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I let out a long breath. “Claire, you have incredible hands. I mean it. Do whatever you think I need.”
“Whatever I think you need,” she repeated, amused. “Dangerous thing to say to a masseuse.”
But I felt her relax. The tightness went out of her shoulders, and her strokes got longer, more confident. She worked the backs of my thighs, thumbs gliding up from my knees, higher each time, until her fingertips were brushing the crease under my arse and stopping, just there, again and again.
The towel slid. She didn’t fix it.
“You’ve got a nice back,” she said casually. “Helen never mentioned.”
“Helen doesn’t talk about my back much.”
“No. She doesn’t talk about you much at all lately.” A pause. “Sorry. Not my business.”
Her hand slid up the inside of my thigh, slow, slick with oil, close enough that her knuckle grazed my balls where they were pressed against the table. It could have been an accident. It wasn’t. I bit down on a groan.
“Pressure okay?”
“Perfect,” I managed.
She did it again. Slower.
My cock was a steel bar trapped under me, and I was fairly sure I’d left a wet spot on the sheet. My heart was hammering.
Then she stepped back and lifted the towel by its corners, holding it up like a curtain.
“Okay,” she said, and her voice wasn’t quite steady. “Time to turn over.”