He hisses.

Good. He’s releasing stress. I rub and tug each of his beautiful toes. The truth: I’d rather be sucking them while bringing myself to a toe-curling orgasm with one of my talented hands.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs while I squeeze his little toe.

Silently, I repeat my motions with his other foot. His moans and groans grow louder, and he cusses again under his breath. Foot massage, formally called reflexology, is very powerful. It’s called reflexology because the nerves in your foot connect to all the nerves in your body. What you feel in your feet can be felt elsewhere. There’s even one spot that connects to your genitals. Women, in particular, have reported achieving orgasms when that trigger spot is massaged.

I ask him to flip over. With a groan, he twists onto his back.

Kenny G’s moving rendition of the Titanic theme song filters into my ears and my eyes widen. Make that pop out of their sockets. Holy smoke! His eyes closed, he’s got a Titanic erection. I underestimated it. It’s fucking monstrous! And it’s straining against his boxers, begging to burst through the slit. My breath catches in my throat; my heart beats like a jackrabbit’s. My pussy pulses madly. I’ve seen plenty of hard-ons, but nothing like this. I have a decision to make—let it sail or let it sink. I opt for neither.

The melody of the haunting song plays on. I’ve forgotten how much this song affects me. Auntie Jo and Pops took me to see the epic movie with Jeffrey opening day for my tenth birthday. Little did they know it would end with a drowning. Like Mama’s. In the ocean no less. I bawled my eyes out and made myself sick. So sick I had to stay home from school the next day. The unsung lyrics play in my head:

Every night in my dream

I see you, I feel you.

A surge of emotion overwhelms me. Tears well up in my eyes. I think of Mama. I think of him.

My eyes stay locked on his colossal cock. I want to touch it. Hold it. Stroke it. Possess it. Fill the deep need that’s stealing my breath.

Unable to control myself, my hand descends toward his mega erection. The heat of it, radiating right through the fabric of his boxers, draws me like a moth to a flame. I touch down lightly on it for a heart-stopping second. It stirs, and a soft, throaty “mmm” exits his lips. At the sound of the rumble, my hand jumps off as if it’s been singed. A twinge of guilt is followed by a twitch of his dick.

“Brandon, we’re done.” I barely manage the words. The tangle of emotions I’m feeling is strangling me while the erotic sensations are debilitating me. I’m shaking all over, from my head to my toes. I can’t go on like this.

His eyes blink open. He bolts up to a sitting position and faces me. His lids are hooded, his expression dazed and confused. “What do you mean?”

My eyes quickly shift from the outrageous bulge between his legs to his dreamy face, which looks even more beautiful in the warm glow of the flickering candle. His lush lips are slightly parted and his violet eyes flutter, adjusting to the light. My heart hammers painfully in my chest for the stunning man I can’t have. Touching him has touched me in all the wrong places.

“I mean, time’s up. In our contract, we agreed to a one-hour maximum massage.” I glance down at my watch. It’s way past eleven. “I’ve actually given you extra.” More than you’ll ever know.

“Oh,” he mutters. “I don’t remember that clause.”

Thank goodness for his memory loss. He has no clue I’m bullshitting him. My contract actually calls for me to be at his beck and call 24/7—even on Sunday, my one day off. I’m at his command. But right now, I need to get away from him. Desperately. The combination of touching him physically and this melody touching me emotionally has wreaked havoc on my body. I feel lightheaded and weak, short of breath. I cling to the corners of the massage table, thinking I may faint.

“Brandon, I’ve got to go,” I breathe out. “You need to get off the table.”

Brandon repositions himself, draping his long legs over the edge. Unable to move, I stare at him, memorizing every beautiful feature that basks in the candlelight. The Titanic love song, still playing, tears at my heart, tears me apart. I fight back the tears that are threatening to spill.

“Zoey, help me off the table.”

I don’t move. I don’t respond.

“Zoey…”

I will my unsteady legs to move. Every little step is an effort.

“Just stand up slowly,” I tell him softly, face to face, almost eye to eye. I avert casting my gaze downward.

He stays put. His warm breath heats my cheeks. His gemstone eyes glisten and hold me captive.

“Are you okay? You look like you’re about to cry.”

“I think I’m allergic to that oil I used.” I fake a little smile before a telltale tear escapes.

He tenderly brushes it away with this thumb. “Thank you, Zoey.”

A thank you?

“You helped me with one of the issues I was dealing with.” He looks down. “Enormously.”

My eyes flick to his enormous erection. No way can Brandon Taylor, the sexiest man alive, be suffering from erectile dysfunction. He’s sex on a stick.

Trembling, I look back up at him and mumble one word: “Sure.”

“Do you want to share some wine with me?”

My heart skips a beat. He’s never asked me to share anything except those fries earlier tonight. I glance down again at the mega-tent between his legs and decline. I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust him.

“Brandon, I think what you need is a hot bath.”

His smoldering eyes stay glued on me. “Then, draw one for me.” Another order.

“No.” My voice is shaky. “I don’t do baths.”

“I suppose that clause is in your contract too?” A layer of sarcasm laces his voice.

“Correct.” Another white lie, though personally I’ve never taken one since Mama’s drowning.

Silence. The Titanic theme segues into “Going Home.” My cue.

“Well, I’d better be going.” While I put the bottle of oil back into my tote, he stays put on the massage table.

I move back to the table. I need to fold it up. Except he’s still on it. His bulge hasn’t budged either. “Um, uh, would you please—”

He cuts me off and clasps my hands in his. He raises them close to his lips, so close I can feel his warm breath skim my knuckles. Every nerve inside me is buzzing. His eyes stay on my hands and then they hold me fierce in his gaze.

“Zoey, your hands are magical. And they’re beautiful.”

“Thanks.” My voice is so small I can barely hear myself. It doesn’t help that my racing heart is pounding loudly. I’m sure he can hear it.

“That massage really helped me.”

“I’m glad I could help.” I learned in my massage classes about the power of touch. It can arouse feelings. Even bring back memories. In fact, just a single caress can become a symphony of passion, an unquenchable desire to possess.

“You’ve made me feel something I haven’t felt for a long time.”

My chest is tightening. And my heart’s beating so hard it may burst right through my bra. I force myself not to look down at his straining erection. “Feeling is the gift of touch,” I say softly.

Suddenly, his eyes flutter madly. Like he’s having some kind of seizure.

“Brandon, are you okay?” I ask anxiously. Maybe it’s associated with his head trauma.

A smile curls on his luscious lips. His violet eyes light up. “Yes! I’ve remembered something.”

A sinking feeling eats at me. I’ve aroused both his cock and his memory. He remembers how much he loves Katrina.

“What?” I ask with hesitation.

“The day I hired you.”

My eyes widen with surprise. “You do?”

“Yeah. Like it happened only yesterday. It was raining and you crashed your car into my garage.”

I screw up my face. He’s right! I’ve tried not to think about that little incident. Sometimes forgetting is better than remembering.