He Gives Me the Best Sexual Massage

Simone had cleared her desk by three, the last client logo exported and the apartment wiped down until the air smelled faintly of citrus and the warm vanilla she liked. At twenty-eight she spent most days bent over a screen, shoulders locked, hips sore from the same chair. Tonight was different. She had booked Silas for a private in-home session, the kind his site described only as “full-body restorative work,” and she had spent the last hour deciding how little to wear under the robe.

The knock came at six on the nose. She opened the door and the hallway seemed to narrow around him. Silas was thirty-four, tall enough that she had to tip her chin, with broad shoulders under a charcoal button-down and forearms that looked used to real work. His hair was cut short, a little silver at the temples, and his eyes moved over her face, then the open robe, with a calm that made her stomach drop.

“Simone,” he said. His voice was low, unhurried. “I’m Silas. Table’s in the car. You still want me to set up in the living room?”

“Yes.” Her mouth was dry. “Come in.”

He carried the folded table in like it weighed nothing, set it near the window, and snapped the legs into place with practiced hands. She watched the stretch of his back, the way his shirt pulled when he reached, and felt heat crawl up her throat. He spread the sheet, set out bottles of oil, and finally turned. The look he gave her was professional until it wasn’t. Something electric passed between them, thick enough that she could almost taste it.

“You’ve been on the waitlist a while,” he said.

“Three weeks.” She tugged the robe tighter, then let it fall open again. “I’ve been reading the reviews. The ones that don’t quite say what they mean. I’ve been thinking about your hands. About what people call your special massages.” The admission sat in the room, shameless and warm. “I booked the long session because I wanted that. I wanted you.”

His jaw flexed. He didn’t smile, but his eyes darkened. “Then we should be honest with each other from the start. I’ll begin the way I always do. If you want more, you tell me. If you want me to stop, you tell me that too. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Good.” He nodded toward the bathroom. “Robe off when you’re ready. Lie face down. Sheet over you. I’ll knock.”

She stripped in the bathroom with shaking hands, folded the robe, and walked out naked. The air kissed her skin. She climbed onto the table, settled her face in the cradle, and pulled the thin sheet up to her waist. It barely covered her. When he came back, she heard the soft click of the oil bottle and felt the first warm drip between her shoulder blades.

His palms landed, broad and sure, and the tension that had lived in her for months started to give.

He worked her the way a man who knew bodies worked them. Thumbs dug into the knots under her scapulae, slow circles that made her groan into the cradle. He found the ridge along her neck and eased it until her breath went loose. Oil warmed under his hands. The sheet stayed where it was, but every stroke dragged lower, across the small of her back, the heels of his palms pressing just above the curve of her ass.

“Breathe,” he said.

She tried. His fingers slid along her spine, then out over her ribs, close enough to the sides of her breasts that her nipples tightened against the sheet. He didn’t rush. He mapped her, pressure deep and even, until her hips had begun a small, helpless shift against the table.

“Turn over when you’re ready,” he murmured.

She rolled. The sheet slipped. She caught it at her hips, but her breasts were bare, oiled already where his hands had wandered. Silas looked. He didn’t pretend not to. His gaze moved from her mouth to her chest to the place the sheet barely hid, and the muscle in his forearm jumped.

“Still good?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He poured more oil into his palm and started at her collarbones. The strokes were long, professional, until they weren’t. His thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts. She made a soft sound and didn’t cover herself. He circled closer, oil shining on her skin, and when his palm finally closed over one breast she arched into it.

“Silas.”

“Tell me.”

“Lower.” She let her knees fall open under the sheet, a deliberate parting, the cotton pulling taut between her thighs. “I’ve been wet since you walked in. Don’t stop at my shoulders.”

His hand slid down her stomach, under the sheet, and stopped just above her mound. Heat poured off him. She could see the thick line of his cock against his pants, and the sight made her clit throb.

“I do deep tissue,” he said, voice rough now. “And I do the other kind, if that’s what you came for. Full sexual massage. My hands, my mouth, my cock if you want it. You say yes, and I give you all of it. You say no, and I finish your back and leave. What do you want, Simone?”

“Yes.” She caught his wrist and guided his hand the rest of the way, until his fingers met slick heat. “I want the full thing. I want you to fuck me. I’ve wanted it for weeks.”

“Then lie still,” he said, and the professionalism in his voice cracked into something hungrier. “And let me work.”

He peeled the sheet away and let it fall to the floor. Warm oil followed, a slow pour from the hollow of her throat down between her breasts, over her belly, into the neat dark hair above her pussy and along the crease of each thigh. She gasped at the heat. Silas set the bottle aside and spread the oil with both hands, gliding over her ribs, cupping her breasts, thumbs dragging across her nipples until they stood stiff and shining.

“Beautiful,” he said, almost to himself.

He bent and took one nipple into his mouth. The suction was firm, wet, his tongue flicking while his other hand kept working the neglected breast, oil making every pass obscene. Simone’s fingers found his hair. She held him there and moaned, hips lifting, chasing friction that wasn’t there yet. He switched sides, sucking harder, teeth grazing just enough to make her cry out, then kissed down the center of her body, tongue cleaning a path through the oil.

When he reached her pussy he didn’t dive in. He oiled the insides of her thighs and pressed them wider, settling between them on the low stool he’d pulled close. His breath hit her first. Then his tongue, a long flat stroke from her entrance up to her clit. She jerked. He held her hips down with one forearm and did it again, slower, tasting her, circling the swollen bud until her thighs trembled.

“God, you taste good,” he muttered against her. “Been thinking about this since I saw your name on the book.”

Two fingers slid into her, easy with how wet she was, and curled. His mouth stayed on her clit, sucking in soft pulses while his fingers fucked her in a steady rhythm. She reached for him blindly. He shifted enough that she could get his pants open, and his cock sprang free, thick and hot and already leaking. She wrapped her oily hand around him and stroked, matching the pace of his fingers, the head slick under her thumb.

“That’s it,” he said, voice muffled against her. “Stroke me while I make you come.”

He added a third finger. The stretch burned sweet. His tongue flicked faster, then flattened, and his free hand slipped lower, oil-slick, one fingertip circling her ass. He didn’t push in hard. He teased the tight ring while his fingers drove into her pussy and his mouth worked her clit without mercy. The pressure built low and sharp. Simone’s hand flew on his cock, messy, desperate. Her other hand gripped the edge of the table.

“Silas, I’m— I’m going to—”

“Give it to me.”

She broke. The orgasm tore through her in a hot rush, her pussy clenching around his fingers, and then she was squirting, a sudden flood over his hand and wrist, soaking the sheet bunched under her hips. She cried out, stroking him through it, thighs shaking, vision white at the edges. He didn’t stop until the pulses eased, licking her through the aftershocks, groaning at the taste.

“Fuck,” she gasped. “That was—”

“Not done.” He stood, cock heavy in her fist, and helped her off the table onto the rug. “Hands and knees. I want you from behind.”

She went down eagerly, ass up, forehead on her folded arms. Oil and her own wetness shone on her thighs. Silas knelt behind her, one hand spreading her, the other guiding his cock. He rubbed the head through her folds, nudging her clit, then pushed in slow. The stretch was perfect, thick enough to make her moan into the rug. He seated himself to the hilt and held there, palms sliding up her oiled back.

“You feel incredible,” he said. “So tight. So wet for me.”

Then he fucked her. Not a gentle rock. Hard, deep strokes that slapped his hips against her ass, the sound filthy in the quiet apartment. Each thrust drove the air out of her. She pushed back to meet him, greedy, and he answered with a sharper pace, one hand fisting in her hair just enough to arch her, the other reaching under to rub her clit in tight circles. Her breasts swung. Oil smeared between them wherever skin met skin.

“Harder,” she begged. “Don’t hold back. I can take it.”

He gave it to her. The rhythm turned ruthless, cock dragging over the spot inside that made her see sparks, his thumb still working her ass in little teasing presses that made everything tighter. She came again with a broken shout, clenching around him so hard he swore and had to slow or finish too soon. He pulled out while she was still fluttering, flipped her onto her back on the rug, and came down over her.

“Legs around me,” he said.

She locked her ankles at the small of his back. He sank into her in one long stroke, missionary now, face close to hers, and the angle was deeper, grinding. Their bodies were slick, chests sliding, her nipples dragging through the oil on his skin. He kissed her, open and hungry, tongue matching the roll of his hips. She met every thrust, heels digging into him, nails in his shoulders.

“Look at me,” he said.

She did. His eyes were dark, focused, sweat at his hairline. He fucked her in long, grinding strokes, pelvis rubbing her clit with every push, and the third orgasm built slower, heavier, a wave she couldn’t outrun. She clung to him and let it take her, crying his name against his mouth, pussy milking him in rhythmic pulls.

“Simone—” His control snapped. He drove deep and came, heat flooding her, hips jerking, a low groan torn out of his chest as he buried his face in her neck and kept moving through it, both of them shaking, slick and locked together until the last pulse faded.

They stayed like that, breathing hard, his weight a warm anchor. When he finally eased out, he didn’t leave her on the rug. He gathered her up, settled her back on the table with a fresh towel under her hips, and poured a little clean oil into his palms.

The aftercare was unhurried. His hands moved in long, tender strokes from her ankles to her thighs, over her soft belly, along her arms, never demanding, just soothing the places he’d used so thoroughly. She lay boneless, glowing, skin humming.

“You looked beautiful when you came for me,” he said quietly, thumb tracing the inside of her wrist. “All three times. I want to see it again.”

She turned her head and found his mouth, a slow kiss that tasted like oil and her and him. “Next week,” she said. “Same time. I’ll clear the afternoon. And Silas?” She smiled, already turning over the details in her mind, the lingerie she would buy, the way she would open the door this time already naked under the robe, the hour she would steal before he arrived to touch herself thinking of his hands. “Come hungry. I’m going to make the second session even better than this one.”

He kissed her once more at the door, lingering, his palm warm on her waist. “I’ll be here,” he said.

She closed the door and leaned against it, already scheming the oil, the playlist, the exact words she would use when she told him to start between her legs.