There, leaning against the massage table waiting for her, was Adam. It struck Tania immediately how little she had seen of her masseur. She had felt him a great deal, and his hands were her fixation, but as for the rest of him, she’d only glimpsed. A magnetism gripped her, urging her not to let go of his facial features. Handsome was the word that leapt out at her—a younger face than she’d conjured up in her own mind. Perhaps because his voice was deep and earthy, she’d come to see him as way older than herself. The eyes she adored, especially the contrast of his dark hair and light eyes. The curvy ends of his hair, almost unruly in nature, licked his temples and forehead. It made him Romanesque, as if a toga and a laurel crown would suit him. She nearly laughed aloud at her silly imaginings.
He pointed at the simple chair by the wall, and she perched on the end, hands on her knees, unsure of what he planned. Why did he want to speak to her? Was he going to suggest another masseur—one of his colleagues? Maybe he didn’t think his style suited, or perhaps she’d behaved inappropriately towards him. Had she gone too far with her orgasms—howling and writhing about? The idea of being rejected by him filled her with horror and alarm. It wasn’t just the massage; she wanted Adam to be her masseur. She flushed with embarrassment. The situation was becoming farcical.
He cleared his throat. “I wanted to chat to you first, Tania.”
“Sure.” She avoided his eyes. Her stomach went into a knot of butterflies, and her mouth seemed terribly dry.
“You’ve had a couple of massages with me, and I’ve shown you some of the different approaches we use here. I use. I wanted to get an idea of what you liked, found most helpful, so I can tailor your massages more to your needs.”
Tania struggled to contain her relief. A wave of pure joy washed over her. What did it matter, as long as it was him in the room? Her mind went blank. What had she enjoyed about her massages?
“Um, well. All of it.” She tittered in an adolescent fashion.
“Which positions did you like best? This table? The other?”
For some reason she couldn’t articulate anything sensible. She stared at the flat table Adam was leaning against. She saw past it to his white Lycra T-shirt stretched across his broad chest and his pectorals pushing through the thin fabric. The plain white trousers with a drawstring waist and his pristine trainers. He was clinical, immaculate, and incredibly sexy. He rested his hands on his thighs. No rings—not that she expected any, given that they would hinder his movements—but was he taken, even married? There again, what wife would let her husband give sexual massages to strange women?
~ Touch Me