Page 48 of Hearts Held
“If you at all want me to cease my ministrations, stateraven,” 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 burntHon 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 onehand 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.
As I settle back down he grips my calves gently. He takes his strong thumb and slowly strokes it down the center of my calves, then begins kneading each individualcalf between his callused palms. The feeling is heavenly, and my muscles sing out with pain and pleasure as they ease into his touch. He takes his time carefully caressing, pulling the tension tight between us. Icy electricity builds between our souls. As he finishes, he trails the fingers of one hand up my inner leg. My eyes grow wide as I firmly grip the table in anticipation of what he might do, but I scold the half of my soul that wants him to creep further up toward my heat. His fingertips cease at the inside of my middle thigh.
I hold my breath, in hopes that he’ll dare to venture higher. I fight the succubus within me that wants to beg and plead.
His thumb branches out across the back of my thigh as he applies sinful pressure to the tight knot in my hamstring. I bite back a moan, my teeth digging into my lower lip, refusing to let him see what he does to me. He massages with the perfect amount of languid pressure. Then he carefully grasps the sheet and pulls it back down over my lower half, returning to my side.
He knows though—no matter how hard I try to hide it—he knows what he’s doing to me. I couldn’t help the small whimpers and moans that escaped, that beggedfor him to touch me. I wonder if he can tell I fantasized about him. That my traitorous body had been longing with curiosity to know how those hands felt.
Everett moves the sheet back, returning to my hideous scars and continuing his ministrations, causing the insecurities to creep back to the front of my mind.
Everett finally speaks as he caresses my back. “You are running from yourself and your thoughts, aren’t you? Because of your past? Because of your husband?”
I feel my skin prickle across my back with each question, the tiny hairs on my nape simultaneously standing up.
He knows. Somehow, he knows. He begins using the palm of his hand, rubbing my back with the perfect amount of pressure. I understand what he’s trying to do now. This isn’t just about showing me how much he’s in control. It’s to abuse my vulnerable position and prove how easily things could turn violent. Again, he’s playing with his prey and I’m playing with fire.
The thought doesn’t scare me though. Instead, it sends arousal through the lower pit of my abdomen. Even though I remain face down on the massage bench, my mind wanders to a dangerous place. I want the sheetto fall to the floor, to expose my body to him, to see how far he would go. He told me toorder him,demand him. I could do that now.
His voice breaks into my dirty thoughts. “I have connections. I find out everything about anyone, anywhere, anytime,” he drawls out in a low, seductive voice. “So why don’t you tell me everything before I tell you what Iknow.”
At this moment, I feel his weight shift. His stone-hard form is closer to me, his breath upon my ear. I can feel the brush of his shirt against my skin. His hands are still languidly finding my scars and tracing them. Stroking them like a lover’s touch.
“Let me challenge that filthy, lying tongue of yours to tell the truth.”
My breath catches in my throat. I feel like I can’t speak, as if my voice box has left the room in a fit of fear.
Is this a ploy? A test?
Maybe he doesn’t know anything, and this is one way to pressure me. When he sits up to continue his ministrations, something tugs within me. I miss his hovering force and his closeproximity.
My breathing becomes ragged, fighting the panic attack that wants to rear its ugly head, but he keeps working my muscles. Kneading the tension away as my body begins to slowly shake beneath his touch from the anxiety. He moves so calculatingly to the front of my head and I feel the small gust of air as his body crouches down. His head is next to mine as he lazily claws one hand through my hair and gently pulls my head up, toward his face. “Fine, if you won’t tell me, then let’sreallybegin.” He tightens his grasp in my hair, sending small sparks of pleasure down my spine.
I should be scared.
This shouldn’t feel good, it shouldn’t feel…right.
Maybe I want someone to know my story, finally.Maybe.
His low, smooth voice filters through my ears like a devilish, seductive song. “Your husband died in a fire, but it wasn’t by chance, was it? The papers say he was asleep, and the fire engulfed the house.”
