Chapter 5

It was happening again.

The massages had changed—subtly, dangerously—but she hadn't let herself acknowledge it.

Until tonight.

Until the moment she felt the heat between her legs pulse with need at the sound of his moan.

It wasn't even deliberate on his part—just a deep, rough exhale, a sound of relief as she worked through the knots in his back.

But God, it did something to her.

She was already too warm, her palms sliding over his bare skin, the broad expanse of his back beneath her hands. He was solid—all muscle and power, even after years in a wheelchair.

And she was on top of him, straddling his lower back like always, trying to focus, trying to ignore the slow, throbbing ache that had nothing to do with work.

Then he made that sound again—low, almost guttural, his body shifting slightly beneath her touch.

And she snapped.

Before she could stop herself, she pressed down, her hips rolling forward just slightly—just enough to feel something.

Her breath hitched.

A spark of pleasure shot through her, shameful, hot, forbidden.

She bit her lip hard, trying to silence the whimper threatening to escape.

He didn't react. Didn't seem to notice.

But she did.

She felt everything—the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the way her own body betrayed her in the worst way possible.

She barely moved.

Just one small, slow grind.

One moment of losing control.

And it was too much.

Shame hit her like a brick wall.

She froze, heart hammering, heat rushing to her face.

What the hell was she doing?

Without another word, she pulled away too quickly, climbing off of him, ignoring the lingering pulse between her legs.

"That's enough for tonight," she muttered, her voice tight, strained.

She didn't look at him.

Didn't wait for a response.

She just grabbed her things and left, heart racing, face burning.

Because this—this was bad.

This was crossing a line she had no business even touching.

And yet, she already knew—

It was only a matter of time before she broke again.

She pretended. Forced herself to act normal.

The night she lost control—when she ground against his back, taking forbidden pleasure from his body—was an accident, a moment of weakness.

And she refused to let it happen again.

For a few nights, she found excuses. She claimed she was too tired, that she had errands to run, that his muscles were fine without the extra care.

He didn't push. He never asked for the massages—he just let her when she offered.

But when she finally returned to his room, forcing herself to be normal, a new problem arose.

She tried to stand beside him while working on his shoulders.

It didn't work.

She wasn't strong enough from that angle—couldn't get deep into the muscle tissue, couldn't reach him properly.

Sitting at the edge of the bed was the same. Useless.

Which left her with only one option.

The original position.

Straddling him.

Like before.

Like the nights she was trying to forget.

She hesitated for too long, gripping the hem of her shirt, taking a steadying breath. This was just a job. She could do this without thinking about it too much.

So she climbed on.

Settled herself carefully, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his waist.

And forced herself to focus.

It was fine. Normal.

Until it wasn't.

Because the heat was back. The awareness.

Her hands moved along his shoulders, but all she could think about was how warm he was, how his back felt beneath her, how he let out that deep, low exhale whenever she worked the tension from his muscles.

The ache between her legs returned with a vengeance.

She squeezed her thighs together, trying to fight it.

But he was so big beneath her, solid and strong, his body so naturally commanding that even now—asleep—he made her want to submit to something she didn't fully understand.

And the longer she worked, the more restless she became.

Her breathing turned uneven.

Her hands slowed, lingering over his back.

And when he let out a quiet, deep sigh in his sleep, she broke again.

This time, she didn't stop at one small roll of her hips.

She moved slowly, barely there, but enough to feel it—enough to send pleasure curling up her spine, her core pulsing with need.

She bit her lip hard, silencing any noise that tried to escape.

He didn't stir.

Didn't wake up.

And she kept going, dragging it out longer, savoring the feeling of friction, of power and shame tangling together in the worst way.

Her fingers curled against his skin, her movements growing desperate, dangerous.

But then—reality crashed down.

She was using him.

Taking something he didn't even know was happening.

Shame flooded her, harsher than before.

She froze, heart hammering, heat flooding her face.

Without thinking, she slipped off of him, climbed off the bed, and escaped the room before she could wake him up.

Her hands were shaking as she closed the door behind her.

This wasn't just wrong anymore.

It was twisted.

The shame had been too much, a weight pressing down on her until she couldn't breathe.

So she took a leave.

A whole week away. Time to clear her head, to remind herself of who she was, to bury the twisted, needy part of her that had been growing in the dark corners of her mind.

When she returned, nothing had changed.

He was the same—calm, unreadable, as if her absence hadn't even mattered. The usual conversations resumed, his aloof attitude still intact.

And she told herself—this is good. This is normal.

She had crossed a line, but now she could step back. She would never do it again.

Then, one night, as she was about to leave his room after checking on him, his voice cut through the silence.

"Massage me."

She froze mid-step, her pulse jumping.

She turned slowly, found his green eyes on her, steady, unreadable.

For a second, she thought about saying no.

She should have.

But she didn't.

Instead, she nodded, moving toward him with stiff limbs, forcing herself to act normal, to do this the right way.

She climbed onto the bed, positioned herself carefully on his back, and got to work.

At first, it was fine.

Her hands moved as they always did, pressing into his muscles, focusing on her technique.

Then—

He sighed.

Low, deep, that same sound that always ruined her.

Heat pooled between her legs instantly, her body betraying her.

She tried to ignore it. She really did.

But the ache was already there, demanding, unbearable.

And when his breathing evened out, his body completely relaxed beneath her, she knew.

He was asleep.

She should have stopped.

She should have climbed off and left.

But instead—

Her hips pressed down.

The second the friction hit, a shudder ran through her.

And she did it again.

Slow. Careful. Just enough to feel it, to ease the ache.

But it wasn't enough.

It was never enough.

She moved more, grinding deeper, each shift of her hips sending sparks of unbearable pleasure through her body.

Her breathing turned ragged, her thighs squeezing around him as she chased it, hands trembling as they continued their useless, half-hearted massage.

The pressure built too fast.

She couldn't stop.

And when it finally hit, her whole body shook, waves of pleasure rolling through her as she bit her lip, swallowing a cry.

It was the hardest she had ever come.

And the second it was over, reality slammed into her.

What have I done?

Panic surged as she scrambled off him, legs weak, shaking, chest heaving.

But then—horror struck.

Her wetness had transferred to his back.

Her face burned so hot she thought she might pass out.

She grabbed a towel, frantically wiping away the evidence, her hands moving too fast, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

This was the last time.

She swore it.

She wouldn't cross this line again.

She wouldn't use him like this anymore.

As she backed away, she took one last, shaky breath, then turned and hurried toward the door, escaping before her shame swallowed her whole.

She didn't see it.

Didn't notice the slight twitch in his fingers.

Didn't feel the weight of his stare.

But as the door clicked shut behind her, his eyes opened—sharp, awake, and burning with something dangerous.

He knew.

She was a new woman.

That was her mantra.

She woke up the next day and decided—no more.

No more shame, no more lust, no more of whatever twisted, humiliating thing had taken over her body in the dead of night.

From now on, she would be pure. Wholesome. A woman of self-control.

Like a nun.

She forgot everything.

And for the first time in months, she felt free.

She was happy—genuinely, blissfully happy.

She focused on her work, helped him when needed, did everything as professionally as possible. And when it came to the massages?

She cut them off.

"My hands hurt," she told him one evening, wiggling her fingers as an excuse. "I need a break from all that pressure."

A lie, of course.

But he just nodded, unreadable as always. "Fine."

No argument. No pressing for more.

And that was that.

That night, at dinner, the air between them felt different—not tense, but calculated.

He acted as if nothing had changed, as if everything was exactly the same.

Which was perfect.

She laughed more, told stories about her brothers, let herself relax in a way she hadn't in a long time.

He listened like he always did, his sharp green eyes steady, his gaze never wavering.

At one point, she caught him watching her.

Not in the way he used to—cold and unreadable.

No.

This was something else.

Something too controlled.

Something waiting.

But she ignored it.

Because she was a brand new woman now.

And nothing—nothing—was going to break her.