things.”
“That’s enough,” I snap.
He rubs me for a few minutes in silence. But he’s right; I definitely can’t relax now. I’m glad I’m face down, and that he can’t see my expression. It surely betrays me.
I just want this to be over. Can I ask him to leave? Of course I can. I can demand he go. Hell, I can call down and report him. Maybe even get him fired.
But I don’t. I can’t. And for some maddening reason, I’m sure Marco knows it.
“I take plenty of risks.”
Marco says nothing. His hands are along the small of my back, bracketing my spine, moving up to work my upper back as best he can around that troublesome bra.
“I do all sorts of new things.”
I don’t know why I feel the need to convince him.
His hands on my back. Working around the straps.
Then they’re at the clasp. At first I think he’s just trying to hit a difficult spot, but then I realize he’s undoing it.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh,” Marco says.
The clasp parts. I feel better already, without the elastic gripping me. Two halves move to my sides, but Marco doesn’t simply lay them there. He tugs the left side down as if I’m supposed to pull my arm through. So, without thinking, I do. Then the other side. I lift up a little when he tugs again and then the bra is totally gone, tossed onto the floor.
I close my eyes. This feels wrong, but clearly it isn’t. Who gets a massage with a bra on, anyway? This is how we should have begun.
With my face down, I feel rather than see the sheet lift. Only, because he’s moved it down to my waist, it’s not covering all that it did when he lifted it earlier. My back is bare. The raised sheet covers only my bottom half.
I shiver.
“Turn over,” he says.
CHAPTER TEN
M ARCO
I SHOULDN ’ T BE DOING THIS .
It’s one thing to play along with women like Colleen, who beg for my advances. I’ll do what they want, both of us pretending that what’s happening isn’t really. But that’s different.
Lucy isn’t begging. Her defenses are on high alert, and I didn’t help by coming in here with a chip on my shoulder. It’s still there, of course, but now Lucy is more like a challenge.
And maybe that, right there, is the final proof that Booth has ruined me. This rich bitch presumes to know me, making some snippy little remark intended to expose me as a sexist, and my response isn’t to do what would make Mimi proud. No. My response is to prove that Lucy has ice up her works. To thaw her a little, because we both know she needs it.
But what exactly am I planning to do?
I think this as I watch Lucy’s nude back, small red marks still criss-crossing her skin where the bra straps no longer are. I think it as I wonder if she’ll follow my order. Will she roll over with the sheet only on her bottom half, exposing herself to me? And if she does, what next?
I don’t know why I did what I did, or why I might be planning to do what I definitely hope I’m not planning to do. Most women throw themselves at me. They book a massage and act like they’re booking the man behind it. Like I’m a toy, a present for their amusement. But that’s not what Lucy did. She didn’t want me here, and clearly doesn’t even like me.
So what’s the plan? To twist her against her will? Punish her for all I’ve come to resent?
My always firm hands are now shaking. Holding the sheet up for her to turn only makes it worse; the blue expanse vibrates like a ship’s sail in the wind. I force them to steady, and my attention draws inward, to my hammering heart and shortened breath. I look down at her, waiting. Anticipating. I’m that nerdy, weak little kid I used to be all over again. Like I’ve never seen boobs, instead of handling dozens daily.
I want her to turn. The longer she takes, the more the feeling grips me. I realize I’m hard. This work never gets me hard. Not since my first month, when the sights and
“That’s enough,” I snap.
He rubs me for a few minutes in silence. But he’s right; I definitely can’t relax now. I’m glad I’m face down, and that he can’t see my expression. It surely betrays me.
I just want this to be over. Can I ask him to leave? Of course I can. I can demand he go. Hell, I can call down and report him. Maybe even get him fired.
But I don’t. I can’t. And for some maddening reason, I’m sure Marco knows it.
“I take plenty of risks.”
Marco says nothing. His hands are along the small of my back, bracketing my spine, moving up to work my upper back as best he can around that troublesome bra.
“I do all sorts of new things.”
I don’t know why I feel the need to convince him.
His hands on my back. Working around the straps.
Then they’re at the clasp. At first I think he’s just trying to hit a difficult spot, but then I realize he’s undoing it.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh,” Marco says.
The clasp parts. I feel better already, without the elastic gripping me. Two halves move to my sides, but Marco doesn’t simply lay them there. He tugs the left side down as if I’m supposed to pull my arm through. So, without thinking, I do. Then the other side. I lift up a little when he tugs again and then the bra is totally gone, tossed onto the floor.
I close my eyes. This feels wrong, but clearly it isn’t. Who gets a massage with a bra on, anyway? This is how we should have begun.
With my face down, I feel rather than see the sheet lift. Only, because he’s moved it down to my waist, it’s not covering all that it did when he lifted it earlier. My back is bare. The raised sheet covers only my bottom half.
I shiver.
“Turn over,” he says.
CHAPTER TEN
M ARCO
I SHOULDN ’ T BE DOING THIS .
It’s one thing to play along with women like Colleen, who beg for my advances. I’ll do what they want, both of us pretending that what’s happening isn’t really. But that’s different.
Lucy isn’t begging. Her defenses are on high alert, and I didn’t help by coming in here with a chip on my shoulder. It’s still there, of course, but now Lucy is more like a challenge.
And maybe that, right there, is the final proof that Booth has ruined me. This rich bitch presumes to know me, making some snippy little remark intended to expose me as a sexist, and my response isn’t to do what would make Mimi proud. No. My response is to prove that Lucy has ice up her works. To thaw her a little, because we both know she needs it.
But what exactly am I planning to do?
I think this as I watch Lucy’s nude back, small red marks still criss-crossing her skin where the bra straps no longer are. I think it as I wonder if she’ll follow my order. Will she roll over with the sheet only on her bottom half, exposing herself to me? And if she does, what next?
I don’t know why I did what I did, or why I might be planning to do what I definitely hope I’m not planning to do. Most women throw themselves at me. They book a massage and act like they’re booking the man behind it. Like I’m a toy, a present for their amusement. But that’s not what Lucy did. She didn’t want me here, and clearly doesn’t even like me.
So what’s the plan? To twist her against her will? Punish her for all I’ve come to resent?
My always firm hands are now shaking. Holding the sheet up for her to turn only makes it worse; the blue expanse vibrates like a ship’s sail in the wind. I force them to steady, and my attention draws inward, to my hammering heart and shortened breath. I look down at her, waiting. Anticipating. I’m that nerdy, weak little kid I used to be all over again. Like I’ve never seen boobs, instead of handling dozens daily.
I want her to turn. The longer she takes, the more the feeling grips me. I realize I’m hard. This work never gets me hard. Not since my first month, when the sights and
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