Page 47 of Hearts Held
I turn toward Jameson, my eyes wide. “I havenotslept 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, allright, 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 chuckle.
“And I find you to be an intriguing littleliar, 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 feelsomething. 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 inyou, by the look your pretty face held afterward.” My breath hitches, remembering my fingers inhis 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 youdo,” 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 letgo?” 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 heatswith 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.
