Her Son's Best Friend's Forbidden Massage

Elena sighed as she rolled her shoulders, the afternoon sun streaming through the kitchen windows of her quiet suburban home. At forty-two, she kept her body in peak condition through years of teaching yoga—long, toned legs, a narrow waist that flared into generous hips, and full, heavy breasts that strained against even the loosest tops. Divorce had left her freer than she'd felt in decades, but also lonelier, the big house echoing now that her son Tyler was off at college. This weekend he was gone on some freshman trip, leaving her to nurse a stubborn knot of tension low in her back, right above the swell of her ass. She'd twisted wrong in class that morning, and now every movement sent a dull ache radiating up her spine.

She was padding barefoot across the cool tile in nothing but a tiny silk robe—pale blue, barely skimming the tops of her thighs, the belt loosely knotted so the fabric gaped open over her deep cleavage—when the doorbell rang. Elena frowned, glancing at the clock. Who could that be? She peeked through the peephole and felt an unexpected flutter in her stomach. Jake. Tyler's best friend since high school, now nineteen and home from the same college for the long weekend. Tall, broad-shouldered from years of soccer and weights, with messy dark hair, sharp jawline, and those intense green eyes that always lingered a half-second too long when he thought no one noticed.

She opened the door, the robe whispering against her bare skin. "Jake? Everything okay?"

He held up a scuffed gym bag, grinning that easy, boyish smile that somehow looked anything but boyish on his athletic frame. "Hey, Mrs. R—Elena. Tyler left this in my car last week. Figured I'd drop it off since I was nearby." His gaze flicked down, just for a moment, catching the way the silk clung to her curves, the hint of bare thigh. He swallowed, color rising in his cheeks, but he didn't look away fast enough. Secretly infatuated didn't begin to cover it; Jake had jacked off to fantasies of her more times than he could count, those yoga pants of hers burned into his brain.

"Come in, don't just stand there," Elena said, stepping aside. The ache in her back flared as she turned, and she winced, one hand pressing to the base of her spine. "Ugh, perfect timing. I've got this killer knot right here. Teaching three classes back-to-back will do that. You wouldn't know anyone who gives a decent massage, would you?" The question came out light, innocent, but the second it left her lips she felt the air change—electric, charged. Jake's eyes darkened, his grip tightening on the bag strap.

He set the bag down by the door, shutting it behind him with a soft click. "Actually... yeah. I took a sports-massage elective last semester. For the team. I could, uh, work on it if you want. No big deal."

Elena's pulse kicked up. She shouldn't. He was Tyler's friend, nineteen to her forty-two, but the pain was real and the house was empty and those strong hands of his looked like they knew exactly what to do. "You sure? I don't want to impose."