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“A massage?”
He made a throaty noise of agreement.
“I…can’t remember the last time I had a massage,” she said on a husky laugh that was just about the sexiest thing he’d ever heard.
And even though they only had an hour together, he wasn’t going to rush this. He wanted to savour every minute of the buildup, because he suspected that having sex with Skye was going to rock his world.
He reached down and laced his fingers through hers. “Come with me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
HE HADN’T NEEDED TO say those words. The moment their fingers connected, she knew she’d follow him anywhere. A spell was weaving around her, between them, making her completely his, just for now, and she liked that. Because even though she’d had over two years to regret how much she let Jay run her life, this was completely different.
This wasn’t a relationship.
This was just sex.
A week or so of just sex.
With a guy she found totally irresistible.
Jay would never know.
But she’d know. She’d know she’d done this one small thing for herself, an act of defiance that gifted her back her independence and freedom.
Excitement spread through her. Just down the corridor, he pushed open double doors into a palatial bedroom with a king bed in the center and more stunning views of Manhattan. “Wow,” she groaned as he dimmed the lights to about half brightness, then led her to the bed.
“Should I, erm, take off anything?” She asked, gesturing to her clothes.
“Definitely,” he agreed, his eyes darkening, so her pulse raced. She undid her jeans first and slid them down her legs, conscious of the way his gaze hungrily followed her movements, revelling in the power she had as she caught the bottom of her sweater and lifted it over her head, dropping it to the floor with a soft swish, so it landed on top of the jeans.
“Allow me,” he said, reaching behind her for the bra clasp and undoing it, his fingertips trailing over her back as he drew it away from her skin.
She shivered.
“Cold?” He asked solicitously.
She shook her head.
He smiled, then slipped his fingers into the waistband of her underpants. Adrenalin fired through her veins. The intimacy of this was bone-melting. She waited as he slid the pants down over her hips and to her ankles, where she stepped out of them.
“On the bed,” he said, voice gruff.
She sat on the edge of it. His expression took her breath away; he was so commanding and so fascinating. “No, on your stomach. Lie down.”
“Right, a massage,” she murmured. With a little self-consciousness, she turned onto her stomach, resting her cheek on the back of her hands, which were clasped in front of her.
“Stay there.”
He disappeared for a few moments, but she saw his reflection in the windows when he returned, stripped down to his boxers and carrying a pale tube.
“Moisturiser,” he explained, coming to kneel over her, one leg on either side of her bottom. The moisturiser was cold on her shoulders when he squeezed it out. She made a yelping sound in response, and he laughed, but then he began to rub the cream around and he wasn’t laughing anymore. And nor was she.
It felt so good.
Not just sensual, but actually good, in the way massages were supposed to. His fingers had just the right pressure on her sore muscles to really feel as though he was doing something to help her bodily aches. He leaned forward, which brought his body lower, and his arousal—heck, he was so hard—nestled between the peachy cheeks of her bottom. She couldn’t help the way she writhed a little, backing up to be closer to him, needing more of that, as well as this massage.
He massaged her neck then, giving either side of it the same treatment, before returning to the top of her back, but this time, he worked right to the sides, letting his fingertips dip down and brush against the sides of her breasts, so she trembled all over. Then lower, to the small of her back and lower still, to the top of her buttocks.
