Page 125 of Mexico Can Choke On It
She pinches harder. “You seem like ze type of man who cannot handle vings vhen zey get difficult. Zis is too intense, dah?”
“It’s fine,” I grit out.
I deserve every damn ounce of pain she’s giving me.
Last night, she entrusted me with parts of herself that I know she fiercely protects. The way she lay against me afterward, all that fierce energy finally at peace, trusting me enough to let her guard down completely. And how did I repay her? By treating her like a mistake, as if she were something to hide, a regrettable lapse in judgment.
I thought having her would set me free—physical release, mutual satisfaction, clean boundaries. Instead, I woke up this morning feeling as if I’d left part of myself in her bed.What the hell kind of reaction is that?
I keep trying to classify what happened between us. To place it neatly into a box. But she doesn’t fit into any framework I’m aware of. She’s not like the women in my world. She wants neither my name nor my money… so whatdoesshe want?
Her elbows dig into my waist with such force, I almost launch off the table. I mask my pain with a grunt.
There’s a very real chance I’ll leave this room with a slipped disc and a lifelong limp.This massage was supposed to be my opportunity to strategize—damage control, press statements, my impending CEO coronation. Instead? I’m lying here, surrendering to her torture like a masochist, simply because she’s touching me.
This is sheer lunacy.I should end this charade right now. Drop the act, stare her down, have an actual conversation as two adults who’ve seen each other naked.
I have three days until I leave for New York permanently. Before this fantasy week is over and we return to our separate realities. I’m aware this doesn’t come with a future. I get that I can’t keep her. So how do I explain I need these next few days with her like I need air?
She’s everything my world isn’t—uncontrolled, unpredictable, real.
She startles me, delivering a vicious chop to my shoulder blade that resembles being hit with a meat tenderizer.
“Da rich men love vis torture.”
“I see. Well, maybe you could shift into something a bit less… medieval,” I suggest. “Something with more fluidity. More sensual and graceful.”
“I give you superior treatment.”
She pauses. Long enough to make me hopeful.
WHAP!Her palm connects with my ass.
“SON OF A—” I bite off the rest of the curse.
She slaps my backside again—andyanks a leg hairclean out of my thigh.
“What the hell was that?”
“Siberian bear slap. My babushka always say: ‘Man who squeaks during massage don’t expect a roar in bed.’”
I could stop this. Turn over, apologize like a grown-ass man, and face whatever fallout’s coming. But no. I go full idiot and poke the bear.
“Out of curiosity, what is the official stance of Casa Cashmere on, shall we say, ‘happy endings’? Hypothetically speaking… for a friend.”
“Tell friend to go home and finish job himself.”
I grin against the face cradle. “You see, that’s the issue. My… friend had a rather zealous partner last night. Quite vigorous, really went for it. But occasionally, a man requires… a sense of completion.”
“Maybe is you—your friend,” she stammers in her faux Russian accent, “who has difficulty with… how you say… finishing.”
“You’re accusing me—him—of performance issues?”
“Is common, yes? Vealthy men have big bank, small bang.”
Petra’s palms press into my back with renewed vengeance—my spine is about to go straight through this massage table.
“Absolutely. Right there,” I say, teasing her despite the pain. “So much more effective than last night’s encounter. I’m beginning to suspect you might be the woman who can actually… finish the job properly.”
