Page 59 of Bratva Prisoner
“Alyssa—”
“No arguments. You’ve spent all day taking care of everyone else. Let someone take care of you for once.”
The authoritative tone in her voice is so unexpected that I actually obey without protest. Twenty minutes later, I find her in the main living room with the furniture rearranged and soft music playing from the sound system.
“Sit on the floor,” she instructs as she gestures to a cushion she’s placed in front of the sofa.
“What are you planning?”
“Massage therapy. I took a class in college, and you look like you haven’t relaxed your shoulders in about a decade.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to. Besides, after today, I think we could both use something normal and peaceful.”
I settle onto the cushion as directed, and within moments, her hands are working at the knots in my shoulders. The tension I’ve been carrying begins to dissolve, and soon, they’re replaced by a different kind of awareness.
“Better?” she asks, soft and close to my ear.
“Much,” I confirm with a grunt as her thumbs find a particularly tight spot. “Where did you learn to do this?”
“It was an elective course. I figured it would be easy credits, but it turned out to be genuinely useful.”
Her hands work across my shoulders and upper back, finding tension I didn’t even realize I was carrying. When she hits a particularly sensitive spot, I can’t suppress a low groan of relief.
“Feel good?”
“Too good,” I admit with a sigh.
“Too good how?”
The innocent way she asks the question tells me she has no idea what her touch is doing to me. Her fingers knead the muscles along my spine, and every stroke sends heat spreading through my body before it all collects in my groin.
“Alyssa,” I warn, though I’m not sure if I’m warning her to stop or to continue.
“Relax. Just let me take care of you.”
The tenderness in her voice, combined with the feel of her hands on my body, is rapidly becoming more than I can handle. I need a distraction before I do something stupid like turn around and kiss her senseless.
“Tell me about your family,” I say, grasping for safe conversation topics.
Her hands pause for just a moment before resuming their work. “What about them?”
“You mentioned they weren’t ideal parents. What did you mean by that?”
“Do we really want to get into family trauma right now?”
“I want to know everything about you. The good and the bad.”
She stays quiet for so long that I think she’s going to refuse to answer. When she finally speaks, her voice carries the weight of old pain.
“My mother was a compulsive gambler. Poker, blackjack, horses, lottery tickets—anything she could bet money on. My father was a functional alcoholic who spent most of his time at the local bar pretending his wife wasn’t losing their house payment at the casino.”
“How long did that go on?”
“My entire childhood. They’d have these explosive fights about money, then ignore me for days while they dealt with whatever crisis my mother’s gambling had created this time.” Her hands work deeper into the muscle, as if the physical motion helps her process the memories. “I learned early that I couldn’t depend on them for anything important.”
“Are they still alive?”
