Page 66 of Fit for Love

“Oh, you don’t need to beat me for that.I’d be happy to oblige.”

“You didn’t think this through,” she says.“I’ll be naked, and you’ll get very horny—but I want the massage to last for an hour, and for you to use both hands, meaning you can’t jerk off or anything like that the whole time.”

Oh.“You drive ahardbargain.I’ll just have to make sure not to lose.”

She moistens her lips.“And what do you want on the off chance you manage to win?”

“Also a massage.But in my version, youcan’tuse your hands.”

“How then?”

“You can slide your breasts down my back, or use your feet, or?—”

“Got it,” she says.“Obviously, that’s purely hypothetical as I don’t plan to lose.”

“Me neither.”

“On three,” she says and counts it down.

She throws rock, and I throw scissors.

“Loser,” she taunts.“Come, service me.”

She sashays over to the bed, takes off her bra and panties, and sprawls there, her shapely ass in the air.“Remember, you owe me an hour.”

“Fine.”I play “The Four Seasons” on my phone again to help her relax before walking over to the bed, at which point I have to fight the urge to take her from behind, hard.

“Here goes.”My hand touches her warm skin, and my dick wants to howl at the moon.

“Yes,” she murmurs as I knead her shoulders.“Just like that.”

How is it that I’m going this crazy for her?It’s not for lack of sex.In fact, the last time I came as much as I have in the past twenty-four hours was when I discovered jerking off as a teen.

But a deal is a deal, so I continue, though not touching myself is a form of torture that goes against the Geneva Convention.

Kendall moans in pleasure.

Fuck me.“Seriously?Are you really enjoying yourself that much, or are you just messing with me?”

“You’re that good,” she says languidly.“And it’s official: your backup career shouldn’t be as a chef.You’re a born masseuse.”

I move on to her lower back, and her moans intensify—and so does my sexual torment.Things only get worse when I massage her glutes, for obvious reasons, and they don’t improve when I move down to her long legs.

“Can you do my feet?”she murmurs when I get to her calves.

Fuuuck.Am I developing a foot fetish?Holding her perfect feet has a more engorging effect on me than her ass did—though I guess it’s all cumulative.

“Okay,” she says finally.“I’m ready to turn over.”

She flips over, and I can’t help but notice that her nipples are pebbled, which can’t be because she’s cold.

“Continue,” she commands.

With a barely suppressed groan, I do, but I make my touches more sensual than therapeutic, working on her neck and ears first, then her scalp and inner wrists.

Her moans turn more carnal, and her nipples morph into tiny rocks, proving I’m on the right track.

“I’m going to work on your lower abdominals,” I say hoarsely and slide my hands down her body, past her deliciously round breasts and her delectable navel, stopping just short of her pubic bone.

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