Chapter 6

"I need a massage," he said casually over dinner.

She barely looked up from her plate. "My hands still hurt."

"Whole body," he continued, ignoring her excuse. "My muscles are sore."

She froze for a second, then quickly regained control. She was a changed woman now. Pure. Whole. Untouched by lust.

"Fine," she said, calm and professional. "I'll do it."

His lips twitched—almost like a smirk—but he said nothing.

That night, she climbed onto the bed as usual, determined to keep things normal.

She started with his back, pressing into his shoulders, working through the tension. Nothing strange. Just a job.

She was focused. Strong. In control.

And then, after a long, slow exhale, he murmured, "Roll me over."

She stilled.

A pause.

"...What?"

"Whole body," he reminded her, voice lazy. "Not just the back."

She hesitated.

But then—of course. He had asked for a full-body massage. And she was a professional.

A changed woman.

She could do this.

So, she nodded and helped him roll onto his back, her hands steady.

And that was when things got dangerous.

Because now, he was laid out before her, chest bare, broad and sculpted in a way that made it impossible not to stare.

Her fingers worked over his pecs, kneading the tension from his muscles, forcing herself to think of nothing else.

Just muscles. Just massage.

Not the way his skin felt under her hands.

Not the way her eyes kept drifting downward.

Not his manhood, resting heavily between his legs.

She swallowed hard, jerking her gaze away.

She was not looking.

Absolutely not.

She focused on his abs, moving lower, working down his sides, then to his thighs—careful, precise, professional.

The whole time, he slept like a baby.

Completely unaware.

Completely unaffected.

Unlike her.

By the time she was done, her entire body was on fire, every inch of her hot and restless.

But she held firm.

She would not give in.

With slow, careful movements, she climbed off the bed, her breath shaky, her mind a mess.

She needed to leave.

Fast.

The moment she got to her room, she shut the door behind her, pressing her forehead against it, hands clenched into fists.

She was a changed woman.

She was.

She just wished her body would believe it.

Night after night, he asked for a full-body massage. And night after night, she gave it to him—because she was strong.

Because she was a changed woman.

She didn't let her mind wander.

She didn't let her gaze linger.

She didn't let herself acknowledge the heat pooling between her legs as she worked her hands over his broad chest, his firm abdomen, down his thighs, always stopping just short of places she shouldn't be thinking about.

She was in control.

Except she wasn't.

Because every single night, her body betrayed her.

She could ignore it at first—pretend it was just heat, just exertion from the work. But by the time she was straddling his back, pressing into his shoulders, her core was aching.

Weeping.

And when he rolled onto his back, baring himself completely to her, she had to fight the desperation clawing through her veins.

She did everything right.

Kept her hands professional. Kept her breaths steady. Kept her thighs from pressing too tightly around his waist.

But it didn't matter.

Because her body knew.

And worse—he didn't.

He slept through everything.

Like this was nothing.

Like she wasn't slowly going insane with every single pass of her fingers over his skin.

By the time she finished each night, she could barely walk straight to her room, thighs clenched tight, fingers twitching from restraint.

And when she collapsed onto her bed, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her entire body screamed for release.

But she didn't give in.

Not once.

Not ever.

She was a changed woman.

She would endure this trial.

Even if it broke her.

She barely noticed at first—too focused on her work, kneading through the tension in his shoulders, palms gliding over the heat of his bare back.

It was always the same.

She massaged him. She endured.

And then she went to bed, hot, restless, aching with something she refused to name.

But tonight…

Tonight, she made a mistake.

She was tired, her arms burning from the effort, her legs trembling from the position she had been holding for too long.

So she did something careless.

She let herself rest.

For just a second, she let her weight settle fully against him, pressing her front to his back, her breasts molding to the warmth of his skin, her cheek resting against his spine.

The relief was instant.

But so was the pleasure.

A sharp, electric heat shot through her core, her clit throbbing at the friction, at the warmth, at the sheer wrongness of it all.

She barely caught the moan before it escaped, biting her lip so hard it nearly bled.

She needed to move. Now.

With shaking hands, she rolled him over, her body acting before her brain could catch up.

And by default—as always—she ended up straddling him.

Too late. Too close. Too much.

She froze, her breath catching, her eyes widening as her hands trembled on his chest.

He was asleep.

Deep, steady, utterly unaware.

But beneath her, pressed against her inner thighs, was the unmistakable shape of him.

Hard.

Thick.

Dangerous.

Her pulse hammered so loudly she could hear it in her ears.

Her breath came in uneven gasps, her fingers curling against the ridges of his abs as her body screamed for more.

Her mind was a battlefield.

Get off. Move. Leave.

But something darker whispered back—just a little bit.

Just a little.

Just once.

She barely noticed when her hips moved—just a slight press down, her entrance dragging over him through the thin layers between them.

A violent shudder racked through her, pleasure slamming into her so suddenly, so viciously, she nearly whimpered.

Oh, God.

It was too much.

Too perfect.

Her thighs squeezed involuntarily, her hands clenching against his stomach as she bit her lip, forcing herself to be silent.

Her body betrayed her, rolling again—just once, just enough to feel the firm press of him against her aching core.

And it was instant.

The pleasure came crashing down, breaking through her resistance, sending her spiraling into white-hot, unbearable bliss.

Her orgasm tore through her, vicious and unforgiving, her entire body shuddering, thighs clenching, hips stuttering against him.

She bit down a moan, but her breath came out in a shaky, wrecked gasp.

And then—horror dawned on her.

Her body froze, the aftershocks of pleasure still pulsing through her as realization struck.

What had she done?

Oh, God. Oh, God.

Her wetness.

She could feel it—soaking through her underwear, pressed against him.

Evidence.

Her eyes snapped to his face, terror gripping her chest.

But he was still.

Sleeping.

Unaware.

Didn't feel it. Didn't know.

Didn't catch her in the act.

Her heart was pounding as she scrambled off of him, shaking, frantic, mortified.

She wiped at his stomach—at the evidence of her shame—her hands unsteady, her breathing ragged.

And then, before she could make another mistake, before she could let herself look at him again, she ran.

Her legs barely worked as she rushed to her room, her entire body still throbbing, her mind a chaotic, shamed-filled mess.

She slammed the door shut behind her, pressing her back against it, eyes wide, staring at nothing.

This had to stop.

This was the last time.

She would never—never—do this again.

She swore it.

What she didn't see…

What she didn't know…

Was that the moment she left, the second her footsteps disappeared down the hall—

His green eyes slid open.

Sharp.

Awake.

And utterly aware.