9781618857569GettingitAllStorm (9 page)

“And?”
Clay gripped
Matt's dick...hard.
Defensively.
Matt winced. Clay did
not apologize.

“I think you should go back to
the brown.
Dark, cozy.
Varnished
wood.
Maybe a couple of spotlights on the massage table so you can see
what you’re doing, but none of this scented candle stuff? Maybe leave a couple
of bottles of aftershave open to connect it with the authentic old-fashioned
barbershop outside. Oh, God! That's fantastic what you're doing to my dick!”

The apprehensive young man was
transformed, his mind quickly attached to Matt's suggestions, his hands both
firmly massaging Matt's thick penis and sturdy balls. “It's Tantric. I think.
Penile
stimulation,
or something. I didn’t finish the
course. You really think that's what the guys around here want?”

“Some of
them.
Sure, why not? What we do know is the yellow is not
working. Maybe a big mirror, like outside, so they can see themselves. So they
can approve of what you're doing.
But the rest in shadow.
Not too blatant. Let the guys waiting their turn watch what you’re doing so
they don’t feel weird. They can play with their phones, but not enough light to
read a magazine or anything.
Maybe some beer in the fridge.
Jesus, Clay, I'm about to shoot a wad!”

“Oh, hell.
Gee. What
the fuck am I doing? I'm supposed to never touch anybody sexually. That's
really bad. I'll never get my license...”

“Sorry.
My
fault.
I just put it out there and you picked it up. That
felt...awesome.”

The young man put his face in his
hands,
then
realizing where his hands had just been,
pulled them away quickly. “Maybe...maybe I'm not ready for my own space. I
don't know, a whole new paint job, a mirror, a big one like outside,
spotlights.
Free beer.
It sounds expensive.”

“I'll give you a loan. You can
pay it back in massages.”

The muscular young man brightened.
Not knowing what to say, he laughed. “I could finish up the hand job.
Except...”

“Right,” Matt chortled,
neglecting the 'except' for the moment. “Give the customer what he wants. Or at
least as much as the massage license bureau or whoever will allow. Get the
tired corporate dude to where he wants to leap up from your massage table and
run home and bang his beautiful neglected bride or boyfriend. Who knows how
many shaky relationships you'll
save.
The word will
get around. You'll be a hero.”

Both men hooted with laughter.

“Me and
Chris Evans!”
Chad shouted.

“Who?”

“Mr.
America.
In the movies.
You don't get
out much, do you, Matt? Okay, is that why you wanted to see me this afternoon?
To save my entrepreneurial ass?”

Matt swung his legs over the edge
of the massage table. “I want some man-to-man advice.” His dick was hard. He
fondled himself distractedly.

“Man-to-man.
That's not
the kind of advice I'm usually called upon to give, but I'll give it my best.
Need any help with that?”

“Wanna join me?”

Matt marveled at the powerful
legs that were revealed when Chad slipped out of his sweats.

“Dude, you are one built guy.
Ever thought of private training?”

“I did some of that at the spa I
worked at in New York. But that can get
kinda
...personal.”
He sat back down next to Matt on the massage table and began to jerk himself
off in accompaniment.

They both paused a moment before
breaking into full laughter.

“Ten bucks to see who shoots the
farthest,” the kid snickered. “Okay?”

“A betting
man?”
Matt began to
whang
himself
firmly. “You're bringing back my old scout days.”

“Habit.
I spent
some time in Vegas. And look around. I'd have to be a betting man to think I
might make a buck off a yellow massage room.
Right?”
His strong fingers probed his muscular large organ, deep tissue-
ing
it to its fullest potential.
“Oh,
yeah.”

His technique was awesome. Matt
imagined a class of exhausted corporate types whanging away toward nirvana.

“So?
Your
problem?”
Clay reminded him between heavy breaths. Both men were getting
there quickly. “You've got two girlfriends. What's the deal? I hear one's hot,
one's not.
But sweet.
Sounds like a perfect combo.”
The deep blue eyes closed. The broad smooth brow furrowed in concentration as
the muscular body slipped off the padded surface to stand and lean back against
the table. “
Perfect
,” he
whispered, obviously not commenting on Matt's two girlfriends.

Matt stopped dead. He was going
to lose this bet. “How did you know?” He quickly resumed his pounding. Jesus,
this was fucking exciting...and incredibly stupid for a grown man, he
snickered. The kid deserved a huge tip!

“You know, all that social media
stuff. I’ve got a page. Those dudes will talk about anything.
Comin
'
home
!”
he hissed between gritted teeth, spreading his muscular legs wide and preparing
to finalize his winning moves.

The dude looked awesome! Matt
didn’t have to imagine himself lacking. But he could imagine himself back at
the gym being whipped into shape by the young man. He could imagine himself
back in bed…

…with his two girlfriends!

Or more!

A shot of white cream streaked
across the room.
Then another.
And
another.
The masseur's powerful body shook. “Damn. That's a good one,”
he breathed. He switched hands, laying a shaky strong arm over his older
buddy's shoulder. “Give it your best, Matt. Then tell old Clay what your
problem is. Aren't two delicious ladies enough?”

Matt leaned against the young
man, sucking up his heat, his youthful energy. He stroked firmly, his fingers
drawing out his full potential.

“I guess not,” he gasped,
reaching his peak. His dick exploded, his body contracted violently and
released, propelling the thought along with the streaks of his re-energized
manseed across the room.

“I keep wondering why the hell
Dot hasn't called,” he yelled.

He lost the bet.

But he made a damn good showing.

* * * *

Dorothy
Ardmore had had a tough day at The Crowning Glory. It wasn’t her clients who
had given Dot a bad time. Not even the clients who sometimes could be demanding
when the latest hairstyle suddenly went viral and she wasn’t quite ready for
the cell phone close-ups. It wasn’t even her usually even-tempered boss,
Amelia, who was also known to get a bit testy when news of an impending new
grooming establishment starting making the rounds.

And
there had been rumors, Dorothy remembered, as she kicked off her heels in the
living room of her small apartment, picked them up, and continued to slide out
of her clothes as she headed for the bedroom. There was gonna be a new spa in
town! Hopping from one
iWhatever
to the
Other
. With hot tub, fancy mud baths. Everything! The emails
and texts had flown thick and fast with each new amenity getting more and more
glamorous as the day progressed.

But
the upshot turned out to be a single massage table that old man Brubaker had
let some kid who was working on his massage license talk him into putting in
the back room of his barbershop.

Sorry,
she grinned to herself.
The Barber Shop.
She had to
remember how important distinctions were in a small town. And if there was
anything
CoveHaven
was, it was a small town. The
Barber Shop had a history. History was important. Particularly if that was
about all that was left.

You’d
think, being less than three hours from the Center of the Known Universe, as
she liked to consider New York City, and having gone from a major industrial
center in the area during the late eighteen hundreds to barely more than a
bedroom community for the Big Apple—

with
maybe a couple of Poughkeepsie outlanders thrown
in—the place would be a bit more sophisticated. Like Cold Spring or Beacon. At
least giving a shot at recognizing the twenty-first century had arrived.

She
sighed as she brushed out her slacks and carefully hung them to air out. Cold
Spring had its art galleries and antique stores. Beacon its museum.
CoveHaven
had The Crowning Glory and The Barber Shop.
The C.G. and the B.S.
 

And
the backroom massage
table,
mustn’t forget that.

She
grinned to herself as she slipped out of her bra and panties, imagining some
muscle-bound kid from the local community college who, as soon as he could get
his license and enough money together, would fold that massage table and be out
of
CoveHaven
and headed for a real spa, somewhere in
the depths of New York County.

Of
course, there was the semi-scandal about the sex education classes and the
librarian and the local high school coach. That had been good for a few days.
But it had been handled so discreetly, that…

Except for Matt Bartholomew’s big speech in front of
the board of education.

Dorothy
looked in the full-length mirror. She was naked.

Perfect
timing, she thought, appraising herself with a jaundiced look.
To think of Matt Bartholomew just as she got completely undressed.

She
put her hand on her lower abdomen and slowly lowered it further, then spread
her fingers and pressed down, combing them firmly through the wiry puff of hair
at the apex of her firm thighs. Her other hand pressed into her full breasts,
appraising, testing their firmness.

She
was immediately hot and damp. Deep, deep inside, prowling through the depths of
her most private inner space, a low rumble took place.

She
cupped her fingers, feeling her full, wet fleshiness fill her hand.
The thick lips puffing luxuriously.

She
took a deep breath, her full chest expanding, her nipples firming.

Pretty
pussy needs a little loving, she muttered, licking her dry lips. She began
moving around the room.
Gathering her “loving” essentials.
There was a ritual involved. The moves were practiced. They had saved her ass.

This
whole business about dating Matt and who gets to damned first base first, or
hits a home run first, or whatever, she muttered to herself, was what was
getting under her skin.

She
and Alice had been good friends. She and Matt had been good friends. She and
Matt and Alice and Beau had been good friends.

It
had been hard enough when Beau had been killed. Alice and Matt had gotten her
through the bad times. Then Alice died and Matt had needed time to mourn…and
then he had needed more time and then…he wasn’t not friendly…he just
wasn’t…there. And they both accepted it and assumed the time would come when he
would want to move on and she thought the time would come when he would want to
resume their friendship.
At least.

She
had expected Matt to need her to get through the bad times after Alice was gone.

But
he had done it alone.

Like
a man.

She
guessed.

You
would have thought…their both being widows…widowers…

Her
mind began to fuzz as she moved the lit candles into place in the small
bathroom and started the water running. The sound of the rush of the hot stream
impacting into the water in the tub began its magic, dulling her senses to what
was running around in her head. The gushing splash gently turned her
attention…her total attention…away from her annoyance…to her…to her body.

No
Matt. He was fending for himself just fine, thank you very much. No wondering.
No wide-eyed Lucy. No sloe-eyed Christy. No rolling eyed Amelia. No beady-eyed
Marta
Dalaport
.

Dorothy
slid into the filling tub, her cupped palm sifting the bath salts accompanying
her descent into the water. The drive of the heavy, hot stream gushed into the
boiling foam. Outside her little protected candle-lit circle, the world
dissolved away. Her mind totally focused on the water, the foam, the rushing
sound, the light from the half-dozen candles catching the spray as she played
with the stream, running her elegant hair magic hands under the driving column.

The
tub was filled. She twisted the faucet knobs.

Silence.
Nothing but the gentle slosh of warm water against her skin.
Caressing and cleansing.
Molifying
.