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I settled into the cradle. “I’ll behave. Promise. Pretend I’m any other client.”
“Any other client,” she said. “Sure.”
She kept her word, and so did I. For a while. She worked my back and shoulders with deep, deliberate strokes, and I kept my breathing even and my mind on spreadsheets, traffic, anything.
Then she moved to my legs.
She folded the towel up over one thigh, tucking it tight against my hip, and started at my calf. Long, oiled strokes up toward my knee. Then past it. Her palms swept up the back of my thigh, fingers spread wide, and stopped an inch from where the towel was tucked. Then back down. Then up again, a little higher.
Spreadsheets. Traffic.
“You’re tense here,” she murmured, and her thumb pressed into the inside of my thigh, right up high. My cock jumped against the table so hard I swear she felt it through my leg.
She didn’t say anything. She just kept doing it.
By the second leg I was shaking. She was leaning over me now, her body close, her breath warm on the back of my thigh as she worked. Her fingertips kept brushing the edge of the towel and lingering there, like she was testing a stove to see if it was hot.
“Still behaving?” she asked softly.
“Trying.”
“Good boy.” She stopped. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Say it again,” I nearly said. I didn’t. I bit the inside of my cheek and gripped the table.