Page 65 of Prey It By Ear

I don’t let her recover. No, I press my thumbs up the tightest part of her Achilles, working the tendon, and then up into her calf, which is like a stone at first. “Your muscles are fighting me,” I murmur. “But I’m going to win, Baby Girl. It’s not even a fair fight, honestly. Strong as you are, I’m pretty buff.”

Her breath hitches, and when I look up, her head is tilted back so far I can see the pulse jumping in her neck. I take it as a challenge and drag my hands up her calf, slow and deliberate, then slide both palms around to the back of her knee. She’s ticklish there; I know it because she kicks the bed once, nearly braining me.

Dolly giggles, wiggling as she yells, “You fucker!”

“Absolute slander,” I reply, pretending to be wounded, but not letting my hands leave her skin. I squeeze her knee gently, then push her leg flat and move up her thigh.

This is where the real fun begins.

I pour a thin, warm stream of oil onto the inside of her left thigh, and then use both hands to smear it up toward her hip in wide passes. Her scent is even stronger here, and I am not ashamed to admit that I lean down and take a small, experimental lick just above her knee. It tastes like dessert, and her skin is even sweeter.

Baby Girl makes a sound that’s not really a moan, not really a growl, but all the way primal. Her hips buck, and I smell her arousal growing, sweet, wet, and nearly enough to make me forget the plan. But the plan is everything, so I take a deep breath and force myself to rein it in. This is all for her, and we agreed on it, so I can’t fuck it up.

“You smell absolutely devastating right now,” I growl, letting my lips graze her knee before I bite down just hard enough to leave a mark. “I am a man of extraordinary restraint when I want to be, and I am going to prove it by not putting my face between your legs until you beg.”

She doesn’t answer for a long moment, and then she says, “I hate you so much, Fitz.”

“Lying to yourself again… so tragic,” I tsk before I go right back to her thighs, kneading them in slow, deep circles, working my way around but never once touching her where she obviously wants it. I do this on both sides, oiling her until her skin shines in the candlelight and she’s so slick my hands glide over her with no resistance.

Keep it together, Fitz. You can do this.

When I get to her hips, I dig in with my thumbs, working along the ridge of her hipbone, and then I lean in and plant a trail of open-mouthed kisses along her pelvis. I’m careful not to let my mouth get too close to her cunt, though; the game is to see how crazy I can make her before she cracks.

After her hips, I pour more oil onto my palms and move up to her stomach. This is a different tension, the ab muscles tight from dance and probably clenched against the pleasure radiating up from her legs. I use firm circles, starting at her belly button and spiraling outward, sometimes pressing down with the heel of my hand to work out a knot.

Dolly moans like I’m fucking her, and I have to pause briefly to push back the tiger before he overrides my brain. “You know,” I say conversationally, “if this massage doesn’t get me laid, I am going to leave a Yelp review so scathing, people will use it to frighten their children.”

She huffs a laugh, but the sound is weak. “You’re definitely getting laid, you psycho. If you don’t, I’ll explode. Is that what you want? Bunny guts all over your nice candles?”

“Not ideal,” I admit. “But I do like the threat. It makes my work feel more urgent.”

I work the oil up from her belly to her ribs, careful not to tickle but using enough pressure to make her arch off the mattress. Then, with a smirk, I switch to the undersides of her breasts, letting my hands glide up and around, thumbs tracing the curves. She’s sensitive here—her nipples are already hard, and when I graze one with the back of my knuckle, she gasps and clutches the sheets again.

I pause, lean down, and nip the lower swell of her left breast, leaving a faint red mark. Then, because I am a connoisseur of reactions, I lick the oil off slowly, never breaking eye contact. She curses me under her breath, but her body is betraying her at every possible level.

“Relaxation therapy is complete bullshit,” she says. “This is—oh, fuck—this is not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, Baby Girl,” I say, “but I do my best to tip the scales in your favor.”

That said, I finish with her chest and move to her arms. I pour oil into my palms and stroke up from her wrist to her shoulder, working each muscle group. When I get to her hands, I massage each finger individually, stretching and rolling them, then press into her palm with my thumb in slow, hypnotic circles.

Her eyes are half-closed now, lashes fluttering, and when I get both arms oiled and loose, I move to her shoulders. This is where the real knots are, and I know she’s been carrying stress here since the moment she walked in the door. I start by kneading the ridge of her trapezius, working both sides at once, then use my thumbs to dig in at the base of her neck.

She makes a sound that is almost a sob. “Oh my god, Fitz. If you ever want to quit computers, you could open a massage parlor for dancers and make bank.”

“How’d you know that’s my preferred retirement plan?” I joke, leaning down to kiss the line of her throat, from her collarbone up to the angle of her jaw. I drag my tongue along the path, then bite her just below the ear, where her pulse is hammering so hard I can feel it through my lips.

She shivers, and the goosebumps ripple down her arms to her wrists. “No way. I’ll cut your balls off if you touch other people like this,” she says, but there’s no heat in it.

Plus, she knows that I’m kidding; I don’t have a lick of interest in anyone not in our family.

I start a scalp massage, fingers threading through her hair and pressing in slow, even circles against her temples, then down to the nape of her neck. I know from experience that this should turn her brain to soup, and I am correct—she melts under my hands, letting her head loll back and her mouth fall open in a little ‘o’ of pure pleasure. Her whole body is limp now, flushed from her chest to her cheeks, and she’s making these little whimpers that turn my brain to static.

I lean down so my mouth is right at her ear, letting the heat of my breath do its own work. “You have no idea how good you smell right now,” I say, voice pitched low and dirty. “But it’s nothing compared to how you’re going to taste when I finally let myself have you. I want you to remember this exact feeling, because it’s only going to get worse for you tonight. But you’re going to love every single second, I promise.”

Dolly moans helplessly, and I take that as my cue to finish the first act. In one smooth move, I hook my arms under her hips, roll her onto her stomach, and straddle the backs of her thighs. Her skin shines in the candlelight, slick and golden, and the muscles in her back are already loose and quivering. I take a second to just look at her, sprawled out and ready to be worshipped, and then I reach for the bottle of oil to start all over again.

Best. Night. Ever.