Best Client Yet

Remy Lacroix gripped the wheel with both hands, heart slamming against her ribs. First week on the job, late for a private call to Abigail Mac, she stared at her phone until the line went dead, then bolted out of the car. Her duffel banged against her thigh as she crossed the drive, the front door swinging open before she touched it. Abigail stood barefoot on the foyer marble, robe hanging loose. Remy froze, stammered an apology, offered her name. Abigail smiled and the robe slid a little wider. They walked together to the back deck. Canyon air lifted Remy’s hair as she snapped open the massage table, the view falling away in long drifts of sandstone and sage. She reached for the oils when a hard pinch closed on the curve of her ass. She spun. Abigail’s robe pooled at her feet. “I need help with the rest,” Abigail said, fingers tugging at a thin thong. Remy peeled the lace down. Abigail climbed onto the table, stomach down, muscles sliding under pale skin. Remy pressed warm oil along her spine. The first long glide earned a low hum, then a quiet laugh. “Your hands know what they’re doing,” Abigail murmured. “Your face too. Pretty enough to distract me.” Remy’s breath tightened. She asked Abigail to turn over. The sun warmed Abigail’s breasts as Remy’s palms cupped them, circling, squeezing. Thumbs brushed both nipples, catching, pulling, the little peaks stiffening between her fingers. Abigail exhaled sharply. “Can’t wait anymore,” she whispered, voice rough at the edges. “I want you now.”