Chapter 1: The Massage That Shattered Boundaries
The first time Tom saw Gaby in those shorts, he knew he was in trouble.
She was bent over her garden, plucking weeds with the kind of concentration that made her tank top sag just enough to reveal the soft swell of her cleavage. The sun caught the sweat on her neck, glistening like honey, and Tom, leaning against his fence, felt his breath hitch.
He was only nineteen, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what he wanted.
And what he wanted was *her.*
Gaby was the kind of woman who made men forget their own names. She had the kind of curves that didn’t just *exist*—they *commanded* attention.
The way her shorts hugged her thighs, the way her tank top clung to her back when she stretched, the way her laughter spilled out of her like something warm and intoxicating. Tom had seen her a hundred times before, but today, something was different.
Maybe it was the way the sunlight caught the gold in her hair, or the way her bare feet pressed into the damp earth, or the way her lips parted just slightly when she smiled at him from across the yard.
“Morning, Tom,” she called, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “You’re up early.”
He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”
It wasn’t a lie.
Tom had spent half the night staring at his ceiling, his body coiled tight with the kind of restless energy that only came when he thought about her. The way her hips swayed when she walked. The way her voice dropped into a low, soothing hum when she talked about her garden. The way her fingers—long and capable—had once brushed against his arm when she handed him a cup of lemonade, leaving a trail of heat that still burned days later.
He had tried to ignore it. He really had. But then she had started offering massages.
The flyer had appeared on his doorstep three days ago, tucked under the welcome mat like a secret.
*Gaby’s Massage Services – Relaxation Guaranteed.* He had stared at it for hours, tracing the edges with his thumb, imagining her hands—those strong, warm hands—working over his skin. Now, standing in her sunlit massage room, he forced himself to sound casual.
“Actually,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck like he was in pain, “I’ve been needing a massage. My back’s been killing me.”
Gaby smiled, but there was something knowing in her eyes, as if she saw right through him. She gestured to the table, the silk sheet shimmering under the half-drawn curtain. “You’re in luck. I’ve got an opening right now.”
Tom swallowed. This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for. He stepped forward, his pulse hammering in his throat. The air smelled like lavender and something deeper, something musky and warm—her.
Tom’s grin split his face before he could stop it, his arms wrapping around her in a grateful hug. “You’re a lifesaver,” he said, his voice muffled against her shoulder, his hands lingering just a second too long on the small of her back.
Gaby laughed, but there was a breathless edge to it as she patted his shoulder. “Alright, alright—inside with you. Can’t have you collapsing in my garden.” She stepped back, but not before her fingers brushed against his wrist, sending a jolt through him. The way her eyes flicked down to his lips—just for a second—made his stomach tighten.
The massage room was smaller than he expected, the kind of space that made everything feel intimate. The silk sheet on the table shimmered faintly, catching the light from the half-drawn curtain.
Tom stood there, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, his pulse thrumming in his ears. “Uh… what do I do?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.
Gaby turned away, already reaching for the hem of her tank top. “Strip down to your underwear and get under the towel,” she said over her shoulder, her tone matter-of-fact, like she was giving directions to the grocery store. “I’ll be right back—I’m just going to change into something more comfortable.”
Tom’s breath hitched. *Strip down.* The words hung in the air between them, thick and heavy. He watched as she disappeared behind a folding screen in the corner, the sound of fabric rustling sending a fresh wave of heat through him. His fingers fumbled with the hem of his T-shirt, his mind racing. This was really happening. He was actually doing this.
The command had been simple—*down to his underwear*—but something reckless and hungry had taken over the moment he heard the screen slide shut behind her. His fingers had moved on their own, stripping off everything, the cool air kissing his bare skin as he slid beneath the towel. The silk was smooth against his thighs, but the heat pooling in his gut was anything but. He adjusted himself under the fabric, his breath shallow, his pulse a drumbeat between his legs.
Then she stepped out.
Gaby had changed into a tank top so tight it clung to her like a second skin, the thin fabric stretched over her full breasts, the outline of her nipples just visible through the cotton. Her yoga shorts were even worse—high-cut, clinging to the curve of her hips, the fabric pulled taut between her thighs in a way that made his mouth go dry.
Tom had always known she was beautiful, but this was different. This was *intimate*. This was the kind of closeness that made his skin hum with anticipation.
She seemed like a good person—warm, trusting, the kind of woman who would never suspect a nineteen-year-old boy of having anything but innocent intentions. And Gaby didn’t. She walked over to the table with a smile, her fingers already slick with oil, the scent of lavender wrapping around them both like a promise.
“Alright, let’s get you relaxed,” she said, her voice soft, her hands hovering over his bare shoulders. “Just breathe.”
Tom did. He breathed in the scent of her—lavender and something sweeter, something that made his head spin. He breathed in the heat of her body, the way her breath hitched just slightly when her fingers first made contact with his skin.
Face down, he felt the weight of her palms pressing into his shoulders, her thumbs working slow, deliberate circles into the tight knots of his back.
Gaby had always been good with her hands—strong, sure, the kind of touch that could coax tension out of muscles like water from a stone. But this was different. This was *him*. Young, warm, his skin smooth under her fingers, the way his breath hitched when she leaned in just a little too close. She could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his body tensed and then melted under her touch, the way his fingers curled into the silk sheet beneath him.
“You’re tight,” she murmured, her voice low, almost a whisper. “You’ve been carrying a lot of stress, huh?”
Tom didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. The way her hands moved over him—firm, unhurried—was making it hard to think.
Then, without warning, her thumb slipped, dragging a slick streak of oil across his lower back. A gasp escaped her, her fingers freezing mid-motion. "Oh—" she breathed, staring at the dark stain now spreading across the front of her white tank top. The fabric clung to her, the oil making it nearly transparent where it had soaked through.
Tom’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even dared to shift beneath her touch, but now he couldn’t help it—his body arched slightly, just enough to make the towel slip dangerously low on his hips. The air between them thickened, the scent of lavender and something far more primal filling the small room. Gaby’s fingers hovered over his skin, her pulse visible in the hollow of her throat.
"Sorry," she murmured, her voice softer now, almost breathless. "I’ll get a towel—" But she didn’t move.
Instead, her laughter bubbled up, warm and unguarded, as she wiped at the oil smear on her tank top with the back of her hand. "God, you’re my *first* client. I didn’t even think about the mess factor."
Tom grinned against the silk sheet, his shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "Guess that makes me special," he said, his voice muffled but playful. "Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you’re still figuring this out."
Gaby exhaled, her posture relaxing as she leaned forward just enough for her fingers to resume their slow, deliberate circles along his spine. "You’re too kind," she teased, her tone light but her touch growing more confident with each stroke. "But if you *do* tell anyone, I’ll deny it and say you made the whole thing up."
The tension in the room shifted—no longer charged with awkwardness, but something warmer, something almost *intimate*.
Gaby’s fingers stilled for just a moment, her voice softening as she leaned closer, her breath brushing the back of his neck. "Actually," she admitted, her tone conspiratorial, "I’m *glad* you’re my first client. Someone I knew and trusted. It makes it... easier." Her fingers pressed deeper into his shoulders, kneading with slow, deliberate pressure. "Besides, if I messed up, I’d rather it be with you than some stranger."
Tom exhaled sharply, his body melting further into the table. The way she said it—so casual, so *trusting*—made his chest tighten. He wanted to tell her the truth: that he wasn’t just some random client, that he’d been watching her for months, that the way she moved, the way she *laughed*, had been driving him half-mad. But he couldn’t. Not yet.
She had to keep this professional. But the way his muscles tensed under her hands—like he was holding his breath—made her pulse quicken. The oil had soaked through her top, the fabric clinging to her in ways that were suddenly, *painfully* obvious. She should change. She *should*. But something stopped her.
"Alright," she said, her voice lighter than she felt, "let's get serious. How's your *love life*?" The words slipped out before she could stop them, playful and teasing, but the moment they hung in the air between them, she realized her mistake. The question was too intimate. Too *personal*. Too much like the kind of thing a woman might ask a man she was *actually* interested in.
Tom's breath hitched. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, before he finally answered. "Uh. It's...
complicated," Tom finally managed, his voice rough with something that wasn't just embarrassment. The way his shoulders tensed under her hands made Gaby's fingers pause mid-motion.
She laughed - a warm, throaty sound that filled the small massage room like sunlight through the curtains - and gave his shoulder a playful shove. "Come on, you can tell me," she teased, her voice dropping to that low, conspiratorial tone that made everything feel like a secret between them. "The girls must love your muscles."
Tom exhaled sharply, his breath hitching as her fingers traced the curve of his shoulder blade. The way she said it - so casual, so *knowing* - made his stomach clench. He could feel the heat of her body leaning over him, the way her tank top still clung to her curves from the oil spill, the way her breath brushed against his neck when she laughed.
His fingers curled into the silk beneath him, fighting the urge to reach back and pull her closer. "They *somewhat* do," he admitted, his voice rough with something that wasn’t just embarrassment. "But I’m… bad at talking to girls." The words came out in a rush, like he’d been holding them in for years.
Gaby’s hands stilled on his back, her thumb pressing into a knot near his shoulder blade. "Oh?" she said, her tone light but curious. "Why’s that?" Before he could answer, she added, "And don’t give me that ‘I’m shy’ nonsense. You’re *nineteen*. You should be out there charming the pants off someone."
Tom exhaled sharply, his body tensing under her touch. "It’s not that," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "It’s just… I don’t know.
You’re married," Tom said suddenly, his voice low and rough as Gaby’s fingers worked the tight muscles between his shoulder blades. "Doesn’t that ever get… complicated?"
The question hung in the air between them, thick and unexpected. Gaby’s hands stilled for just a second, her breath catching in her throat. The oil on her fingers glistened in the dim light as she hesitated, her mind racing. *Complicated?* That was one way to put it. But Tom wasn’t just asking about marriage—he was asking about *her*. About the way she moved through the world like a woman who had everything figured out, when in reality, she was still figuring it out herself.
She exhaled slowly, her fingers resuming their slow, deliberate circles along his back. "It’s… not what you think," she admitted, her voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.
The oil on her palms had warmed to the temperature of her skin, her fingers moving in slow, rhythmic circles along his spine. "Marriage is good. Really good. But when he’s gone for weeks on end—" She paused, her breath hitching just slightly. "Well. Sometimes the house feels too quiet."
Tom’s body tensed under her touch, but not from discomfort. The way she said it—like it was something she’d never admitted out loud before—made his pulse quicken. He turned his head just enough to catch her profile in the dim light: the way her lips parted slightly, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. She was still leaning over him, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her skin, close enough that if he reached up, he could—
No.
But the thought alone sent a jolt through him.
He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the edge of the silk sheet. "Gaby—" he started, his voice rough with something he couldn’t name.
She cut him off with a laugh, her fingers pressing deeper into his shoulders as she leaned in. "Turn around," she said, her voice light but firm. "Towel stays *right* where it is." There was a teasing edge to her words, but something else too—something that made his pulse spike. The way her eyes flicked down to where the fabric clung to his hips, the way her breath hitched just slightly when she pulled back.
Tom exhaled sharply, his body obeying before his brain could catch up. The silk sheet shifted as he rolled onto his back, the towel slipping dangerously low but still clinging to his waist. The cool air brushed against his bare chest, but the heat pooling in his gut was anything but.
He turned his head just slightly, his breath catching when he saw her standing by his head, her hands still slick with oil, her tank top clinging to her in ways that made his pulse stutter. His eyes flicked down—just for a second—before he forced himself to look up at her face, but the damage was done. The way her nipples pressed against the thin fabric, the way the oil made the cotton nearly transparent, the way her breath hitched when she realized where his gaze had wandered—all of it burned itself into his memory.
Gaby’s fingers stilled mid-motion, her cheeks flushing pink as she caught his stare. She should have been annoyed, should have scolded him for looking, but the way his eyes darkened when they met hers—like he was seeing her for the first time—made her pulse skip. She exhaled slowly, her fingers pressing into the tight muscles of his shoulders, her voice low and teasing.
"You know, when I said 'underwear,' I meant *actual* underwear. Not... whatever this is." Her eyes flicked down, just for a second, taking in the way the towel clung to his hips, the way his skin flushed under her touch.
Tom’s breath hitched. He hadn’t even realized—had been too lost in the heat of her hands, the way her voice had dropped when she talked about her husband being away. "Sorry," he muttered, his voice rough. "I must’ve forgotten."
Gaby laughed, but there was something breathless about it, something that made the air between them feel charged. "You’re terrible," she said, shaking her head, but her fingers didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop tracing slow, deliberate circles along his collarbone. "But fine. We’ll let it slide. This time."
Tom swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his throat.
The way her fingers moved over his skin—slow, deliberate, *intimate*—made it impossible to think straight. When she asked, "So, what's your favorite position?" her voice was casual, teasing, like she was just making conversation. But the way her eyes flicked down to where the towel barely clung to his hips made his breath catch.
"Uh—" He hesitated, his mind racing. *Soccer?* Was that what she meant? Or—his stomach tightened—*sex?* Before he could overthink it, the words tumbled out: "When you're on all fours." The moment they left his lips, he wanted to take them back. Gaby's laughter filled the room, warm and unguarded, her fingers pressing into his shoulders as she shook her head. "Not what I meant," she said, but there was a breathless edge to it, like she was fighting a smile. "I meant soccer.
I swear." Tom's fingers dug into the silk sheet beneath him, his voice rough with embarrassment as the words tumbled out. The confession hung between them, awkward and exposed, but then something shifted in his expression - a flicker of recklessness, a spark of boldness that made his pulse quicken. He turned his head just enough to meet her gaze, his dark eyes burning with something that wasn't just apology. "But since we're being honest..." His voice dropped lower, rougher, as he let the question hang in the air between them like a challenge. "What's *yours*?"
The question caught Gaby off guard, her fingers freezing mid-stroke on his shoulder. The oil had warmed to the temperature of her skin, her hands slick against his bare chest as she processed what he'd just asked. Her breath hitched, her lips parting slightly as she stared down at him.
The oil on her fingers glistened in the dim light, catching the faintest shimmer of gold from the half-drawn curtains. She laughed, but it was a nervous, breathless sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I can’t tell you that," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if the words themselves were too dangerous to say aloud.
Tom’s fingers curled into the silk sheet beneath him, his pulse hammering in his throat. The way her eyes flicked down to where the towel barely clung to his hips—how her breath hitched when she realized where his gaze had wandered—made his stomach tighten. He swallowed hard, his voice rough with something he couldn’t name. "Why not?" he asked, his tone playful but laced with something deeper, something that made the air between them feel charged.
Gaby exhaled slowly, her fingers pressing deeper into the muscles of his shoulders, her voice soft but firm.
"Why do you want to know?" she asked, her laughter warm but her eyes sharp, watching him with a mix of curiosity and something else—something that made his pulse quicken. The oil on her hands had warmed to the temperature of her skin, her fingers slick against his bare chest as she leaned in just a little closer, her breath brushing against his neck. "You’re *nineteen*, Tom. You should be asking girls your own age about their favorite positions."
The question hung between them, thick and heavy, the air in the small massage room suddenly charged with something unspoken. Tom’s fingers curled into the silk sheet beneath him, his voice rough with something he couldn’t name. "I don’t want to ask *them*," he admitted, his gaze locked on hers, unflinching. "I want to ask *you*."
Gaby’s breath hitched, her fingers stalling mid-motion on his shoulder.
The oil had warmed to the temperature of her skin, slick against his bare chest as she processed what he’d just asked. Then, before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out—
*Fine. She says. She likes missionary. To look into their eyes.*
The admission hung between them, thick and unexpected. She hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t meant to *admit* it. But the way Tom’s fingers tightened around the silk sheet, the way his pulse jumped in his throat, made her stomach flip.
*Why did she say that?*
She should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve teased him about being too young to understand. But the way his dark eyes locked onto hers—intense, unblinking—made her pulse race. The air between them felt charged, the scent of lavender and something far more primal wrapping around them like a secret.
Gaby laughed, the sound rich and unguarded, her fingers still pressed into the tight muscles of his shoulders. "Well, actually," she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I like being on all fours while they slap my ass."
The words hung between them, thick and unexpected, the oil on her fingers glistening in the dim light as she held his gaze, daring him to react. Tom’s breath hitched, his fingers curling tighter into the silk sheet beneath him. The image her words painted—her on her hands and knees, her back arched, the sound of skin meeting skin—made his pulse roar in his ears. He swallowed hard, his voice rough when he finally spoke. "Jesus, Gaby."
She smirked, her thumb pressing into the knot between his shoulder blades with deliberate pressure. "What?
No—" The word died on Gaby's lips as her fingers stilled against Tom's shoulder, her breath catching in her throat. The towel had shifted—just slightly—when he'd turned onto his back, and now there was no mistaking the thick, unmistakable outline pressing against the thin fabric. *Oh my God.* Her pulse hammered in her ears, her gaze locked on the way the towel tented upward, the shape of him straining against the silk, the sheer *size* of it making her stomach clench. She had touched men before—her husband, a few others—but this? This was *nothing* like she’d expected. The heat of him radiated through the fabric, the way it twitched under her stare sending a jolt straight between her thighs.
Tom’s breath hitched as he realized what she was staring at, his fingers digging into the silk beneath him. He should have been embarrassed.
Should have jerked the towel back up, stammered some awkward apology, and pretended this was all just some terrible misunderstanding. But instead, Tom just lay there, his breath shallow, his fingers still curled into the silk beneath him, his pulse hammering in his throat. "Shit," he muttered, his voice rough with something that wasn't quite regret. "I—I didn't mean for that to—"
Gaby didn’t move. Didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink.
The oil on her fingers had gone cold, her hands frozen mid-stroke on his shoulder, her gaze locked on the way the towel clung to him—tight, *revealing*, the thick outline of him straining against the fabric in a way that made her stomach clench. The air between them had thickened, the scent of lavender and something far more primal wrapping around them like a secret.
Tom’s fingers tightened around the silk sheet beneath him, his pulse hammering in his throat as he watched Gaby’s gaze linger on the way the towel clung to him.
*"Gaby,"* he said, his voice low and raw, *"I need your help with something."*
Her eyes flicked up to his, her fingers still frozen mid-stroke on his shoulder. The oil on her palms had gone cold, her breath catching in her throat as she processed the weight of his words. *"Help?"* she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes darting back down to where the towel tented upward, the thick outline of him straining against the fabric.
Tom exhaled sharply, his fingers curling tighter into the silk beneath him. *"Yeah,"* he admitted, his voice rough with something that wasn’t just embarrassment.
*"I need your help with something."* His fingers tightened around the silk sheet beneath him, his pulse hammering in his throat as he watched her eyes flicker down again to where the towel barely clung to his hips. *"A hand job."* The words hung between them, thick and heavy, the air in the small massage room suddenly charged with something unspoken.
Gaby’s breath caught, her fingers stalling mid-stroke on his shoulder. The oil on her palms had gone cold, her gaze locked on the way the towel strained against him—tight, *revealing*, the thick outline of him making her stomach clench. She should have laughed it off. Should have scolded him for being so bold. But the way his dark eyes burned into hers—unflinching, *daring*—made her pulse race. The scent of lavender and something far more primal wrapped around them like a secret.
Gaby’s fingers stilled on Tom’s shoulder, her breath catching in her throat as she stared down at the way the towel barely clung to his hips. *She said she couldn’t, but he convinced her to—*
"Tom, you can’t—" she started, her voice barely above a whisper, but he cut her off with a single, desperate look.
"Please," he said, his voice rough with need, his fingers tightening around the silk sheet beneath him. "Just this once. I won’t tell anyone.
The way he said it—so raw, so *honest*—made her stomach clench. She should have pulled away. Should have told him no. But the way his dark eyes burned into hers, the way his breath hitched when she hesitated, made her pulse race.
The oil on her fingers had warmed to the temperature of her skin, slick against his bare chest as she exhaled slowly, her hesitation lingering in the air between them like a secret. Then, before she could stop herself, her hand lowered—slowly, deliberately—until her fingertips brushed against the silk where it clung to him, the heat of him radiating through the fabric in a way that made her stomach clench.
Tom’s breath caught in his throat, his fingers tightening around the sheet beneath him as her touch sent a jolt through his body. The way her fingers traced the outline of him—gentle, unhurried—made his pulse hammer in his ears, the air between them thick with something unspoken. "Gaby—" he started, but the word died on his lips as her fingers curled around the edge of the towel, her touch feather-light against his skin.
She should have stopped.
Should have pulled away. But the way his dark eyes burned into hers—raw, desperate, *begging*—made her fingers tighten around the edge of the towel. With a slow, deliberate tug, she peeled it away, revealing the full length of him—thick, flushed, straining against his stomach in a way that made her breath catch. *Nineteen years old,* she thought, her pulse hammering in her throat, *and already built like this.*
Her fingers wrapped around him before she could overthink it, her palm slick with oil as she gave him a slow, testing stroke. Tom’s breath hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking upward into her touch, his fingers digging into the silk beneath him. The way his cock pulsed in her grip—hot, heavy, *alive*—sent a shockwave through her body, her nipples tightening under her tank top. *This was wrong.* She knew that.
The way his hips lifted into her touch, the way his breath hitched when she tightened her grip—it was intoxicating. The oil made her fingers glide effortlessly, and she watched, fascinated, as his cock pulsed in her palm, slick and flushed. A low groan escaped him, his fingers digging into the silk beneath him, and Gaby felt a rush of satisfaction—no, *pride*—at the way she could make him feel this way.
Her thumb circled the head, spreading the oil in slow, deliberate strokes, and Tom’s body shuddered beneath her. “Fuck,” he gasped, his voice rough with need. “Gaby—” His hips bucked again, his cock twitching in her grip, and she could feel the tension coiling in his muscles, the way his entire body was wound tight like a spring.
*Twice the size of her husband.* The thought hit her like a punch to the gut, her fingers tightening around him instinctively. Her husband had never been small, but this—this was *different*. The weight of him in her palm, the way his length stretched beyond where her fingers could fully close, the thick veins pulsing under her touch—it was overwhelming in the best way. She stroked him completely, from base to tip, her fingers slick with oil, and Tom’s breath came out in a ragged groan, his hips lifting off the table.
Her thumb swirled over the head, spreading the oil in slow, deliberate circles, and she felt him throb in her grip. “God, you’re—” he gasped, his voice breaking, his fingers clawing at the silk beneath him.
Her fingers stilled around the thick base of him, her breath catching in her throat as his words hung between them, raw and unfiltered. *Taste me.* The command sent a jolt through her, her pulse hammering in her ears as she stared down at the flushed head of his cock, slick with oil and precome, twitching under her touch. Should have laughed it off, scolded him for being so bold, reminded him that she was married—that this was wrong. But the way his dark eyes burned into hers, the way his breath hitched when she hesitated—*God, the way he looked at her*—made her stomach clench with something that wasn’t just guilt.
She nodded slowly.
The movement was almost imperceptible, just a slight dip of her chin, but the air between them shifted instantly.
Gaby’s lips parted, her breath warm against the flushed head of his cock as she leaned in, the oil on her fingers glistening in the dim light. She could smell him—musky and clean, with that faint, intoxicating scent of youth—and her pulse hammered in her throat as she opened her mouth, her tongue darting out just enough to taste the salty-sweet precome beading at the tip.
Then his hand was on her.
Not gentle. Not hesitant. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her ass through the thin fabric of her shorts, pulling her forward with a possessiveness that made her gasp. The heat of his palm seared through the cotton, his grip firm enough to leave marks, and Gaby *loved* it. A shiver ran down her spine, her nipples tightening against the damp fabric of her tank top as she let out a breathless, needy sound.
The oil had made her fingers slick, and she could feel the heat of him pulsing against her palm, thick and heavy and *alive* in her grip. But the way his dark eyes burned into hers—raw, desperate, *begging*—made her fingers tighten around him.
"Get naked," he demanded, his voice rough with need, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass through the thin fabric of her shorts. "And give me the blow job I’ve been dreaming about." The words hung between them, thick and heavy, the air in the small massage room suddenly charged with something unspoken.
Gaby didn’t hesitate.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the hem of her tank top, pulling it over her head in one swift motion. The cool air brushed against her bare skin, her nipples hardening into tight peaks as she tossed the fabric aside.
Tom’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening around the base of his cock as he took in the sight of her—full, heavy breasts with rosy nipples that begged to be touched, her waist dipping in before flaring into the soft curves of her hips. *Fuck.* He’d fantasized about this, but the reality was so much better. Before she could react, his hand shot out, palming one of her breasts with rough possessiveness. His thumb circled her nipple, and she gasped, her back arching into his touch.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her thong, shimmying out of it in one fluid motion. The fabric slid down her thighs, and she stepped out of it, leaving her completely exposed to him. The way his eyes darkened as they locked onto her bare pussy—slick and swollen—sent a rush of heat through her. She should have been embarrassed. Should have covered herself.
But the second Tom’s tongue traced her nipple—hot, wet, *insistent*—Gaby’s entire body arched into him with a shuddering gasp. The oil on her fingers had gone cold, forgotten, as his mouth closed around her, his teeth grazing just enough to send a jolt straight between her thighs. *"Fuck—"* she breathed, her nails digging into his shoulders. The taste of her own arousal was still on his lips from when she’d straddled his face earlier, and now he was using that same wicked tongue to tease her nipple into a throbbing peak, his free hand kneading her other breast like he owned it.
Tom groaned against her skin, the vibration making her whimper. He’d spent *weeks* imagining this—her bare and trembling above him, her breath coming in ragged little pants, her fingers tangled in his hair as he worshipped her—but the reality was so much better.
The way her full breasts swayed with every movement, the way her hips rolled forward like she couldn’t help but grind against him, the way her lips parted on a breathy moan when his tongue flicked over her nipple—*fuck*, he was going to lose it before she even got started.
Gaby’s mouth closed around him, hot and wet and *perfect*, and Tom’s entire body jerked like he’d been struck by lightning. Her lips stretched obscenely around his girth, her tongue swirling over the head in slow, deliberate circles, and he groaned, his fingers tightening in her hair. *Deep throat him.* The words echoed in her mind, a challenge she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for. She’d never done it before—never even *tried*—but the way his cock pulsed against her tongue, the way his breath hitched when she took him deeper, made her stomach clench with something that wasn’t just pride.
*I want to feel you inside me.* The thought hit her like a shockwave, her fingers tightening around the base of him as she pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. His dark eyes burned into hers, wild and desperate, and before she could overthink it, the words tumbled out: *"Fuck me. From behind. On all fours."*
Tom’s breath caught in his throat, his fingers tangling in her hair as he stared up at her. The oil had made her lips slick, her mouth still stretched obscenely around him, and the way she looked at him—*begging*, *demanding*—sent a jolt straight to his cock. He didn’t hesitate. With a growl, he pulled her up by the hips, spinning her around before she could react.
The massage table creaked under their weight as she braced herself on all fours, her full breasts swaying beneath her, the oil still glistening on her skin. Tom didn’t even think about the condom. The sight of her—ass raised, pussy glistening, her breath coming in ragged gasps—made his brain short-circuit. All he knew was the heat of her, the way she arched her back when his fingers dug into her hips, the way her voice dropped to a desperate whisper: *"Yes, like that—"*
His cock slid against her folds, slick with her arousal and the remnants of oil, and he groaned at how wet she was. No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just the raw, animal need to be inside her.