The Interrogation Room by EB Jones Page B

There was something so reassuring in that touch. So masculine and there. He massaged the base of my skull under my neck with his thumbs, and I felt waves of physical calm wash through me. He moved his hands into my hair and I felt his fingers work around the top and sides of my head. They gently massaged around my temples. I'd closed my eyes again.
     
    “Are you sure you're a cop?” I said. “Because you sure do have a way with your hands.”
     
    He laughed a warm laugh and I felt his face behind mine as he leaned over to whisper in my ear. “You're a beautiful woman, Marissa. A very beautiful woman.”
     
    Gently, he kissed the exposed side of my neck. I felt my nipples get hard. They pushed against the inside of my bra. I wanted him to grab my tits and twist my nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Give them a little squeeze. Send little shocks of arousal through me until my clit started to ache for his touch. Oh god that would be nice. It might be the last action I ever got in a long time. Especially if I ended up going to some French women's prison.
     
    I felt his hands move down between my shoulder blades. I found it funny that, despite his kindness, he still hadn't taken off the cuffs. It wasn't like I'd run away right then. No, quite the contrary. This windowless room was starting to take on a different character altogether. I was alone with Jean-Claude and his magic hands and there was no one else to witness what might come next.
     
    I felt him slowly press into the knotted muscles around my shoulder blades.
     
    “Ah,” I winced. The muscles were so wound up that it hurt, but it was the kind of pain that begged to be touched and kneaded and slowly released from my body.
     
    “You're very tense Marissa,” he said. “That is completely understandable. But I need you to relax. We'll make this all go away. I promise.”
     
    I let my head hang forward and my blonde hair fell in front of my face. I felt like putty in his hands.
     
    “Really? Everything will just go away?” I almost couldn't believe it. Getting caught in a major airport with enough coke in your suitcase to retire in a third-world country didn't just go away. But his touch felt so...so nice . I almost didn't care, not at that very moment. I just wanted him to keep touching me the way he was doing so right then.
     
    “Yes, I can make everything go away for you. I believe your story. All I need to do is tell my superieurs that, in my professional opinion, you were an unknowing accessory to a crime. You'll be on the next flight to New York.”
     
    “Just like that?” I said incredulously.
     
    “Just like that,” he said. He continued to massage the muscles around my shoulder blades, knotted up like tight strands of steel cable.
     
    “You're free to go when you want,” he said. “Just tell me when you want to leave. I'll take off these cuffs and you can walk out.”
     
    “Ok,” I said. His words had registered, but there was something so nice about that touch. I didn't want it to end. “Just a little more.”
     
    “Then it's your choice,” he said. That was when I felt his hands reach around to my tits. He grabbed them through the thin fabric of my t-shirt. My nipples started to ache for his touch. I felt my clit begin to swell with desire. I could feel my slit get wet as his hands began to massage my tits through my shirt.
     
    I felt him close behind me, standing behind my chair. His hands reached down to my belly and gently pulled my shirt up over my bra, exposing my mid-section. He ran his fingers up my belly to the front clasp of my bra and undid it deftly, without fumbling, as though he was practiced in these things. He was French, after all.
     
    My tits were exposed now, with my thin white t-shirt pulled up over them. My nipples felt hard, exposed. I craved his touch. From behind I could feel him standing close to me, his body pressed against my back and the back of the chair. I felt his hardness, pressing into my