Page 20 of Scornful

Her hands have moved to my lower back now, strong fingers working muscles I didn't even realize were tight.

Each press of her thumbs sends waves of both relief and tension through my body—a contradictory sensation I can't quite reconcile.

"Turn over," she says after working my lower back for several minutes. "I need to work on your shoulders from the front."

I freeze. Turn over? With the way my body is responding to her touch?

"Problem?" she asks, and I swear there's a hint of challenge in her voice, like she knows exactly what she's doing to me.

"No," I say after a moment, hoping my voice sounds normal. "No problem."

I shift carefully, keeping the sheet strategically placed as I roll onto my back.

When I settle, I find Astrid looking down at me, those sage green eyes darker than usual.

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, everything else falls away.

There's no pretending this is just a professional massage, no denying the heat between us.

"The skull continues on your chest," she says, her voice so soft it's almost a whisper.

Her eyes trace the tattoo that spreads across my right pec, her expression unreadable.

"Yeah," I say, not trusting myself with more words.

She steps to the head of the table, beginning to work on my shoulders from above.

This position puts her directly above me, and when she leans forward to apply pressure, her body hovers way too close to my face.

I close my eyes, trying to focus on the relief her hands are bringing to my muscles rather than the scent of her—vanilla and something citrusy—or the occasional brush of her body against mine.

It's torture.

Exquisite, unbearable torture.

Her hands move to my chest, working my pec muscles with firm, circular motions.

When her fingers brush over a nipple, I can't hold back the sharp intake of breath.

Her hands pause.

"Sorry," she murmurs, but there's something in her tone that suggests she isn't sorry at all.

"It’s fine," I manage, keeping my eyes closed. If I look at her now, I won't be responsible for what happens next.

She continues working, her touch becoming less clinical and more... explorative.

Her hands memorize the contours of my chest, the ridges of scars, the lines of muscle.

When she reaches my abdomen, her fingers trace the defined muscles there with what I think could be appreciation.

"You're in excellent shape," she says, her voice professional again, though there's an undercurrent that betrays her.

"Club keeps me active," I reply, finally risking opening my eyes.

She's looking down at me, a flush spreading across her cheeks.

Our eyes lock again, and this time, there's no pretending.

---