The Last Client

"You're tense as a fucking board, you know that?"

I laughed, face-down on the massage table, my nose buried in the scent of eucalyptus oil. "That obvious?"

"Your shoulders are up by your ears, Mila." The voice was low, amused. "Relax. That's the whole point of this place."

I'd come in for a deep tissue massage after a twelve-hour shift behind the bar. The studio was quiet, dim, all warm wood and soft instrumental music. The therapist—his name was Dario—had strong hands and an accent I couldn't quite place.

"Sorry. I'm not great at... this."

"At lying still?" His thumbs dug into the knot at the base of my neck, and I let out a sound that was embarrassingly close to a moan. "Or at letting someone else take control?"

The question hung in the air. I felt the heat creep up my spine.

"Both, probably."

"Mm." He worked his way down my back, slow, deliberate. His palms were warm through the thin towel draped over me. "You're a bartender, right? You spend all night reading people, anticipating their needs. Never get to switch off."

"You did your homework."

"I saw you at The Copper Kettle last week. You were pouring a whiskey neat with your left hand while your right hand was already reaching for the lime for the next order. That's a skill."

I turned my head to look at him. He was younger than I'd expected—early thirties, maybe, dark hair falling over his forehead, a jaw that looked like it could crack walnuts. His eyes were almost black in the dim light.

"You were watching me?"

"Hard not to."

There it was. The tension shifted from my shoulders to somewhere lower.

"Take the towel off," he said. Not a question.

I hesitated for half a second, then reached back and pulled the towel away, letting it fall to the floor. The air hit my bare skin. I heard him exhale.

"Jesus, Mila."

His hands found my lower back, then my ass, fingers splaying over the curve of it. He squeezed, slow and firm, and I bit my lip.

"You're not going to massage me anymore, are you?"

"I can massage you." His fingers slid between my thighs, parting them gently. "Just not the way you came in here expecting."

I spread my legs without thinking. He made a low sound of approval.

"Good girl."

The words hit me like a shot of tequila. He shifted, and suddenly his mouth was on the small of my back, hot and wet, trailing down to the dip above my ass. I arched into him.

"Fuck, Dario..."

"Shh." His hand pressed flat between my shoulder blades. "Quiet. Thin walls. The studio next door has a client."

I laughed, breathless. "You're joking."

"I never joke about discretion." His fingers found my pussy from behind, sliding through the wetness that had been building since the moment he'd touched me. "Fuck, you're soaked already."

"Your hands on my ass tend to do that."

He chuckled, and then his finger was inside me, curling, finding the spot that made my vision blur. I gripped the edge of the table.

"Look at you," he murmured, adding a second finger. "So tight. So ready."

"Dario. Please."

"Please what?"

I hated how much I wanted it. How much I needed him to stop teasing. "Fuck me. Please."

He withdrew his fingers, and I heard the rustle of his clothes hitting the floor. Then his cock was pressing against me, thick and hard, and I pushed back against him instinctively.

"Patience." His hand gripped my hip, holding me still. "I want to hear you beg a little more."

"I don't beg."

"No?" He ran the head of his cock along my slit, just teasing, not entering. "You will."

I was trembling. Every nerve ending was screaming for him. "Dario, I swear to God—"

"Swear to God what?" He pressed just the tip inside me, and I gasped. "That you'll be loud? Because I told you, we have to be quiet."

"Then make me quiet."

Something shifted in his eyes. He slammed into me, all at once, deep enough to make me choke on my breath. I clamped my hand over my mouth.

"There you go." He pulled out slowly, then drove back in. "That's it. Take it."

The table creaked under us. He set a rhythm, hard and steady, each thrust sending shockwaves through my body. I could feel every inch of him, the way he filled me completely, the way his balls slapped against my clit with each stroke.

"So fucking tight," he gritted out. "You're going to make me come before I'm ready."

"Don't you dare." I was almost sobbing, muffled behind my hand. "I need this. I need to come around your cock."

He laughed, a breathless, dirty sound. "Greedy girl."

He pulled out, and I whimpered at the loss. But then he was turning me over, lifting my legs onto his shoulders, and I saw him for the first time—sweat sheening his chest, his cock glistening with my wetness, his eyes dark with hunger.

"Look at me," he said, and drove back in.

I cried out. He swallowed it with his mouth, kissing me hard and filthy, his tongue tangling with mine as he fucked me into the table. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned against my lips.

"That's it. Fucking take it."

"I'm close," I gasped. "Dario, I'm so close—"

"Come for me." His thumb found my clit, circling hard. "Come on my cock, Mila. Let me feel it."

It hit me like a wave, crashing through my whole body. I bit down on his shoulder to keep from screaming, my inner walls clenching around him, and he cursed, a low, ragged "fuck," and drove into me one last time, flooding me with heat.

We stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together, breathing hard. The music had stopped. The room was silent except for our ragged breaths.

He pulled out slowly, and I felt the wetness trickle down my thigh. I laughed, a little dazed.

"That was..."

"Not a massage," he finished, grinning.

"I'm definitely coming back here." I stretched, wincing at the soreness between my legs. "Same time next week?"

"You might have to book ahead. I'm getting popular."

I snorted, swatting his chest. "Don't get cocky."

He leaned in and kissed me, soft this time, almost tender. "Too late."

I laughed against his mouth, and for the first time in weeks, the tension in my shoulders was gone.