Page 49 of The List
“My shoulders!” I shout a little too loudly. Simon shakes with laughter as he turns to plant a kiss on one of the shoulders in question, shoving aside the fabric of my fancy Turkish spa robe.
“Wonderful,” Henrietta replies, and I swear to God her voice is closer than it was a few seconds ago. Is she standing right outside our stall?
“And how do you like your effleurage?” she calls out.
“Um, my effleurage?”
I have no idea if that’s a body part or a beverage. At this point I’m considering shouting adjectives that would cover me either way. Tender? Warm? Uh?—
“I’m so sorry,” Henrietta calls. “Effleurage are the long, sweeping strokes we use in Swedish massage. I typically alternate between firm and light pressure, using palms or fingertips, but some clients have very specific preferences.”
As she speaks, Simon slips his own palm between our bodies. He skims his fingertips across my clit, using my own wetness to tease the sensitive bud. I gasp and press against him, my body acting without permission from my brain.
“Fingertips!” My reply comes out more like a groan as the pads of Simon’s fingers continue to torment me. “Uh, light at first, but maybe just a tiny bit faster.”
“I can do that,” Simon whispers. Then he does.
On the other side of the door, Henrietta is still talking.
“That’s excellent feedback,” she calls. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate a client who knows what she wants.”
There’s a shuffling outside the room, and I picture Henrietta taking notes. Simon continues his magic, gliding his fingers over my clit as he slowly begins to fuck me again.
He finds his rhythm, working his hips in tandem with the stroking of his fingers. I let my head fall back against the mirror, so drunk with pleasure that I’m not sure I’d care right now if a whole team of masseuses stood and watched.
But there’s just Henrietta. As Simon drives inside me again, she clears her throat. “How deep do you like it?”
I don’t answer right away, partly because Simon just hit my G-spot, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming with pleasure as I rake my nails down his back. But claw marks on his shoulder blades would make things more awkward for his massage, so I somehow muster a reply.
“Deep!” I choke out. “Really, really deep.”
“Perfect!” Henrietta calls. “With some clients, I’ll even use an elbow to achieve maximum penetration.”
Simon grins and lifts his arm, grazing my right nipple with his elbow. It’s an impressively dexterous maneuver, but not nearly as impressive as what he’s doing between my legs.
“Whatever it takes!” I call to Henrietta while Simon quickens his pace.
There’s a shuffling of footsteps outside the door, and I hold my breath. Maybe this is it. My prayers have been answered. Henrietta has moved on.
But no, it’s not over yet. “May I ask about needing?”
“Needing?”
Right now, I’m needing Simon to stroke me just a few more times, because I can feel myself getting closer. Little bubbles of light burst on the periphery of my vision, and his thumb glides over my clit like?—
“I use a lot of thumbs and knuckles in my petrissage, but if you prefer a gentler kind of kneading?—”
Oh, kneading. Good God, I’m going to lose it.
I gasp and shove the knuckles of my left hand into my mouth, biting down to keep myself from crying out. Simon gives a sharp intake of breath, and I can tell he’s just a few beats behind me.
We come together like that, Simon thrusting hard and deep and me arching against him and Henrietta prattling on about friction and vibration and rhythmic tapping and God knows what else.
At last, Simon stops moving. I stop coming. And Henrietta stops talking. Did she leave?
“Miss Michaels?”
No such luck.
