Read The Masseuse for Free Online Page B

the softest sheets I could find, and a plush purple comforter that made me feel like royalty.
    Slipping off the skirt, I looked out the window, knowing those on the street couldn’t see me in my yellow lace strapless bra and matching boy short panties. I wanted someone to see me, though, and as my hands slid down my body of their own accord I thought of him. I imagined his strong arms around my waist, lifting me up, spreading me, his thick cock sliding deep inside while I screamed his name. I thought of my hands fisting his dark hair, and his mouth on my neck. I turned, and leaned back against the glass, feeling the way it would press against my skin as he fucked me.
    My hand slid down the front of my panties, finding my slit sensitive and slippery, and when I came, it was with a whimper, not a scream.

Five
    I t was a long, restless night. I barely slept, and when I did, my dreams were haunted by a man with wavy hair and wild blue eyes, pressing my knees apart and planting hot, wet kisses up my thighs. But every time he got close to my center, I woke up, aching and edgy and too hot, even after I’d shucked my nightie and thrown my comforter to the floor.
    It was an obsession. A crazy fantasy that would never come true. I didn’t know why Mr. Stein’s security guard had had such an effect on me, but it was unhealthy. I couldn’t even concentrate long enough to make coffee, and it was an automatic coffeemaker.
    I settled for pushing the love seat in the center of my apartment aside, turning my iPod to classic Aerosmith, and powering through an hour of yoga. It was worth it: After five sun salutations and a cold shower, I’d burned up most of my angst and was feeling considerably more in control.
    A little mascara, eyeliner, and my new cosmetic fave—a dark red lipstick called Siren—and I was out the door. I didn’t bother doing my hair; one of the perks of working at a salon was there were plenty of people there to do it for you, so I left it down to dry in the Tampa heat.
    I stopped at Javaz, a coffee shop around the corner from my apartment and five blocks from the salon, Rave, and stepped through the wall of air-conditioning to treat myself to twenty-four ounces of caffeinated heaven.
    Bob Dylan was playing from the speakers as I got into line, and the aroma of roasting beans immediately perked me up. I checked my cell—four texts from Amy, ending with WTF ARE YOU DEAD? —and a list of my booked appointment times from the receptionist at the salon. I sent a quick text back to Amy that I’d see her in a few with a peace offering of her favorite iced green tea, and stepped to the front of the line, where a barista, in his thirties with a stocking cap and a braided goatee, took my order.
    “Good morning, my love.”
    “Hey, Kevin,” I said, smirking at his customary declaration. “The usual, plus an iced green tea for Amy.”
    “Got it.” He wrote my drinks on the large white paper cups in a green marker.
    “No charge,” he told me as I reached for my wallet.
    I lifted my eyes. “Huh?”
    “That guy over there took care of it when you came in.” He pointed to the seats in the back corner, but a woman in a sage maxidress was blocking my view.
    “You have a secret admirer.” He looked a little annoyed.
    “Well, awesome, I guess.” I shoved a five in the tip jar and made my way to the back to thank my mysterious do-gooder, but the woman in the dress was clearly trying to make conversation with him. I wondered how many drinks he’d bought people this morning.
    “So if you’re not doing anything for dinner . . .” she was saying.
    “Excuse me,” he interrupted. His voice curled around me like warm velvet. Neighborhood Watch.
    The woman, a perky brunette with a jangly necklace, stepped aside. When our eyes met, her cheeks grew rosy.
    “Lucky you,” she said, taking a sip from her drink before heading for the door.
    He rose from the soft chair like some sort of Greek god, dark hair curling at the