’m ignoring them, and no one can stop me.