Two hours into tweeting, my iPhone pings. A text from Mr. Swoonworthy himself.

Did u say u give massages?

I reply.

Yes.

He responds.

I want one now.

Sheesh. It’s almost ten o’clock. I was about to call it quits with the tweeting and get ready for bed. Maybe I should tell him to give himself a testicular massage and then jerk off. That’ll probably have the same relaxation benefits. He sends me another text.

Well…???

In my mind’s eye, I can see the anger on his face. The furrowed brows, the pinched lips. Let him pout. I don’t respond. He wastes no time texting me again.

Do I need to fire u?

GAH! He wouldn’t. He would! Fucking spoiled asshole.

FINE. Shouty caps. I hope he gets the message. I’m not a happy camper.

Ten minutes later, I’m in his living room after schlepping over my massage table and my special aromatherapy oil. Brandon’s on the couch reading what must be a Kurt Kussler script.

“Why aren’t you ready?” I snap.

He looks up from his script. “Should I strip down?”

His words send goosebumps all over me. I’ve never seen him in the buff though I’ve used my imagination when it comes to his ass and equipment. Pure manly perfection!

“No,” I reply, trying to sound as calm as possible. “It’s in my contract. I don’t do you naked. You’ve got to put on some underwear.”

“I don’t do underwear.”

My eyes unconsciously shift to his crotch. That big cock of his (at least I think it’s big) is one zip away. I wonder how really big it is. Nine inches? Ten?

He interrupts my mental calculations. “Fine. I’ll find a pair of boxers. I must own some.”

“Perfect.” I pause. “By the way, in case you don’t remember, I only do vanilla massages.” Unfortunately.

His brows shoot up. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not going to rub your cock and give you an orgasm.”

His brows furrow. “That’s too bad.”

A flutter of heat stirs between my legs. “What do you mean by that?” After asking the question, I’m sorry I did.

He looks at me earnestly. “My cock’s pretty stressed out.”

No more questions. “Ask Katrina to de-stress it.” My voice is thick with sarcasm.

His mouth twists. “Yeah, right.”

I detect attitude. “By the way, how was your dinner with her mother?”

“Stressful. That’s why I need a massage.”

Don’t ask. The less I know the better. “Get ready. I’ll set up my massage table in the meantime.”

Five minutes later, he’s back, clad in adorable purple and white polka dot boxers that hang sexily low on his hips. My heart beating fast, I soak in his bare-chested body. My eyes travel down his gorgeous chiseled chest and land on his crotch. His cock is just a handful away. One could just reach inside the slit of his boxers and own it.

“Get on the table, face down,” I tell him, trying to act professionally. These lewd thoughts are disturbing me. But it’s hardly the first time I’ve had them.

He does as requested, setting his head on the headrest attachment. His long, muscular legs reach almost to the very end of the padded table. I admire his beautiful sculpted back and his broad swimmer’s shoulders. The burning urge to run my hands over every glorious ridge and contour has my heart racing with anticipation.

“Good. I’ll be right back. I’m going to put on some relaxing music. It’ll help you loosen up.”

I tread over to his sound system and make a selection. A vintage compilation of Kenny G’s Greatest Hits. “Loving You” is first up. The sound of the saxophone is slow, smooth, and soothing. Pure perfection. On the way back to the table, I dim the lights and light a scented candle. The atmosphere is just right for a sensuous massage. Or a sensuous fuck.

“Are you ready?” I ask him when I return to the table.

“Yeah. More than ready.”

“Are you cold? I can drape a sheet over you.”

“No. I’m hot. Just get to it.”

Mr. Hot and Bossy. Ms. Hot and Bothered. I bend down and reach into my tote bag for the bottle of aromatherapy oil I’ve brought along. Standing up, I squirt a generous amount on my hands. I place the bottle on the nearby coffee table before rubbing my palms to warm it.

I start with his neck and upper back. That’s where most people feel the most tension. I press my strong, oiled-up hands on his taut flawless flesh and start to knead his muscles, making deep circular motions with my thumbs. My hands melt into his body.

He curses under his breath. “That feels amazing. Where’d you learn to do that?”

“I went to a special training school. I told you I’m a certified massage therapist.”

“Mmm. What smells so good?”

“The oil I’m using. It’s therapeutic. Inhaling it will help you relax faster.”

As I continue to work his back, he takes in a deep breath through his nose and then lets it out with a sensual, drawn out sigh that makes my skin prickle. It’s just like the sound of a man having his cock sucked.

“You’re very knotted up,” I say, working him harder and deeper.

“Tell me about it.”

“Why?” I ask.

“A lot of reasons. The amnesia, the wedding, going back to work. Plus, I have some other major shit I’m dealing with. A crisis.”

“You do have a lot stuff going on,” I agree, wondering what his personal crisis is all about. Something other than his amnesia-induced identity issue?

Applying more pressure, I knead his knots, but they’re not loosening up. “You’re carrying a load of stress in your upper back. If it’s okay by you, I need to straddle you so I can go deeper.”

“Be my guest.”

As the next instrumental piece starts up, I climb onto the table and mount him, my legs straddling his narrow hips. It’s a good thing I’m wearing stretchy yoga pants. Not the most ass-flattering thing I own, but they’re comfy and functional.

The sexy sound of the sax mingles with the soothing lavender scent of the massage oil as I press my fingers deep into his tissues and make circular motions. His skin feels like warm velvet and glistens from the sheen of the oil. My fingertips burn at the touch of his flesh. I’m working up a sweat. As I work him deeper and deeper, leaning into him and using my elbows, my breasts brush against his shimmering flesh. My nipples harden beneath my sports bra. His massage—or should I say my massage?—is arousing me, sending pulsing sensations to my sex. With every rock of my hips, the cluster of nerves between my legs rubs against him, buzzing with my hunger for him. I’m a hot, wet mess. I suppress a moan of my own while he groans.

“Oh, yeah.”

He sounds like a man on the verge of a major orgasm. His low, sexy rumble rouses me further, creating a tremor of excitement in my core. Making my way down his chiseled back, I have the sudden impulse to drag my tongue along the curve of his spine and taste him, then press my lips against his delicious skin and kiss him everywhere. My body is burning with lust. It takes all I have to concentrate on the massage.

“I feel so much better,” he mumbles, his voice muffled.

And I feel flush with fever. Delirious with desire. I’ve gotten out all his knots, but now I’m the one who’s tense, twisted, and on edge. Touching him has made me want to touch myself. And quell the pulsing ache between my thighs.

“Should I turn over?”

“Not yet,” I breathe out, trying to compose myself. “I want to massage your feet.”

I unstraddle him—far from a graceful move—and stagger to the end of the massage table. My heated body is still aflutter. “Bend your right leg.”

He complies wordlessly. After squirting more of the massage oil on my palms, I take his foot into my hands. Painfully aware of my body’s sensations, I admire the length and shape of it—so elegant and manly, and the skin is soft, not calloused. I dig my thumbs deep into the sole, pressing hard against various pressure points.