The Masseuse (8 page)

Just a massage. Promise.

4 p.m.?

Yes.

It was just after 2. Because she wanted to be difficult, she replied,
5 p.m.

See you then.

***

Yari was working when Jezebel arrived at the spa and told her of her five o’clock appointment.

The young girl looked apologetic as she told her that the Red Room was ready for her. Another girl escorted her to the room, saying she should remove her clothes, shower if she wanted, and put on one of the towels. She knew the drill, having done it before.

Jezebel took a hot shower, glad for the shower caps provided, then towel dried herself. The body-wash smelled amazing—cinnamon and spice. She’d have to ask if she could buy some because it was truly relaxing. She’d just wrapped another fluffy towel around her body when she heard the sound of footsteps.

Ramsey had arrived.

Stepping from the bathroom, she found him standing beside the massage table. He was dressed in the white clothes of a masseuse—again they were a bit fitted—and had a warm smile on his face and an easy twinkle in his eye.

“I didn’t think you’d show.”

“I said I would.” She moved to the table, and sat on it, facing him.

“Do you always honor what you say?”

She nodded.

He grinned, and she resisted the urge to bite her bottom lip. It should be illegal for any man to be this attractive. Seriously, how was a person to concentrate when the other person looked so damn good?

“Tell me, Jezebel, where do you feel tension?”

She could lie and say she had none but Jezebel wanted the ache in her back gone. “My back...my thighs...my shoulders...”

Ramsey nodded. “Lie down on your belly.”

She did as told, hearing his footsteps moving away and then the sound of water running. She loved that he was so clean. He was touching her skin after all.

When he approached again, bottles clinked, and then warmth spread along her back. As he massaged the oil into her shoulders, a slight tingling began. Jezebel sighed. If there was a way to bottle what Ramsey was doing with his hands, what he was making her feel, and sell it, they’d both be exceedingly rich.

“How does that feel?”

“Go—
Great
. What is that?”

“Eucalyptus oil.”

“Mmhhmm.” His thumbs dug into her shoulders and gently stroked the ache away.

“I’m removing your towel now.”

“Mmmhh.”

He chuckled, and then his hands were sliding down her back, her spine, and caressing her lower back. He increased the pressure and she moaned in pain.

“I’m sorry. Pain has to come before the tension is relieved.” When she tensed, he lowered his voice and breathed, “Relax, Jezebel.”

Gradually, she did, and as his fingers dug deep, her back muscles began to ease. His hands next went to her buttocks. He squeezed and kneaded until she was moaning not so much from relief, but from pleasure. Her sex, traitorous thing that didn’t understand the concept of “rest,” wept for him. His hands slid to her thighs, and as with her back, there was pain...but it faded with his ministrations...and gradually became pleasurable.

When he told her to turn over, she obeyed. His hands worked her breasts, and she closed her eyes, and let herself feel. He didn’t comment on her stiff nipples, and neither did she. His hands stroked her belly, her thighs, and then he moved away. Water turned on; he was by the sink again, washing his hands.

“Is that it?” she wondered aloud.

“Do you want more?”

“Yes.”

“What more?” He suddenly stood above her, staring down at her. “I’ve eased the tension in your shoulders...your back...your legs.”

She nodded and swallowed. “You’re right.”

“I can ease more...if you let me.”

“What are you going to do?” She looked to his pants, and the rapidly growing bulge.

Ramsey clucked his tongue. Slowly, he shook his head, and smirked. “You can’t handle that type of relief...just yet.”

Jezebel swallowed. “What else?”

“There are other ways to ease tension.” He ran a finger across one of her extended nipples and she gasped. “Should I try to ease you, Jezebel?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

His smile was the only warning she had before his hand slid down her belly to her smooth triangle. She inhaled sharply.

“Open your legs, Jezebel.”

His voice was velvety but she saw it for what it was: a command. She could be difficult and refuse but she wasn’t doing herself any favors. Jezebel parted her thighs.

“Good girl.”

A finger traced down, separating her folds and circling her clitoris. She gasped and closed her eyes.

“How does it feel?”

Did he really her to answer?

“Jezebel?”

She moaned. “Good.”

“Just
good
?”

She nodded.

His finger left her.

“Why’d you move—oh!” His finger returned, and this time, it was covered with something slick. He gently massaged it in, and then he moved away and went to the sink.

As her button pulsed, Jezebel realized what he’d used. Red cream. Again.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to finish it, but eventually, her body became too demanding, and she hissed, “What are you waiting for?”

The water turned off and he came to stand above her, a smirk on his lips. She wanted to wipe it off. “Sometimes, the best way to ease tension is to let it build.”

She shuddered as her nub grew demanding, seeming to expand away from her body. Jezebel bit out, “How long?”

“As long as you can take it.” His hands were suddenly on her breasts, cupping them, squeezing them, his thumbs flicking her nipples. “When you can’t take it anymore, you’ll let me know.”

His hands released her breasts and he began to gently caress her sides, her belly, as if she wasn’t in dire need of his fingers on her clit. Deciding she’d had enough, and he was being a tease, Jezebel lifted her hand to ease the ache herself...but he caught it, brought it to his lips, and placed it right back at her side.

“I told you what you need to do to ease the ache, Jezebel.”

“Ramsey!”

“I love how you scream my name,” he murmured, smiling down at her. “I also love how you whimper, moan, and groan when you’re close to the end.”

She moaned at his words, unable to control her reaction.

“Are you close?”

Jezebel didn’t know but she needed him to touch her. “I can’t—I can’t take it.”

His hand moved to her sex again. “Tell me what you want, Jezebel.”

“Touch me.”

“Here?” His fingers stroked her over her mons, caressing her skin with feather soft touches.

She shook her head. Tease. “Touch my clit.”

A finger stroked over her bud and she resisted the urge to clamp her legs together. It was so sensitive. “Like that?”

“Yes...please. Do it again.”

He did, but halted yet again.

“Ramsey!”

“Tell me what you want me to do, Jezebel.”

“Do it again, and again, touch me until I come.”

“Ah. I see.” She barely caught sight of his grin before his other hand pressed over her lower belly and mons, and his finger began to strum. Like a guitar, he played her, his fingers working soft and strong, before increasing its pace until she was nothing more than a ball of shuddering muscles and shot nerves. After her orgasm, he drew a towel over her body. His lips grazed hers. She sighed when he moved away.

Within moments, the sounds of nature accentuated the sounds of the falling water in the room. She opened her eyes to find him holding a remote in one hand. “Relax, Jezebel. Close your eyes and relax.”

She nodded, only too eager to do so.

Her sister had said that Bryan—whoever he was—gave the best full-body massages. She was wrong. Ramsey Stone clearly was at the top of his game in this department.

Chapter 6

“Your sister tells me you’re seeing a masseuse.”

Jezebel’s head snapped up and she glared at Delilah, who was suddenly preoccupied with her glass of water and empty plate.

“Oh, come on, Jez. Why can’t she tell me? I’m your mother.”

Wisely holding her tongue about the last part, Jezebel instead bit out, “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“You know, just because you’re the CEO of a company doesn’t mean you can’t date a masseuse.” Ilyana’s lips pursued in a slight frown as if she didn’t expect that type of attitude from her older daughter. “What does wealth matter? It all comes down to your sexual and emotional capacity in the end.” Light brown eyes warmed. “I’m glad you’re having sex again, Jez.”

Delilah laughed, but quickly covered it with a cough.

“I was worried about you for a while after that whole Kirk incident...”

Shaking her head, Jezebel knew she should be prepared for these types of things happening around Ilyana Holbrook’s dining table, but no matter how old she got, she couldn’t get there.

“Mom, I don’t think this is the appropriate place to talk about my sex life.” She didn’t think anyplace was appropriate, but her mother would disagree. At seventeen, when she’d stumbled upon sex with her boyfriend, she’d come home to find that she was bleeding. Being naïve and unable to simply run a Google search as the internet was barely functioning then, she’d thought something was wrong, which led to her confession to her mother. Ilyana simply pulled her to her bosom and began talking about the joys of womanhood and sex. Jezebel was amazed she hadn’t been scarred for life.

Her mother looked around and shrugged. “There’s no one here but us girls.” She chuckled. “Oh, Jez, you act like sex is a dirty topic. It’s completely natural you know.”

Deciding she’d heard enough, Jezebel pushed her chair back and began collecting plates from around the dining table. She heard them calling her name as she made her way from the dining room into the kitchen, but refused to stop.

She didn’t want to talk about Ramsey, and she certainly didn’t want to talk about him to her mother. In the past month, Ramsey had become her—for lack of better terming—screw-buddy. She couldn’t call him a ‘friend-with-benefits’ because he’d never been her friend, and he wasn’t quite a booty-call because that just sounded dirty, but screw-buddy, that nicer term for ‘fuck-buddy,’ was just about right. After he’d massaged her to a puddle the day after they’d had sex, he’d been a constant in her life, and in her bed.

Putting the dishes in the dishwasher, she braced against it and thought about their relationship. He’d given her three days to recuperate after that three-times in one night sex, and each day, he’d texted her, asking how she felt. She’d know what he was asking about and she’d been honest. On the third day, her response of “fine,” had been followed by a phone call inquiring about her availability for the night. Because she’d truly been busy, she’d told him she wouldn’t be free until Friday night, and he’d set up a “date.”

Jezebel chuckled. She didn’t know why he insisted on “dates” considering she was a sure thing. Her initial days without him had allowed her to realize that she liked sex with him too much for it to just be a one-off. She’d have to screw him out of her system, and then she’d be fine.

Their first date had been at a cozy, intimate restaurant in lower Manhattan. They had a full course meal, talked like a normal couple, and after he drove her home, proceeded to fuck her until she passed out. She’d come to in the midst of another orgasm. She’d never passed out or had multiple orgasms, but Ramsey was talented. Their next encounters were similar. Most happened at her house, though he’d ‘massaged’ her almost every Saturday since they’d started their relationship.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t tell her on purpose,” Delilah murmured as soon as she walked into the kitchen. Jezebel glared at her. Traitor. “She sort of figured it out.”

“Yeah, right.”

“She did. She asked if you were dating anyone, and I said maybe.” Delilah looked contrite. “I mean, I don’t know what you’re doing with pharaoh-boy. I just know that you’re doing something because I haven’t seen you smile so much as in the past month.”

“It’s none of your business. Or hers.”

Delilah shrugged. “We know. We’re just nosey.”

Jezebel was preparing to launch into her sister when Delilah’s face suddenly blanched. Her sister was a beautiful dark coffee tone, so whenever she grew pale, Jezebel, for good reason, became concerned. “What is it?” She pressed a hand to Delilah’s head, wondering it was a flash fever.

Delilah pushed her away and rushed over to the sink, bringing up the food their mother had prepared. Jezebel went to her, lifting the hair of the glamorous wig and keeping it from being ruined.

At some point, Ilyana entered and her worried eyes shot to her sick daughter. “Oh, Lilah.” She looked at Jezebel. “This is the second time it’s happened this weekend. Yesterday, she was sick too.”

“Maybe we should call Dr. Evans.”

“No.” Delilah turned on the faucet and washed the contents down, before catching water in her hand and washing her mouth. “Sorry. It’s the side-effects of the chemo. It’s normal.”

Later that evening, Jezebel sat on her sister’s bed, looking down at her sleeping and wondering if she needed to start considering ‘other possibilities.’ From the moment Delilah had been diagnosed with skin cancer, Jezebel had been all about her sister getting better. Skin cancer wasn’t as fatal as most, and they’d caught it relatively early. She’d expected her sister to have the mass removed, and receive a clean bill of health. That hadn’t happened. Still, Jezebel had held out. Chemotherapy was necessary, but she’d never entertained the idea of her baby sister dying. No, she refused to. But as months, upon months, passed and her sister continued to need chemo, because the cancer was still there, her assuredness faltered. And seeing her sister constantly sick was just a blow she didn’t know how to recover from.

“You can’t leave me, Lilah,” she murmured, knowing her sister wouldn’t hear. She never entertained any of Delilah’s ideas about her death. When her sister tried to joke about funeral decorations, Jezebel usually glared and switched the subject. “You’re my rock, remember?”