Page 19

The spa’s lobby is even more extravagant than Haute House, but unlike our previous host’s hostility toward being forced into secrecy, everything about this place exudes discretion.

With warm woods, clean lines, and massive frosted windows, the decor exudes pure modern luxury, erasing the city right outside while letting in ample light.

Even the private entrance from a parking garage we were ushered through moments ago is ideal for New York’s elite, who want to go unnoticed.

Somehow, the spa walks that perfect line where you want to snuggle in and stay forever, while also being scared to touch anything.

According to Dalton, the next three and a half hours of our afternoon are here.

He’s been slinging around the word pampering, but I swear if there’s a Brazilian in my package, I’m making that man wax his balls too.

Not that I need a waxing. Despite the lack of men in my life, thank the sex gods I’ve kept myself tidy purely out of habit, or our dressing room escapades would have been hairy. Literally.

The woman behind the counter is still apologizing profusely, a bombardment that started the moment we walked through the door. Our visit is supposed to start with a couple’s massage. However, one masseuse had a family emergency.

I try to placate the panicked receptionist again. “Really, it’s okay. I can just skip the massage part?—”

“No.” Both she and Dalton say in unison.

Dalton splays a calming hand on the white marble counter as the woman reaches for her phone, ready to call in some poor soul on their day off.

“I need to speak to your manager, if that’s okay.”

I cringe as he says it. Years of working retail in high school flash through my memories.

Asking for a supervisor is never a phrase anyone wants to hear.

The woman grabs her phone and is punching a contact before I can blink.

I watch Dalton for a sign of irritation, but the man remains calm as the cucumbers floating in the drink dispensers.

Not just calm, but almost happy as he gives me that lopsided smile like he’s keeping a secret.

The receptionist is handing over the phone before I can ask.

Dalton pauses before taking it, addressing the receptionist first. “Marissa, can you show my date to the drink station? Get her set up with some water? We had champagne earlier, and it’s a good idea we hydrate before a massage. ”

“Of course, Mr. Ward!”

I can’t tell if her eyes are glistening with tears of relief at getting to walk away from a stressful situation or with anxiety from having to handle it in the first place.

“Thank you.” He says as she darts out from behind the counter, gesturing for me to follow. When I don’t move right away, Dalton adds with a wink, “I’ll be there in a sec.”

Marissa—I’m impressed Dalton caught her name amid the stream of apologies earlier—leads me to a bar with every kind of tea, water and hydration supplements a health nut could dream of. She rattles off options like rapid fire and I reach for her arm. Despite the gentleness of my touch, she jumps.

“Hey. Take a deep breath. You okay?”

A nervous snorting giggle hiccups out of the young woman. “It’s only my second week and I know your being here is super important for the spa’s marketing. It was supposed to go smoothly. The manager promised it would be easy, that’s why she’s not here. But…”

“But life happened.” I add, taking a cup from the bar, filling it with water and forcing it into her fluttering hand.

“Drink. You’re doing a great job, and none of this was within your control.

Life happens, it’s okay. We’re still going to have an amazing time and the spa will get a fantastic marketing plug. So don’t let this ruin your day. Okay?”

She takes a shaky sip of water and I pour two more cups for Dalton and me.

“You know, I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you.” She hiccups.

“Sometimes it’s okay to let others take care of you.” I glance across the room to where Dalton’s wearing a suspicious grin as he walks over.

“All worked out. We’re going to switch to singles massages. One at a time. Your manager will fill you in on the details.” He hands the phone back to Marissa, who snags it and bolts back for the sanctuary behind her desk. Dalton takes the cup I offer and clinks it to mine. “Let’s get naked.”

The private rooms are fabulous and absolutely ridiculous.

Bigger than my entire apartment, the word zen falls horribly inadequate of doing the room justice.

With the same aesthetics of the lobby, plus salt lamps and a private shower, I’m ready to claim squatters’ rights.

Marissa set up an aromatherapy diffuser based on my favorite scents and gave me instructions for the massage process before disappearing out the door.

Ten minutes later, I’m rinsed, face down on the heated table, covered in a weighted blanket that’s fluffier than a cloud against my bare skin and naked, aside from the clean underwear I fished out of the overnight bag Dalton brought in for me.

I’m verging on sleep before remembering to push the “ready” button at the front of the table.

There’s a shushing of the door opening, then closing and then soft steps as the masseuse approaches.

Large hands press firmly over the blanket first, allowing my hips to rock, then my torso and shoulders, before folding the blanket down to my waist. I try not to tense.

Marissa warned me that my replacement is male and looked so close to tears when asking if that is okay, I blurted out yes without thinking about how I actually felt.

I’d had a few massages over the years, but always from a woman.

There’s a sense of security in trusting a woman while lying naked on a table.

Having a male masseuse never crossed my mind.

Now, it’s all I can think about. The room fills with the sound of him lathering lotion, and then hands are on me, deflating the ballooning apprehension.

A moan rips loose as his forearm glides up my spine, rolling over a particularly tight spot.

“That has got to be the sexiest sound.” He says.

I jolt up and then drop back down, realizing my boobs are on full display. My neck kinks as I sling a glare at the pervert.

“Get your hands off me!” I blurt out.

“That’s not what you were saying earlier, forty-eight.” The voice registers. Slamming my face back into the cradle, I swing out an arm, swatting Dalton in what I hope is the thigh, but might have been his ass.

“What the hell are you doing in here? You scared the shit out of me, Ward!” I say to the floor, unwilling to show my reddened face.

“Giving you a massage.” He says in earnest as he readjusts the blanket at my waist and begins working my back muscles again.

“I can feel that, but I’m pretty sure this was supposed to be done by a professional. Isn’t there a guy somewhere in this building whose job you’re stealing?

“Not stealing, just subbing for.”

“Did you lock him in a broom closet somewhere?”

“I paid him in full and then asked that he take Marissa out for lunch. She looked like she needed a break. He’ll come back to do my massage later.”

I bite back another deep-seated groan as his hands work from the center of my spine outward. Each flex of his fingers seems to find a knot bundled with years of tension.

“You’re very good at this.” I sigh the words, trying to keep them even.

“Well, I am a professional.”

“Har, har.”

“No joke. In college, I knew the chances of going pro weren’t great, and the risk of an injury that could end my career early was super high.

So, I majored in sports medicine and got an Associate of Science in massage therapy.

Paid the bills through college and earned points with the ladies I dated.

” On cue, another moan escapes as Dalton focuses on a knot between my shoulder blades.

“Point taken,” I mutter, realization creeping into the relaxed haze. “This is what you wanted to ask the manager about.”

“It took some sweet-talking, but she agreed as long as we didn’t let it slip that I worked on you. Oh, and I had to promise her no sex in the private room. This is not a ‘happy endings’ kind of establishment.”

I snort, “Well, that’s disappointing.”

Dalton’s hands stall for a moment, and I smile into the headrest. “You have no idea how disappointing, forty-eight.”

We lapse into a comfortable silence as Dalton works magic over my aching body, kneading out kinks I didn’t know existed.

Damn, this feels good. It feels far too soon when he instructs me to roll over, stepping toward my feet and holding up the sheet so I have privacy.

It’s all so methodical and disarming. Steve’s massages were a few pinching shoulder squeezes, then right for the boob grab like a less than half ass job entitled him to sex.

But this, Dalton touching me in a professional way, allowing me the privacy to stay covered, especially after just giving me one of, if not the best, orgasms I’ve ever had, is both sexy as hell and startlingly appreciated.

“Thank you,” I murmur, rolling face up as he lets the sheet settle back down. “I’m sure the other guy is excellent at his job, but this is easier… with you. The few massages I’ve had were always with women.”

“That’s understandable. Most women aren’t comfortable with a male massage therapist. I was always surprised by how many women clients I had.”

“Says the man who gets panties slipped into his pocket.” I snort.

“That’s only because of the fame. You’d be surprised how many pro athletes deal with that kind of shit. Married or not.”

“True, but it’s not just the job title. You have seen yourself in the mirror, right, Ward? You kind of won the genetic lottery. Like you’re basically a romance cover designer’s wet dream.”

Dalton snorts this time. “So you’re saying I need to grow out my hair and walk around in a leather jacket with no shirt on?”