The Lie. C.L. Taylor
a tender spot under my ankle. I spoke too soon.
“Family history of diabetes?”
I nod my head, astonished.
“And here?” I twitch as he rolls my calf under his hand. “Problems with your lungs?”
I nod again. He must have picked up on the fact I feel like I can’t breathe when I have a panic attack.
“And here?” His fingers dig into the soft, fleshy instep of my right foot. “Digestive problems,” he says, his tone jubilant, and I wince as he presses the same spot again. “Diarrhoea. Food passes right through you.”
“Ummm … not really.”
“Are you sure? Because I can definitely feel some tenderness here.”
“Well, sometimes, I guess.”
“And difficulty sleeping? You suffer from insomnia.”
I shrug. I don’t want to say no. He was doing so well.
“I can sort it.” He continues to knead the sore spot with his fingers. “If we do a couple of sessions a week, you’ll be good in no time. Now, if you’d like to strip down to your knickers, we can get started with your massage. There’s a towel to your right. If you lie on your front and pull that over you, I’ll turn my back. Shout when you’re ready.”
He turns and stands with his back to me, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his shorts. Do I really want his hands all over me? Having a massage from a woman in a beauty salon or spa is one thing, but letting some random man massage you? Kane clears his throat. If I wanted to, I could gather up my clothes and slip out of the shed. I could be back in the house before he even knew I’d left. I glance back at the door, at the thin shaft of sunlight illuminating my blanket bed, and I yank off my T-shirt and shorts and flip over onto my stomach. I pull the towel over me so it covers my knickers.
“Ready?” Kane asks.
“I’m ready,” I say.
The massage stops and the cool breeze from the half-open door tickles the top of my scalp. My limbs are dead weights and my thoughts are jumbled, dancing on the edge of my subconscious as I fight sleep. I part my lips to ask Kane if I should leave now, but I’m so tired I can’t open my eyes.
“Ssssh,” Kane soothes as he places his hands on my shoulders again. He presses the base of his palms into my flesh and circles them around slowly, sliding his hands over my oiled skin, then presses his thumbs into my tight muscles. They click and clunk as he rubs out months of tension, and I groan with relief.
I mentally will him to work on my neck, sore and stiff after four nights sleeping on a thin mattress, but his hands remain on my back – slipping and sliding over my skin, skimming my shoulders. His touch is lighter now, his fingertips barely grazing my body, and a shiver runs through me. It feels sensual, like I am being caressed rather than kneaded, but I don’t fight it. Instead, I wait for him to continue to pound my knotty muscles.
Kane’s hands slip down to the base of my spine and his fingers wrap around my hips then slide over my waist, and I gasp as he strokes the sides of my breasts as his hands travel back to my shoulders. Suddenly I am hyperaware, my body prickling, anticipating where his fingers will go next.
“Sssssh.” His hands move to my shoulders and, as his thumbs rub at the tight knots above my shoulder bones, I force myself to relax again. It was an accident. He didn’t mean to do that. I’m being oversensitive.
His hands slide back down my sides, pausing as they reach the curve of my breasts, and his fingers brush my nipples.
“Kane!” I flip over onto my side, one hand covering my breasts, but Kane isn’t the man massaging me.
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