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“We’re adults,” I said. “It’s a massage. Do your worst.”
“Careful what you ask for.” She warmed the oil between her palms, and the first stroke down my spine made me exhale like I’d been holding my breath for eleven years.
She was good. Really good. Strong thumbs along the muscles either side of my spine, heels of her hands sinking into the knots. Every so often she leaned her weight in and I felt her hip brush the edge of the table, right by my arm.
“You’re carrying a lot of tension,” she said.
“Long month.”
“Long decade?” A pause. “Sorry. Professional voice. Ignore me.”
We talked about nothing. Her flat, Helen’s new job, their mum’s knee. Normal family chatter, except her hands kept sliding lower, working the dip of my back, fingertips grazing the edge of the towel where it sat across my arse.
Then she folded the towel down an inch. Then another. Her palms pressed into the top of my glutes, slow, firm circles, oil running warm into places that were definitely not my lower back.
“Is this pressure okay?”
“It’s… yeah. It’s fine.”
It was not fine. My cock was crushed hard against the table and I was very glad to be face down.
She laughed softly, like she knew exactly what was happening. The air in that little room had gone thick and sweet with oil and something else.
I could feel the wedding hanging between us, unspoken, the way it always was.
→ I bring up the wedding and what she whispered to me that night