“Stand up,” he says. “But don’t open your eyes.”
I comply, and while my damp skin cools in the touch of the air, he keeps me warm with the sensual strokes of his oil-soaked hands. Over my belly, my hips. Then down my thighs to where my calves continue beneath the water.
He is not touching me sexually, and yet my body is on fire. My breasts feel tight and heavy. My nipples craving a nip of his teeth. My lips are parted, silently begging for a kiss. And the muscles of my sex throb and clench, desperate for penetration, even as my swollen, sensitive clit begs for his touch.
He doesn’t satisfy, though. His hands slide up my thighs, yes. And though I shift my position so that my legs are parted—though I go so far as to actually whimper—he does not touch me intimately. Instead, his fingers stop their climb just shy of where I so desperately want to feel him. He’s teasing me, of course, taking me to the edge. Heightening my arousal.
And while I curse him, I can’t deny that it’s working. I am beyond turned on. So excited that it feels as though I am floating, all the more so because I am light-headed simply from the heat of this deep, wonderful tub.
“Back in. But keep your eyes closed.” He speaks in a whisper, as if this is a ritual, and it feels that way. As if he is worshipping me. Or readying me to present to an eager god. Either way, the focus is on me. On my pleasure. And I am delirious with the power of it.
Once I’m back in the water, he has me sit on the lowest step so that the water hits my shoulders. He leaves me for a few moments, and when he returns, he tells me to tilt my head back, then uses a cup that I hadn’t noticed to sluice water over my hair before massaging my head with a rosemary-mint shampoo that makes my scalp tingle even as I breathe deep, then sigh with pleasure.
His fingers are strong, and the pressure on my temples and at the base of my neck is just enough to keep me relaxed and happy, and when he rinses the lather out of my hair, I can’t help but wish that we could stay like that just a little bit longer.
As if reading my mind, he massages conditioner into my hair, then gently combs through it, and I’m thankful my hair is short because it so rarely tangles, and the attention is wonderfully sensual rather than potentially painful.
When I’m all bright and shiny and clean, he helps me out of the tub, finally letting me look around. I watch steam rise off my naked body as Jackson urges me to lay down on a towel he’s placed on the side of the tub, along with a small inflatable pillow. Along the edge, there are rows of tea candles, filling the room with a warm glow and soft shadows.
“Jackson.” I say his name on a breath. “The room looks magical.”
“Looks? Sweetheart, I want you to feel magical. Lay back. Close your eyes.”
“What if I want to see you?”
“See me in your imagination, then.”
“I always do,” I admit, and am rewarded by both tenderness and heat shining in his eyes.
“I want you to feel,” he says. “And I want the feelings to send you someplace extraordinary.”
He helps me down, so that I am on my stomach, my head turned sideways and my eyes closed. The towel I am on covers something soft, and I feel as though I am enveloped in warmth. My arms are at my sides, and the damp heat of the room is making me both sleepy and aroused, and the combination is surprisingly potent and erotic.
He starts at my shoulders, using that same scented oil to stroke and massage, not too intense, but enough to be both soothing and relaxing. I’ve had a few sports massages, but none compared to this. His touch seems to fill me, and all of the stress of the day is just melting away under his persistent, incredible attention.
Slowly, he massages my shoulders, then down lower until his hands are cupping my waist, then my hips. He moves lower still, his clever hands kneading my thighs, and I spread my legs, my body craving more. He doesn’t take the hint, however. Instead, he continues lower, rubbing my calf, and then repeating the process on the other leg, working his way slowly up until his fingertips are teasing the sensitive skin between my ass and the top of my thigh.
I am a warm bundle of contentment, and it only gets better when he—yes, finally—eases my legs apart. I’m so wet, so aroused, and the brush of air over my sex makes me moan, and that sound turns even deeper and more needful when his oiled hand slides down between my legs to stroke me, his fingers sliding almost lazily into me.
But I want more, and I push back, trying to make the contact harder, deeper. I’m so turned on, and I am craving release, and the only word that fills my mind is please. Please, please, please.
I don’t even know that my lips have moved or that I have spoken, but I must, because he turns me over, and my legs are spread wide and he’s telling me not to open my eyes. To just float. To just feel.