Free The Masseuse by Sierra Kincade Page B

about to do, but at the same time petrified that he wouldn’t.
    He rocked back on his heels, and took one foot in his hands.
    “I’m giving you a foot rub.”
    The air whooshed out of my lungs. Oh. A foot rub. Of course. Automatically, I went to cover up my exposed hips.
    “Don’t.” The word was hard, a command, and I froze at the sound of it. “Leave your skirt up. I want to see you.”
    Slowly, I moved my hands back behind me, and rested on straight arms.
    He began to knead my arches, working to the balls of my feet and then my heels. He had talent, I couldn’t deny it. In seconds, I was practically putty in his hands. I hadn’t realized how sore my feet were until he’d begun.
    Minutes passed, and his silence began to make me nervous. Did he have a foot fetish? Was this something he did to get off? Or was this truly just for me? Still, the feel of his hands working my sore muscles was incredible. I didn’t want him to stop.
    “Do you accept my apology?” he finally asked. There was something endearing about this sexy man kneeling on the floor, touching me this way.
    I nodded, still unable to speak. When he went to the other side, I sagged, my head tilting back. But when his tongue slid up my instep, I sat bolt upright. He kept kneading as though he’d done nothing different, but the move sent bolts of electricity straight up my legs into my core. Instantly, the ache became a throb; it was almost painful that he wasn’t touching me where I needed him most. For one crazed moment, I considered doing it myself. One rub, that was all it would take to push me over the edge, I was sure of it.
    “Good,” he said. “Because you still owe me.”
    As I looked down my body into his eyes, I knew he intended to fuck me. Right here. Right now.
    I shook with anticipation and trepidation. A tiny part of me was aware of the people in the adjoining rooms, of my coworkers and friends on the other side of the salon. The doors didn’t lock, and though the music was on, the walls weren’t soundproof. But the rest of me needed him to finish this, to take me now before I lost my mind completely. The feeling was completely foreign; I never gave up control when it came to sex. Sometimes I pretended to, sometimes I even came close, but until this moment I’d never needed anything so badly that I’d let my guard down enough to take it.
    He kissed my ankle, then my calf, his tongue drawing a slow circle on the inside of my knee. He pulled me closer to the edge of the table, and my hips began to churn and move of their own accord. I couldn’t wait much longer.
    “Hurry,” I whispered.
    He stopped, and pulled away.
    I blinked down at him.
    “I have a full hour,” he informed me. “I intend to use it.”
    An hour? I wasn’t going to last thirty more seconds the way this was going.
    He started again, fingertips tracing up my thighs and higher to my panties. Tender kisses covering the inner surface of my thighs. He made me feel wanted, worshipped, even
loved,
though I knew that couldn’t be right. Love was not something I expected to feel with men I brought to bed.
    But I hadn’t brought him to bed. We weren’t even on a bed.
    With a jerk, he thrust my legs open, leaving me straddling his face, just inches away. All concerns evacuated from my mind. My legs hung down, unable to reach the floor, puppets to his placement. His touch grew soft again, skimming the backs of my calves. He licked a straight line up my inner thigh, stopping just short of the mark, and then nipped the flesh with his teeth.
    I groaned, fisting the now crumpled sheets, unable to look away from his exquisite torture.
    “Are you going to tell me to stop?” He pulled back, staring up into my eyes.
    Was he joking? I shook my head, back in that terrible cycling dream where he backed away every time he got close to giving me the intimate touch I so craved.
    “Good,” he said. “Because I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I first saw you.”
    He bit