Winning Her Over

by Alexa Rowan

  “Something like that.”

  The tension ebbed from Cal’s upper body as he underwent her ministrations, and they both fell silent. Brenna enjoyed this aspect of her profession the most—helping her clients find peace, both physical and emotional. Cal’s breathing began to slow and even out, and her own gradually matched it.

  She moved to his lower back, applying deep pressure as she slid her hands a little way underneath the sheet, then around to the back of his hips. He stiffened up again; this area was plagued by trigger points as well.

  “Cal? Would you like me to work these knots in your hips and glutes?” The question was part of her standard routine, but on him it felt way more sensual than normal. And not just because the man had a tremendously fine ass.

  “Mmm. Yeah. The knots hurt a bit, but it feels so good when you’re done with them.”

  His thick, sleepy voice sent an inappropriate shiver up her spine. Down, girl!

  She laid one of the towels across his upper back so he wouldn’t lose too much heat through his oil-slicked skin. Then she redraped him, exposing his right leg and most of the right side of his chiseled butt.

  Warming another generous dollop of oil between her hands, she set to work. One hand rested atop the other, so the weight of her body pressed down through just her right palm.

  He let out a groan.

  Brenna paused. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I couldn’t help it,” he murmured, sounding embarrassed.

  “No, that’s fine. You do what your body needs to do.” She circled once again up to his lower back before starting another deep glide across his firm glutes.

  After a few minutes, he shifted on the table. She thought nothing of it until she became aware he was tensing in cadence with her massage strokes. His breath, she now noticed, was also hitching almost imperceptibly as her hands rounded the curve of his butt to his hips.

  In fact, both his repetitively tensed muscles and his increasingly ragged inhalations were getting more obvious. It was almost like…

  Brenna bit her lip. Oh, shit. Cal was getting turned on. And a tiny, secret part of her reveled in it.

  2

  CAL LAY FACEDOWN on the padded table, immensely grateful to his boss for insisting he get a massage. Their client’s trial started tomorrow, and Cal had been working his ass off for the past four months getting them ready for it. A lot was riding on the outcome, and not just for their client, Conovan Industries. He was up for partner this year, and a strong performance here could clinch the decision. He needed to be in top form.

  Besides, the masseuse was hot, and the massage itself was incredible. Sensual, skirting but never crossing the line to sexual. He had never before been so conscious of his skin as a sensory organ, but now he was hyperaware of every stroke, every press on his back.

  The experience was turning out to be surprisingly emotional as well. It had been far too long since anyone had touched him with such complete focus and dedication. Friends-with-benefits and casual relationships—the only kind he’d allowed himself in the past six years—just didn’t go there.

  He was sort of regretting he hadn’t kept his boxer briefs on, though. Especially after he stupidly agreed to let her massage his hips and butt. Lord knew he needed it after being chained to his desk for months on end, but he’d never realized his hips were such an erogenous zone. Until now. He was sporting a hard-on that all the baseball statistics in the world couldn’t deflate, and it was both uncomfortable and embarrassing.

  Thankfully, she soon covered his back again and shifted her focus farther down. First to one leg, then the other, giving his erection a chance to disappear so he didn’t tent the sheet after he turned over.

  His reprieve didn’t last long, though.

  The masseuse raised the sheet and blanket between them to shield her view as he awkwardly rolled over, lowering them only after he settled onto his back. She slid the pillow out from under his calves, then arranged the covers once more.

  Cal could hear her removing the doughnut cushion, and he opened his eyes. Immediately, he regretted it. And not just because he almost certainly had unflattering lines on his face. The sexy masseuse was standing behind his head, her attention focused on his body. Her sun-kissed ponytail had drifted across one shoulder while she worked him over. The tip of her pink little tongue poking out from between her lips was the cherry on top.

  She leaned forward to fold the covers across his chest. He slammed his eyes shut again, but it was too late.

  An image flooded his mind, of dusky nipples close enough for him to lick, of the lightning strike of pleasure that would jolt her if he did. Cal couldn’t suppress a slight shudder at the thought.

  He swallowed hard. She was only massaging his shoulders and the tops of his pecs, but the desire that lanced through him still went straight to his groin.

  The masseuse paused. “Are you cold? I can turn up the heat, if that would help.”

  Was she serious? “No, thanks. I’m fine,” he gritted out. He was hot enough already. More than hot enough. It didn’t matter where she touched him now. Every nerve ending in his skin was at full attention and clamoring for more.

  He inhaled, filling his lungs as she moved to his right side and started on his arm. Then he exhaled in a slow, even stream, trying to relax. Or at least trying to give her the impression he was relaxed. He concentrated on breathing as evenly as possible while her fingers twined silkily with his, her thumbs rubbing little patterns into his palm.

  He did a fair job at maintaining the pretense of disinterest as she switched sides to attend to his other arm and hand. But the facade—and his breathing—grew a little shaky when she began to massage his pecs. Her thumbs grazed his nipples, which immediately tightened into traitorous little nubs. He wondered how much more he’d have to bear before his ninety minutes were up.

  When she covered his torso again with the sheet and blanket, he nearly sighed in relief. As frustratingly pleasurable as her touch was, the absence of it for a few moments was a blessing.

  Though her next move ratcheted his arousal right back up. She tucked in the covers on either side of his waist, then pressed inward, bracketing his hips with her palms. The small circles she made alternately pulled the blanket taut across his rapidly swelling erection and loosened it again.

  Cal stifled a groan, hoping his calm exterior belied his inner turmoil. He didn’t even want to strike up a conversation again because he’d just imagine her urging him to let it happen, let her make him feel good—

  Okay! Enough! He forced his tense muscles to loosen. That strategy sufficed until she shifted her hands to his upper thigh, working it through the covers, and all he could feel was her fingertips scraping against the edge of his pubic hair through two unwanted layers of material. Just a couple more inches, and she’d be palming his cock.

  It was getting more and more difficult to hide how turned on he was. Part of him was desperately hoping he’d make it through the remainder of the massage session without embarrassing himself. The rest of him was unrealistically wishing her hand would slip, or even that she might take pity on him and put him out of his sexual misery.

  Finally, she undraped one of his legs and began to tackle yet another set of knots there, and he could stop trying to will away his hard-on. He’d done it. He’d endured, and now he could concentrate on just enjoying whatever was left of the massage. Even though his dick remained unrelentingly rigid, and was probably at this very moment painting glistening trails of pre-come across his belly. At least everything else could finally relax.

  Eventually, his poor, neglected cock did, too.

  At last, the masseuse rearranged the blanket and covered him up once more, and he realized the session must be coming to an end. She stroked his face with gentle fingertips, from the center of his forehead out to each side. His skin tingled as he soaked up what had to be the last moments of her attentions.

  One warm hand cupped his jaw, and a ghostly impression of he
at hovered just above his mouth. He knew he had to be hallucinating, yet his lips twitched, trying to pout into a touch, a kiss, that wasn’t ever coming.

  Before he could force his eyelids open, her hand pulled away from his face. Even though he’d expected it, the shock of the severed connection still reverberated through him like the pure tone of a perfectly-cast bronze bell. Then, as the lingering echo of her fingers and palm against his skin died away, he slowly emerged from the haze of relaxation she’d created.

  “Cal,” she said, her voice quiet in the stillness, “I’m going to go wash up now. You take your time in here. I’ll knock before I come back in.”

  “Okay.” His voice broke across the word. He cleared his throat.

  “I’ll bring you some water, too.” He heard her cross the room. A fan of light spilled out briefly as the bathroom door opened, then closed behind her.

  Unable to move, he listened to the water running in the bathroom. He needed to get up and put on some clothes, before she came back. Any minute now, he would do that.

  When he couldn’t avoid it any longer, he mustered the strength to press his palms against the table, levering himself up as he swung his feet over the side. The masseuse had left a clean towel on the coffee table, so he wrapped it around his waist before stumbling to the closet.

  Earlier, he’d laid out a change of clothes on top of his suitcase. He hurried into his underwear and jeans, then shoved his arms through the sleeves of his plaid shirt. He started to button it, but the room was hotter than an August afternoon, so he left his shirt undone and turned up the air-conditioning instead. Then he refolded the towel, placed it back on the coffee table, and sprawled out on the sofa to wait for her.

  Several minutes later, she cracked open the door and knocked. “Can I come in?” she called out to him, her voice low and sensual.

  “Sure.” His own voice was still hoarse, and he was grateful that she was bringing him something to drink.

  He sat up straighter as she approached. When she’d first arrived, he’d idly watched her set up the table while his tension headache squeezed his head in a vise. He’d thought she was attractive as she bustled through the task with an economy of movement that spoke to many hours of practice.

  Clearly, he hadn’t been paying attention. Attractive didn’t do her justice. She was stunning.

  The exotic tilt at the corners of her golden brown eyes made it hard to look away from her. Her lips were full and kissable. She had a slender frame, with the pert little breasts he’d fantasized about earlier. The gentle curve of her hips flared from a narrow waist.

  She handed over the glass, and he thanked her before raising it to his lips. As he swallowed, she said, “You should make sure you drink at least six to eight glasses of water or other clear fluids in the next twenty-four hours.”

  Cal finished the glass and cleared his throat. “I didn’t think it was possible for me to feel this relaxed. That massage was amazing. My headache is totally gone,” he said, both pleased and surprised. He gifted her with one of his trial-winning smiles.

  “That’s great,” she said. Then she turned away to start breaking down the table and packing away her supplies into the duffel bag. A faint but unmistakable blush tinted her cheeks, making him regret leaving his chest bare. He just felt so at ease, it hadn’t even occurred to him to take her feelings into consideration.

  He frowned, annoyed at himself, and stood to belatedly do up his shirt. But it was hard to sustain any negative emotion for long when his bloodstream was rich with massage-induced endorphins. Endorphins convincing him that life was so good right now, nothing could go wrong, which led to his second misstep in as many minutes.

  “After you’re all packed up, would you like to get some coffee with me downstairs in the lounge? I’d love to get to know you better.” Alternatively, or maybe afterward, he’d love to get to know her better right here, in his king-sized bed.

  Or maybe not. Her brows had drawn together. Bad sign.

  Though he could be reading her wrong. Besides, what did he have to lose? So he tried again, hoping he was correctly guessing the source of her concern. “You can leave your stuff up here if you want, so you don’t have to lug it around with you. We can come back and get it whenever you’re ready to go.”

  She straightened to her full height, which still left her well shy of his own six-foot-one. “That’s not the issue,” she said. “First of all, I don’t date my clients. And second of all, if I did date my clients, I certainly wouldn’t do it anywhere near the hotel. I have a professional reputation to maintain.”

  Oh. Duh. His brain must not have come back online yet.

  “Right. Well,” he soldiered on, as she sped up her packing, “do you have a card? I’ll be here for another two weeks or so, maybe we could set up another session—”

  She ignored his second attempt altogether. “I, ah, need to get going. Here’s the bill for tonight.” Looking downright uncomfortable now, she turned to him just long enough to hand him a black leather folio.

  Shit. It had been a long time since he’d screwed up this royally with a girl, and her rejection stung. Nevertheless, he scanned the bill and added a very generous tip—courtesy of his boss, who’d offered to pay for the massage in appreciation for Cal’s hard work. Then, as she tugged the carrying case’s long zipper around the massage table, he shut the folio with an authoritative thwap.

  She glanced up at him, and he wished he hadn’t drawn her attention in that way. But while he had it… “Your name is…Brenna, right?”

  She focused again on her gear, zipping her duffel closed. “Yes,” she said. Though the word sounded almost like a question.

  So he decided to press his luck a little further. “What’s your last name?”

  Apparently finished with her packing, she straightened. The hesitation in her voice was as unmistakable as the pink that crept back into her cheeks. “It’s Nakamura.”

  “Nice to meet you, Brenna Nakamura.” With a smile, he handed her the folio.

  “Um, thanks.” She bent down to slip it into one of her duffel’s outer pockets, then stood and met his eyes once more. “I’m glad I was able to help you feel better,” she said before shouldering the table and duffel.

  She waited for him to precede her through the foyer to the door. He was rapidly running out of ways to prolong their encounter. “I know you can manage on your own, but would you like a hand with your things down to the lobby?” he asked as he opened the door.

  “No thanks, I’m fine. I do appreciate the offer though.” She brushed past him, pausing to look up at him through those dark, thick lashes. “Take care.”

  “You too.”

  He watched for a few moments as she walked away, managing the burden of her massage gear with a grace that made it look deceptively easy. Letting out a breath that was almost a sigh, he retreated into his room and allowed the door to close. Might as well get some work done.

  But he knew that when he eventually went to bed, he’d be thinking of her.

  BRENNA’S PACE QUICKENED once she rounded the corner to the elevator and was sure she was out of Cal’s sight. He and those ridged abs of his were just far too tempting. It was a good thing he’d buttoned his shirt before asking her to have coffee with him, or he might have befuddled her into saying yes.

  It would definitely be best if she never saw him again. A second massage session would probably end with the undeniable spark between them bursting into flame. She would lose the Rajah Hotel gig—and quite possibly her license and her livelihood—if she showed up at the front desk with her hair a tousled mess and her face glowing with satisfaction.

  And it would almost be worth it, too.

  Regret dogged her all the way down to the front desk, where it doubled when she pulled out the bill and saw the number Cal had filled in for her tip. Astonished, she handed over the folio to Crystal, the front desk attendant. “He tipped me seventy-five bucks?”

  “Looks that way.” Crystal smiled. �
��Guess we have another satisfied guest, Brenna.”

  “Yeah, but…” All she could do was shake her head as Crystal paid her. The tip was half the bill.

  What exactly was Cal trying to express with this gesture? Was he attempting to butter her up? Apologize for the awkward attempt to ask her out? Or was he just grateful that she’d relieved his stress so he could get ready for his upcoming trial?

  Now she wished she hadn’t ignored his interest in a second session. Purely because of the boost to Serenity Massage’s bottom line, of course.

  Though she had to admit, it really had been lovely to work on all of those well-defined muscles. Even his infernal rippling abs.

  Crystal picked up the phone. “Hang on a sec, let me see if our driver is available.”

  “That’s okay, you don’t have to do that.” But Crystal waved Brenna’s protest away.

  The truth was, she was wiped out. When Crystal had called two and a half hours ago, Brenna had been tidying up one of her two tiny but peaceful therapy rooms after her five o’clock client had left, trying not to think about the dire state of her bank account. Three years into her five-year business plan, she was already way off track.

  She’d worked in a high-end spa for the better part of a year after finishing her training, and she’d thought that experience had given her a good handle on start-up costs, revenue, and expenses. Serenity Massage was supposed to have been profitable starting almost two years ago, including paying her a salary sufficient to cover the mortgage on her condo and stock her cupboards with more than cereal and dried pasta. Unfortunately, her projections hadn’t taken into account an economic downturn.

  To maximize her revenue until the economy picked up again, she now accepted bookings between eight in the morning and nine at night. Though she had a depressingly large amount of downtime, she almost never took a day off.

  Brenna’s stomach growled, reminding her it was nearly nine o’clock now, and she’d barely had time to grab a bagel and a cup of tea on her way over to the hotel. She’d taken the subway over here, and she was sure her fellow T-riders had been annoyed by how much space her outcall gear took up. But it was late now, and if the hotel’s driver was unavailable, her choices were limited—lug her gear ten blocks in the dark, cut into tonight’s profits by paying for a taxi, or wait for who knew how long on the subway platform until the next train arrived. The Sunday night public transit schedule didn’t offer many options, as she well knew.