My Husband's Masseuse

Kenzie Taylor wiped the oil from her hands, ready to call it a night, when the door swung open and Charlie Forde stormed into the parlor like she had blood on her mind. Charlie claimed an appointment. Kenzie checked the book twice. Wrong name, wrong time. Turns out Charlie had taken her husband's slot. She wanted to see the touch her man kept coming back for. That hard look said she expected to catch them in the act, but Kenzie told her straight: nothing had happened beyond the table. Charlie dropped her purse anyway and told Kenzie to start. Kenzie nodded, told her to strip, and felt Charlie's gaze track every movement. Bare skin met the heated sheet. Oil slid across shoulders, slow circles along the spine, thumbs pressing deep under each shoulder blade. Each stroke drew a quieter breath, a slacker limb. Tension unwound from Charlie's hips and down her thighs as Kenzie worked the knots free, skin warming under firm, steady pressure. A soft sound escaped Charlie's throat, part sigh, part invitation. She opened her legs a fraction, enough for Kenzie's hand to drift lower, tracing the crease where thigh met ass. Charlie tensed once, then melted into the touch, arching toward the fingers that teased, parting further on the second pass. Kenzie's slick palm cupped her, pressing circles until Charlie's hips rolled on instinct. A low, broken moan slipped out, barely held back. "Don't tell him," Charlie breathed, voice tight and wanting. Kenzie answered with another glide of slick fingers, deeper now, slower. Charlie grabbed the table's edge, knuckles pale, and gave herself over to the steady rhythm between her legs.