Page 1 of Filthy Rich Brother’s Best Friends (Filthy Rich Harems #5)

Lola

My last client no-showed, my inbox is about to explode, and I haven’t had a proper meal since last night’s dinner unless you count half a protein bar and three cups of coffee.

Rent for the studio is due Monday, and I’m not sure where it’s coming from.

Another instructor quit this morning to join a fancy new studio that popped up less than a mile from here.

And now I’m standing at the front desk, staring at the busted essential oil diffuser, its relaxing scent of lavender gone—I don’t even have the twenty dollars to replace that at this point.

Alright, Lola. You’ve survived worse. You can fix this. Start with the email. Then the rent. Then maybe cry a little in your car.

I can’t fix any of this tonight. And trying to willpower my way through it when my cortisol’s already spiking? I’m pretty sure that’s how you become an overstimulated stress monster.

Harper sent me a link earlier—something about taking the edge off without tequila or a shopping spree. I grab my phone and tap it before I can talk myself out of it.

My fingers hover over the booking app for a massage studio, and before I know it, I tap the “confirm” button on a ninety-minute deep tissue massage complete with hot stones and a scalp massage.

I cannot afford this. I know that. It’s a completely irresponsible, wildly indulgent decision that goes against every business owner survival instinct I have. But I’m losing it. Not just stressed. Far more than just tired. I’m unraveling in ways I can’t patch with positive affirmations.

Besides, the fact that they actually have an opening for tonight feels like a sign from the heavens.

The spa is a twenty-minute drive, and I’m more excited the closer I get. I need this right now, really need this.

I walk in, and the lobby smells of eucalyptus. The woman behind the counter gives me a soft smile as I check in.

“Ninety minute deep tissue, right?” she asks.

I nod, smiling back with a look that I hope says I totally belong here and not I am one late payment away from losing my livelihood . She hands me a robe and a pair of disposable slippers.

The robe is plush, ridiculously soft, and probably woven from the hair of baby alpacas who eat a diet of strictly organic hay.

In the locker room, I change into the robe and slippers, tucking my clothes away into the provided locker. I stash my phone on top of my clothes. It vibrates as I shut the door, but I ignore it. Whatever it is can wait.

I head out to the waiting area and settle into one of the ridiculously luxurious recliners—it has a massage feature built-in so I can pregame my massage with another massage.

There’s a trickling fountain feature, ambient music that sounds like wind flirting with a harp, and cucumber water in a glass dispenser.

I turn the massage chair on and try to convince myself this is all okay. I deserve this. I haven’t had a day off in weeks. I haven’t had a real moment to relax—like, really recharge—in I don’t know how long.

So, I soldier through the guilt. I coax my shoulders away from my ears. I let my back rest against the chair. I allow the adrenaline to drift slowly out of my body.

When my name is called, I feel a little more settled than when I arrived. I follow the woman down a hallway lined with doors. She opens a door and ushers me inside.

“The therapist will be in shortly,” she says in a soft and soothing voice. “You can hang your robe on the hook there. Lie face down under the sheet. Just relax and they'll check in with you before getting started.”

She leaves, and I stand there for a moment, looking around. The room is dim with a massage table set up in the center and a cabinet full of oils and towels is against the wall. Lovely “massage” music plays in the background.

I shrug off the robe, hanging it on the hook, and shove my slippers under the chair in the corner.

I climb onto the table and slide beneath the sheet. The table is heated, and damn, that feels nice . My muscles begin to relax, one by one. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

The door opens a moment later.

“Hi there, Lola. I’m Jude. I’ll be your massage therapist today.” The voice is deep and velvety smooth.

My eyes snap open.

Oh no.

This isn’t Harmony. Or Sage. Or any other woman I’d assumed would be gently massaging my stress into oblivion.

I turn my head slightly to take a peek.

There is a literal golden god standing next to me.

He’s tall—really tall—with a lean, surfer build kind of thing going on.

His dirty-blonde hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck, a little messy, but it totally works.

Perfect amount of stubble on his jaw. His eyes are warm, maybe hazel or green or something in between, and he’s wearing a soft-looking T-shirt that hugs his chest and biceps.

Of course my massage therapist looks like that .

When I haven’t been touched by a man in way too long.

Because the universe is mean that way and I’ve obviously done something to piss it off..

“Do you need anything before we get started?”

Somehow I manage to shake my head no.

“Let me know about the amount of pressure you like,” he says. “I’m happy to make adjustments.”

I nod again. Apparently this man has struck me mute.

It’s fine. This is fine. I can do this.

But then his hands are on my back.

And nothing is fine.

He presses into the exact places I carry tension without fumbling or second-guessing. My entire body leans in without hesitation.

I didn’t know just how touch-starved I was until this moment.

My traitorous brain begins to wander.

First to how long it’s been since I’ve had sex. And we’re not even going to talk about how long it’s been since I had good sex.

Then to the idea of letting him flip me over and wreck me. He clearly knows what to do with his hands. I'd bet he's spectacular in bed.

The fantasy begins to build even though I’m trying desperately to evict it from my thoughts.

I’m still face-down, doing my best to stay grounded, but every pass of his fingers pulls me in deeper. There’s nothing suggestive in the way he touches me. Nothing that crosses a line. But my body doesn’t seem to care. It keeps leaning into the pressure.

He works slowly, methodically. One shoulder, then the other.

Long sweeps down my spine that make me want to moan out loud.

Every muscle he touches loosens—and every body part he leaves behind aches for more.

I try to breathe through it, focus on the rhythm, the calm, but it’s no use.

All I can think about is having sex with him.

God, I bet he's hung. Men with hands this skilled, this confident—they always are. I picture myself sinking down onto him, taking him inch by delicious inch, watching his face as I do.

I'd set the pace—slow at first, savoring the stretch and fullness of him inside me. Then faster, grinding down, chasing that perfect angle. His hands would travel up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts before cupping them entirely.

"Is the pressure okay?" he asks, snapping me back to reality.

"Perfect," I manage to say, my voice embarrassingly breathy. Thank god he can't read my thoughts.

He moves to my lower back, and I have to stifle a moan. The pressure is exquisite, bordering on painful in the best possible way.

"You're carrying a lot of tension here," he observes, his thumbs pressing into a particularly stubborn knot.

And then—he moves lower.

His thumbs dig deep into the muscles just above my glutes, pressing with a kind of focused pressure that hits hard and holds.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

My body goes tight. So damn tight. And then it snaps.

Heat rushes through me. My thighs twitch. My fingers ball into fists. My toes curl against the sheet.

I come .

Right there on the table. Without warning.

I stare at the floor beneath the face cradle, blinking at nothing, brain wiped blank.

For a second, I think I imagined it. Maybe I dissociated so hard I hallucinated an orgasm. That’s a thing, right? That could be a thing. Please, for the love of all things holy, let that be a thing.

But then the aftershocks roll through me. A wave of heat. A throb between my legs. The unmistakable hum under my skin that says this happened. It was real. And now I have to live with it.

I haven’t come that easy…ever. This man didn’t even touch my lady bits. How could this have happened?

Alright, Lola. Calm down and get your shit together, girl.

I do not, in fact, get my shit together though.

I spiral further.

My mind flashes back to when I was fourteen.

I had this stuffed bear, soft and squishy and worn from years of sleeping with it.

I would lie on top of it, pressing against it, barely moving, just enough to build friction.

I remember my heart racing, my legs shaking, and my whole body humming with this delicious release I didn’t know how to explain.

This moment—this accidental, embarrassing unraveling under a stranger’s hands—feels the same.

Except worse.

Because now I know exactly what it is.

And I have no idea if he noticed.

He had to.

He had to feel the way my entire body tightened all at once and then just released. He’s a trained massage therapist, for fuck’s sake.

I lie there, completely still, willing my pulse to calm down and my skin to cool off. Neither one cooperates. My heart is thudding like I just sprinted a mile, and there’s heat flooding up my neck and between my legs.

I hold my breath and try to recenter. The only thing worse than climaxing on a massage table is drawing attention to the fact that I climaxed on a massage table. If I can just stay still—breathe evenly—maybe we can both pretend it didn’t happen.

He takes his hands off me for a moment, and I wonder what’s going on. Is he getting more massage oil? Or taking a sip of water?

And then?—

“Let me know if you need a minute to come down.”

The words land in my ear with the force of a wrecking ball.

My eyes snap open.

I can’t see his face from this angle, thank god. I keep my head buried in the cradle like it’s going to shield me from the fact that I may never emotionally recover from this moment.

I don’t move. I can’t move.

Everything in me locks up again, but this time, it’s not from pleasure. It’s pure, red-hot mortification.

I manage a small nod, and he resumes. There’s not a single flicker of anything other than calm, capable professionalism.

And yet.

My mind continues to circle back to the fact that my body betrayed me and now we are both pretending it didn’t.

God, I cannot ever show my face here again.

I mean, I couldn’t afford to even if I wanted to. But if I somehow won the lottery or landed myself a sexy sugar daddy, I absolutely cannot come back to this spa. Ever.

Maybe I should just avoid this part of town altogether. That seems safer, right?

The rest of the massage passes in a blur of embarrassment.

“Take your time getting up,” he says gently when he finishes the massage.

As soon as he walks out the door, I'm already on my feet and halfway into my robe. Head down, I walk quickly to the ladies' room, and get fully dressed in record time. The second my shoes are on, I bolt. I don’t stop for cucumber water. Or to use the restroom.

I flee that spa like it’s on fire and I’m the one who lit the match.