Page 54 of Scornful

"You could say that."

An idea forms. "You need a massage."

His eyebrows raise. "Princess?—"

"I'm serious. You're wound tighter than a spring. Lucky for you, I happen to be a professional massage therapist with a newly furnished treatment room."

A slow smile spreads across his face. "Is that so?"

"Mhmm. Come on." I take his hand, leading him to the back room. "Strip."

He doesn't need to be told twice.

His cut comes off first, draped carefully over a chair.

Then his shirt, revealing his hard muscles and hot tattoos that never fail to make my mouth go dry.

"All of it," I say when he hesitates at his jeans.

"Bossy," he murmurs, but complies, stripping completely.

Gods, he's beautiful.

He lays face down on the table, and I don't bother with a sheet.

We're way past modesty.

I warm oil between my hands, then begin working on his shoulders.

The muscles are like granite under my touch, holding all his stress and worry.

"Jesus, youaretense," I murmur, digging my thumbs into a particularly stubborn knot.

He groans, the sound sending heat straight to my core. "Feels good."

I do what I do best, finding each point of tension and kneading it out.

Down his back, along his spine, paying special attention to the areas I know hurt him.

My hands map every inch of him—the scars, the ink, the places that make him gasp when I touch them.

"Turn over," I say after working his back thoroughly.

He complies, and I have to bite back a smile.

He's already half-hard, his cock stirring against his thigh.

"See something you like?" I tease.

"Always," he growls, eyes dark with want.

I continue the massage, working his chest, his arms, his abs.

Each touch seems to make everything burn hotter between us.

By the time I reach his hips, he's fully hard, his cock standing proud and thick.

"Astrid," he groans when my hands venture lower, massaging his inner thighs.

---