Chapter 7: Massage Table Confessions

The week after the couch became a blur of stolen touches and whispered promises. Every evening dog walk with Luna ended the same way—your bodies pressed close under streetlights, his hand sliding down your spine, your fingers tracing the waistband of his shorts—but you both held back, letting the ache build until Saturday felt like a fuse burning down. The yard was finished; the excuse was gone. Now it was just you, him, and the hunger neither of you could hide anymore.

You spent Friday night dragging the old massage table from the spare room into the living room, draping it with fresh white sheets, setting out the big bottle of warm coconut oil, and dimming the lights until the space glowed soft and golden. The couch still carried the faint scent of your first time together—sweat, sex, whiskey—but today belonged to something new. You chose a silk robe the color of midnight, nothing underneath, hair loose and curling at the ends from the shower. Luna watched from her bed in the corner, tail thumping like she already approved.

Jake arrived at dusk, right on time, carrying a small gym bag and wearing loose black shorts and a simple white tee that clung to every ridge he’d earned hauling mulch for you. The moment he stepped inside his eyes found the table, then you, and the smile that spread across his face was darker, bolder than the shy boy who’d first rung your doorbell.

“No yard work today,” he said, voice low as he set the bag down. “Just us?”

“Just us.” You let the robe slip open a fraction, giving him a glimpse of bare skin between your breasts. “But you brought something?”

He unzipped the bag and pulled out two long resistance bands—thick, black, stretchy, the kind he used at the college gym. “Thought we could play. If you trust me.” His eyes met yours, heat and something softer flickering there. “I want to make you feel safe and filthy at the same time, Emma.”

Your pulse jumped. “I trust you. Strip.”

He peeled off the tee in one smooth motion, shorts following, cock already half-hard and thickening under your stare. Naked, he looked like every fantasy you’d touched yourself to since the first lemonade—lean muscle, dark hair arrowing down, that thick length curving slightly upward, tip already glistening. You shrugged the robe off and stood bare before him. His breath caught.

You climbed onto the table first, face-down, cheek resting on your folded arms. The sheet was cool against your breasts and stomach. Jake warmed oil between his palms, the coconut scent blooming rich and sweet, then started at your shoulders. His hands were magic—strong, sure, gliding down your back, thumbs pressing deep into knots you hadn’t known were there. Every stroke melted you further. When he reached your ass he didn’t hesitate; big palms kneaded the soft globes, spreading you open so the warm air kissed your already slick folds. You moaned into the sheet.