The Confession (The Body Work Trilogy, Band 3) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sierra Kincade is the author of the Body Work Trilogy: The Masseuse, The Distraction, and The Confession. She lives in the Midwest with her husband and son. When she’s not writing naughty books, she loves eating chocolate cupcakes, binge-watching cable series, and singing loudly in the car. She wholeheartedly believes that love stories are real, and you should never choose a partner who doesn’t make you laugh.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

The Body Work Trilogy

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

One

It begins with an offering. I set the mood—dim the lights, start the music, tantalize you with scents that pull you to a different place, a thousand miles away from the office, or the traffic, or your family. I open my door, but you’re the one who strips. You’re the one who whimpers and begs. You’re the one who trusts.

In massage school they teach the technique of effleurage, how to increase blood flow to the muscles through a series of gentle touches with your fingertips or the palms of your hands. It’s the foreplay of a massage. The tease. The seduction.

It’s my specialty.

From there I locate the knots; it’s easy enough if you know where to feel. The body tells you just what it wants, guides you to that place of tension. Fights what it needs, until with a sigh or a groan, it accepts the inevitable. Submission.

Petrissage follows, where a deeper pressure is applied to the area. We’re not playing around anymore. We’re fucking. I’m working you with every trick I’ve got. I’m pushing you, pushing you, pushing you until you finally give me what I want.

Your pain.

Because that’s all I have room for now.

*   *   *

My hands made soft, feathering strokes over his trapezius, afterplay from the deep-tissue work I’d just finished. I didn’t remember what his name was. It didn’t matter. He’d gotten what he came for, and I’d given him my best.

Which, admittedly, wasn’t stellar. Not that he’d noticed.

For the first time during our fifty-minute session, I took a good look at him. The thick muscles of his shoulders were well-defined and made a gradual slope down his back, beneath the sheet hiding what I guessed was a very nice ass. His arms rested, palms unfurled, at his sides, and his dark brown hair was a little too long. It curled where his collar would have landed. He’d requested a focus on his shoulders, and therefore hadn’t turned chest-up during the session.

I think he’d told me he was a baseball player or something. Minor league, maybe? It seemed to me the pros probably had their own team massage therapy staff, and this guy had shown up at the salon on a referral from one of my regulars.

In any case, he looked like he could have been a professional baseball player. And as my gaze lingered on the cut muscles of his upper arms, my mind wandered.

Look how hard I am.

The voice in my head brought a sharp ache in the deepest part of my belly. I shuddered, blinking back the wavering image before my eyes. Placing my flattened hands on each side of the client’s spine, I focused on his pale skin. It was smooth and cool, like polished marble. Too pale to trigger the familiar lust heating inside me.

You want me to fuck your mouth.

I withdrew my hands quickly, as if the coolness had burned me. My breath came in one hard rasp. The weight that had settled in my chest for the past two and a half months seemed to liquefy, sliding down through my breasts, making my nipples tighten and tingle.

The man moved. Just a slight adjustment, but it snapped my focus back in place. I returned my oiled hands to his slick back, moving lower, to where his waist tapered. I could feel another man’s body now. Feel my nails digging into his back as he growled in my ear.

Push back and fuck yourself on my dick.

Okay, moving back up now. Up and up and up, until I reached his neck. Gently, I stretched his muscles and tipped his head from side to side. His hair brushed against the back of my knuckles.

I closed my eyes.

I could feel him inside of me. The fullness only he could give me. My hands around his neck, fingers spearing through his hair. He was rocking against me, touching places deep inside that felt so good I thought I might die if he stopped. His mouth drifted to my collarbone, his rough stubble scraping my sensitive skin.

I love you so much it fucking hurts.

The man groaned, and I was thrust back into the present—into the massage room at Rave with the scent of cinnamon to sharpen my senses.

I was pulling his hair.

Pulling it, like I did when Alec made me come.

Realizing my mistake, I released him slowly, then gave him another few pulls just to make sure the move looked deliberate. I checked the small clock on the counter by the oils. Thank God it was the end of the session.

“How do you feel?”

I didn’t care; I needed to get the hell out.

“Fucking awesome.” His voice was muffled through the headrest.

“Take your time getting up. I’ll get you some water and meet you outside the door when you’re dressed.”

He grunted a response. Maybe he said something else, I don’t know. I was out of there, door shut behind me, before I could take another breath.

In less than a minute I was in the bathroom. It smelled like the lobby—fresh with the natural products we used in all our services—and had a stack of rolled towels on a wooden tray beside the sink.

I turned to face the wall and pressed my cheek against the cool tile. I was feverish. Sick. I had to be sick. That’s why the perspiration had dewed across my forehead, why my whole body felt like it was on fire.

Touch yourself.

No.

I squeezed my eyes shut. My heart pounded against my ribs like a jackhammer. One hand flattened against the tiles, as I fought off the feel of him behind me, shoving me roughly against the wall. Pulling up this flimsy skirt I wore and tearing off my panties. He wouldn’t be gentle. Not after all this time.

Feel how deep I am.

The throb between my legs was insistent now. He’d see I didn’t need much warming up; I was already hot and slick for him. His fingers would slide right in to the knuckle. I pressed one open hand against my right breast, trying to still the need, but it only served to increase the pressure.

Let go, baby.

“Stop,” I said aloud. I pushed off the wall, gulping down air. Facing the mirror, I turned on the cold water and splashed my face. It stung; every inch of my body was burning.

“Stop it, Anna.” I stared at my reflection. The wet mascara dripped down my cheeks. Good thing it was the only makeup I’d put on this morning. It had been a while since I’d worn much more than that.

Alec and I were over. I hadn’t seen him since I’d said good-bye to him the night Trevor Marshall, aka William MacAfee, had tried to throw me off a bridge. Apart from the time I’d come home to find my things from his apartment on my front stoop, he’d attempted zero contact.

But it wasn’t like he’d disappeared. I heard his name on the news reports on the radio. I saw his face on television and in the papers. Alec Flynn. Maxim Stein’s body man. Key witness in the biggest white-collar trial since Bernie Madoff.

Alec Flynn. The man that I loved.

Used to love. I didn’t love him anymore. I refused to. He’d endangered my life, and the lives of the people I cared about. If Alec and I had never been together, I wouldn’t have been kidnapped, carjacked, or nearly tossed off a bridge. My best friend, Amy, never would have been targeted to use against us, and her daughter, Paisley, never would have been in danger.

Alec Flynn was trouble, and I had moved on.

Which is why it really pissed me off to look in the mirror and see a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I was thinner than I’d ever been. My cheekbones were more severe, and I...