Page 164 of The Vacation Mix-Up
She smacks her hands together, links her fingers, then stretches her arms away from her body. “Relax. You enjoy. I make you feel good.”
My eyes widen.
“Face in hole,” she adds.
Face in what?
She points to a towel underneath my head and then parts it, revealing an opening in the table. “Head down.”
I stiffen. “Put my head in that?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s not big enough.”
“You fit.”
Slowly pressing my face into the gap, what feels like a thousand tiny pins prick the length of my spine, my chest tightening, my hands restless and clammy.
I instantly jerk back, damned if I’ll be doing that again.
“What wrong?” She squirts oil onto her hands, rubs themtogether, and then places her palms on my shoulders, coaxing me down.
I push against her.
“He’s claustrophobic,” Riles mutters.
“Just turn to side then,” the woman says, clasping my face with her slimy fingers and gently rotating my head.
Riles giggles, and I want to toss a ticking clock at her until she reaches for my hand and rests the side of her head on her towel, facing me. “Don’t worry. It’s not just you. I don’t particularly like the hole either. I end up with a headache and weird indentations on my face.”
“And this is supposed to be enjoyable?” I ask, confused.
“It will be. Just relax. Stop fighting it.”
Reluctantly doing as she says, her soothing misty eyes chasing mine, I lose myself in their depth while our masseuses massage our shoulders and necks. Riles’s heavy eyelids fall shut, her hand slipping from mine as her arm falls limp by her side. I close my eyes as well, peace immobilizing my body and mind, my breathing shallow, the tension from signing my divorce papers and discarding my wedding ring squeezed, kneaded, and worked out of me.
I allow the purge and let go of everything I’ve been through, the loss, the lies, the fallout, relief a comforting blanket when the crushing weight of it all literally lifts from my body.
“Ohhh, gaaawd,” Riles murmurs, a soft, sensual moan escaping her lips.
I snap my eyes open and blink, her body gloriously oiled, her expression erotically sated.
She moans again, and my cock stirs in response.
“Turn over now,” my masseuse instructs.
What? Hell no!
Slamming my eyes shut again, I pretend to be asleep.
“Allo?” She pats my shoulder. “Wakey wakey.”
If I“wakey wakey,”you’ll see my“snakey snakey,” and there’s no fucking way I’m allowing that.
“Riley,” Riles whispers, her fingers gently squeezing my arm. “Wake up. It’s time to roll over.”
I play dead, a game I’m a seasoned champion at, thanks to Poppy.
