Chapter 12 Brielle #2
As we move down the hallway she states softly, “I’m sorry about that. Ever since she heard of your existence, she has been itching to try to get under your skin.” We move down the hall toward her room.
“I don’t understand,” I reply. “I haven’t done anything to her.” Though my mind could place myself within her perspective. If she’s heard a nurse that the boss , her former lover, is flirting with has taken his attention away from her , then she must have some animosity toward me. Shite.
Jameson shrugs as she holds the door open to her parlor. “She’s an attention whore. She wanted to rope and manipulate the boss. Dumbass boasted to all the girls about it. Her arrogance knows no bounds. Though you came along and swept him off his feet. You must have some powerful pussy, honey.”
I turn toward Jameson, my eyes wide. “I have not slept with him Jameson!”
Her smile widens. “I know, hon. I’m just takin’ the piss. Get on the table and I’ll knock to see if you’re ready.”
“You bellend,” I mutter under my breath.
“Damn right,” she retorts and softly slaps my bottom, causing me to jump forward. As the door closes, I become more confident for this appointment, stripping down to my nickers.
Soon after, Jameson knock on the door and we embark on my session. Her heavenly hands work the knots from my shoulders. The long caress of the flat of her forearms causes me to moan with relaxation. The tension eases away from my sore, exhausted muscles.
Several minutes pass, then Jameson’s voice awakens me from the precipice of a nap. “I’m going to go get some more lotion, all right, love?”
I held my arm up with an affirming gesture of my thumb, then my head lulls back to the beautiful rest I was about to welcome.
Before I fall into the comfort of slumber, the door opens, but the atmosphere had changed. It is not Jameson’s warm spirit, but an icy, dark abyss falling over the room.
I didn’t need to look up to know who it is.
Everett is here .
Did Jameson allow this? Of course, or he probably ordered her to leave.
I can feel his presence coming closer toward the massage bench. “Hello, Miss Brielle. I have some items to review with you.”
I turn my head to the side and find his towering form. His hands are in his gray trouser pockets. Crisp white button-up shirt, pristine with brown suspenders complementing his attire. Evading his gaze by focusing on his hand within his pocket, I ask, “Don’t you find this to be very intrusive, sir?”
He gives a throaty chuckle. A c huckle .
“And I find you to be an intriguing little liar , my beautiful dove.” His bold statement sends a chill down my spine.
My head snaps up, anticipation lacing my nerves. “Just kill me already, you control freak. Don’t draw it out. I know you’re pissed. I slapped you, but this is being a bit melodramatic.” Then I place my head back into the hole of the massage bench and wait for him to end my life.
The atmosphere shifts as I feel him stride closer to the table. Feeling his daunting frame lean over my body, his hot breath inches from my ear. My heart begins to pound within my chest. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear it against the table.
“Now, why on earth would I kill you?” The last word lingers in the air, then I feel his breath caress the back of my neck.
“That slap made me feel something . I must say, I haven’t felt anything in years.
” A gentle touch tickles my senses as I feel his finger push back a small piece of hair, then he states, “I also believe it awoke something in you , by the look your pretty face held afterward.” My breath hitches, remembering my fingers in his mouth.
My sense of curiosity is writhing; I want to know what he feels like. What he tastes like. My stubborn conservative mind slaps me back to siding with proper manners. I shift uncomfortably, muttering into the table, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, but I think you do ,” he states as I feel him gently tapping on the table to the drumming of my heart.
Everett gently outlines the massage bench with his finger as I feel his icy atmosphere move to the other side of the table.
Encircling his prey, he continues, “I can see you are struggling. You struggle to allow yourself happiness. You place others’ feelings, cares and emotions above your own.
Too scared to tilt the balance, too scared to make waves.
Too scared to focus on yourself. Why? Why are you running from yourself?
Why do you wrap yourself in the confines of responsibility?
Why won’t you let go ?” Silence sits between us as he ceases his movements. My pulse pounds in both ears.
All I can hear is my breath. For a moment, I question if he’s left the room, or if he’s a ghost that’s come to haunt me, drive me mad, question my sanity and being .
His powerful form hovers over my body. I feel the electric charge between us make my head spin. Before I know it, he’s speaking softly into my ear. “I’m going to touch you now.”
My body has two initial reactions to his statement.
The logical part wants to try to sit up in protest, questioning what this man means—while the dark recesses of my mind revel in his words, are ignited by the thought of his hands upon me.
Something I have fantasized about. My skin prickles in anticipation of his touch, heat pooling between my legs.
I cease all thought and movement as soon as I feel the tip of his thumb press into my shoulder blade.
Not enough to hurt, no , but enough to make me stay in place.
His touch sends a tantalizing shock through my system.
I exhale, resisting the moan that wants to escape my perverted mouth and caging it into the back of my throat.
I swallow it down, along with the succubus that wants to climb out of my body and gain control of the scenario.
I am utterly fucked.
You want to be utterly fucked. The perverted thought leaves my mind, as does the tiny moan. My face heats with embarrassment and I wait for him to laugh at me. To make a snarky remark. But it doesn’t come.
His low, gravelly voice sings in my ears as he states, “Shall we begin?”
For some reason I’m not scared. I don’t shudder as I usually do from a man’s touch.
The tip of his warm thumb presses ever so slightly into my back, so I give in and lie back down.
“If you at all want me to cease my ministrations, state raven ,” he says. “Do you understand?”
As I nod into the table, anticipation climbs within my stomach. For the past several days I fantasized about this man touching me, and here the perverted fantasy is coming to life.
What would Dr. Brendon think? What would Seraphina do if she found out? The volume of my restless thoughts is turned down as his thumb languidly strokes down the center of my spine.
Everett calmly smooths the side of his thumb down my back and repeats the motion on either shoulder blade. Another small moan escapes my mouth, but I snuff out the embarrassment my logical side wants to deliver. I allow myself to melt into the table .
Though I must say, I am confused by his actions and embarrassed for him to see me in this manner.
Only my deceased husband has ever seen me in this state.
He’s also the only one who has ever laid eyes on the hideous scars on my back.
I twitch in apprehension knowing he is seeing something so personal.
“Try to relax, Miss Brielle.” His voice resonates in my ears and calms my senses.
It appears he’s going to continue the massage.
The feel of his callused hands splayed across my lower back causes my breath to hitch.
He continues working the pressure evenly across my back and kneads the palms of his hands on my muscles.
He takes his time, switching between massaging my flesh and tracing some of the scars on my back.
When he traces the burnt H on my upper shoulder blade, I can feel him suck in a breath of air—the only indication of any emotion on his part.
He continues his ministrations as I fall into a trance from his hands upon my skin.
Then I feel his fingertips push lower and lower, down my back and onto the crest of my hip, my core tightening in response.
Then he carefully continues his administration back up.
As his fingertips meet the upper portion of my back, I feel one hand trail off to inspect the tattoo on my left rib cage, tracing the words and causing the skin to goose-flesh.
“I have never seen a woman with ink before.” His statement feels like a seductive challenge.
“I…I got it after losing a friendly bet. Some friends and I got it because of the war. It means ‘always loyal’ in German.” As I try to explain my tattoo, the tips of his fingernails skate down my back.
The slight scratches gave a euphoric feeling, causing me to grip the table.
No doubt he knows what he’s doing to me.
He lifts the sheet and drapes it to cover my shoulder blades, then lifts the bottom half again, exposing me from my knees down.
The cold air from the room awakens the panic within me.
“Everett!”
His name hisses from my lips as I begin to sit up but he stops me with a firm, callused hand. It pushes me back down toward the table as he states, “It’s just a massage.” Which doesn’t end my anxiety. I try to control my breathing, as part of my body is excited by his advances.