Chapter 1: Trent's Arrival
Friday arrived with the slow, lazy heat of late summer. The apartment complex pool sat shimmering under a high sun, its water a turquoise invitation that Kortney couldn't resist. She stretched out on a lounge chair, her eyes closed behind oversized sunglasses, feeling the warmth settle into her skin like a familiar friend.
Her phone buzzed against the plastic armrest. She glanced at it, smiling when she saw Joe's name.
Running late, babe. Tire blowout on Meridian. You know how it is.
She typed back quickly: No worries. Trent should be here any minute for my massage. Pool is amazing, wish you were here.
Me too. Don't let him talk you into anything weird.
Kortney laughed out loud, her chest shaking pleasantly. She typed: He's a professional, Joe. You're such a worrywart.
The message sent and she set the phone aside, her eyes drifting closed again. The sun felt like a warm blanket. She was dozing lightly when she heard footsteps on the concrete.
"Kortney?"
She lifted her sunglasses, squinting against the glare. Trent stood at the edge of the pool area, a black duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He was tall, lean, with dark hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck. His smile was easy, his eyes a shade of hazel that caught the light like a cat's.
"Hey," she said, waving him over. "You found the place okay?"
He walked closer, his gaze sweeping over her with what she assumed was professional assessment. "GPS did the trick. You look comfortable."
"Honestly, I could stay here forever." She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the lounge chair. "You want to set up in the living room? It's got the most space."
"Perfect." He paused, his eyes lingering for a just a beat too long on her body. "You ready for this? I've got a pressure point technique that'll work wonders on those knots you mentioned."
"God, yes. My shoulders have been killing me from all the lifting at the hospital." She stood, running a hand over the back of her neck. "I'll just grab a quick rinse off and then we can start."
The shift from poolside to her apartment felt natural. She had trusted Trent with her body many times before. He was a licensed massage therapist, recommended by her friend Dana, and he had the hands of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Kortney never thought twice about it. He was professional. He was kind.
And she was blissfully unaware of the way his gaze followed her when she walked ahead of him into the apartment.
Inside, the air was cool, scented with the eucalyptus candle she kept on the coffee table. She grabbed a towel from the bathroom, pausing to look at herself in the mirror. Her hair was damp from the pool, her skin bronzed from the sun. She adjusted her bikini top, making sure everything was in place, then wrapped the towel around her waist and stepped out.
Trent had already set up the massage table in the center of the living room. White sheets were pulled tight, and the faint smell of lavender oil hung in the air. His duffel bag sat open on the floor, revealing an array of bottles and tools that spoke to his craft.
"Alright," she said, her voice cheerful. "I'm all yours."
"Great." He patted the table with an easy grin. "Hop on, face down. I'll give you a minute to get settled."
Kortney glanced around the room. "Do you mind if I just wear my towel? I usually go topless for these, but—"
"Whatever you're comfortable with," he said smoothly. "I can adjust the pressure through the fabric."
She bit her lip. "Actually, it's better without. You know, the oil and everything." She laughed, a little self-conscious. "I'm being silly. You've seen it all before, right?"
Trent's smile didn't waver. "It's my job, Kortney. Nothing I haven't seen a hundred times."
That settled it. She untied her bikini top, sliding the straps off her shoulders and pulling the fabric away. Her breasts were heavy and full, a perfect 38D that she had always been a little self-conscious about. She climbed onto the table, lying face down, and adjusted herself so her face fit into the cutout at the headrest.
"Alright," she murmured into the cushion. "Ready."
Trent approached the table, his footsteps quiet on the hardwood floor. She felt his hands settle on her shoulders, warm and confident. His thumbs pressed into the taut muscle there, rolling in slow circles.
"God, you're tense," he observed. "How many hours have you been working?"
"Forty last week. It's been crazy." She let out a soft sigh as his fingers worked their way down her spine. "That feels amazing."
"Just breathe through it," he murmured. "Let me do the work."
She fell into a rhythm, her breathing slowing as his hands moved with practiced skill. He worked the knots out of her upper back, then her shoulders, his palms gliding over her skin with the help of scented oil. It was good. It was exactly what she needed.
"Your legs are absolutely perfect, you know," he said, his voice low and easy. "I've massaged hundreds of women, and honestly, yours are some of the best I've seen."
Heat rose to her cheeks. She laughed, embarrassed. "You say that to all your clients."
"I do not." He laughed with her, but there was something in his tone that gave her pause. A note of sincerity that caught her off guard. "I'm a professional, Kortney. I don't compliment people for the sake of it. If I see something worth praising, I say it."
Her heart fluttered, a strange and unbidden sensation. She pushed the feeling away, chalking it up to a lack of caffeine.
By the time he moved to her thighs, she was drifting, her limbs heavy and loose. His hands kneaded the firm muscle high on her inner thigh, and she felt a jolt of electricity pass through her body.
"Sorry," he said immediately, pulling back slightly. "I need to get deeper into the muscle group."
"It's fine," she murmured, her voice thick with relaxation. "You know what you're doing."
His fingers pressed in again, and this time, when the shock of pleasure raced up her spine, she didn't stop him. It felt too good, his touch confident and certain. She was dimly aware of the blood rushing in her ears.
"Your glutes are definitely tight," he continued, his voice a low rumble. "The piriformis muscle holds so much tension. If I don't release it, it can cause sciatica."
"Okay," she breathed. "Do your thing."
He paused. "I need you to remove your towel for this next part. The fabric obstructs the pressure."
She hesitated. "Completely?"
"Just the top layer. You can keep your panties on." He paused, then added, "Or not. It's up to you."
She bit her lip, thinking about the way his hands had already felt on her body. There was a part of her that knew this was crossing a line, but another part, a more primal part, didn't care. The massage had awakened something in her she didn't want to name.
"Okay," she said, shifting underneath him. "I'll take it off."
She reached back and untied the knot at her waist, pulling the towel free. It slid away, leaving her in just her bikini bottoms, her pale skin glowing in the soft light of the living room.
"Perfect," Trent murmured, his hands already moving to her lower back. "Now let me work on those stubborn muscles."
His fingers found the fabric of her bikini bottoms, gripping the elastic waistband. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled them down, just enough to expose the top of her ass.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
She should have said no. She should have stopped him. But her body felt like it was melting into the table, her mind clouded with an unfamiliar heat.
"Yeah," she breathed. "It's fine."
His hands moved over her skin, kneading the full globes of her ass with a confidence that made her toes curl. His thumbs pressed into the center, finding the knot of tension and working it in slow, agonizing circles.
"You have the perfect shape," he said, his voice reverent. "A round, shapely ass like this is rare."
She laughed, muffled by the cushion. "You're such a flirt."
"I'm just telling you what I see." His hands slid lower, fingers brushing against the damp fabric of her underwear. "You're dripping, Kortney. Did you know that?"
Her breath caught in her throat. "That's... you're touching me where you shouldn't."
"Am I?" He moved his fingers in a slow circle over her clit, still covered by the fabric. "Because you're not telling me to stop."
She should have. She should have stopped him and run for the door. But the sensation felt so good, and the part of her brain that was still functioning whispered that it was just a professional massage. That this was part of the technique.
"Trent," she gasped, her hips arching against his hand.
"Shh," he soothed. "I'm going to take care of you. Just relax."
His fingers hooked under the edge of her panties and pulled them down. She lifted her hips without thinking, letting him slide them off. As he tossed them aside, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror that stood in the corner of the room.
She could see herself, face-down on the table, her breasts spilling out from under her chest, her naked ass raised toward him. The sight sent a shudder through her body.
"Spread your legs for me," he instructed softly. "I need to reach the inner thigh."
She obeyed, opening her legs wider. His hands moved with a new purpose, sliding up her thighs until his fingers brushed against her entrance. She was soaked, embarrassingly so, and the moment he touched her, she let out a strangled moan.
"You feel that?" he murmured. "Your body is telling me exactly what it needs."
His middle finger slid inside her, curling against the spongy spot that made her gasp. He moved in a rhythm, slow at first, then faster, his thumb pressing against her clit with a skill that made her arch off the table.
"I need—" she gasped, unable to finish.
"I know what you need." He added a second finger, stretching her, and she cried out. "I've wanted to touch you like this since the moment we met. Kortney, your body is a work of art."
She was coming, her climax crashing over her in waves, and she felt a shameful, intoxicating thrill at his words. Her legs shook, her hands gripping the edges of the table as she rode out the orgasm.
"Good girl." He withdrew his fingers, and she heard him unbuckling his belt. "Now, I think you're ready for the next lesson."
Dazed, she pushed herself up on her elbows, looking back at him. He had shed his pants, and his cock stood erect, thick and imposing. She stared at it, a wave of both terror and excitement washing through her.
"It's educational," he said, a smirk playing at his lips. "Trust me. I know what I'm doing."
"No," she said, her voice weak. "I shouldn't."
But even as the words left her lips, she felt her mouth water. He stepped closer, pressing the tip against her lips.
"Open up, nurse," he said, his tone gentler now. "Let me show you how much your body deserves this."
Her resolve crumbled like dry parchment. She parted her lips, and he slid inside. The taste of him was salty and heady, and she heard him groan her name like a prayer.
"Good," he breathed, his hand threading through her hair. "That's it. Take it all."
She felt his cock hit the back of her throat, and she gagged slightly, but he held her there, unyielding. His hips moved faster, controlling the rhythm as she gripped his thighs.
"I'm going to come," he warned, but he pulled out just in time, his release spraying across her face, white and hot. She blinked, stunned by the sudden rush of liquid covering her cheeks.
He grabbed a towel from the table and wiped her face clean. "You did so well," he praised, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
Before she could catch her breath, he was guiding her to her hands and knees, positioning himself behind her. She heard the crinkle of the condom wrapper, but by the time she registered the sound, he was already sliding into her.
Kortney gasped, her fingers curling into the sheets as he filled her completely. He held still for a moment, letting her adjust, then began to move.
"Look at that," he murmured, his strokes deep and rhythmic. "Your body takes me so well."
She hated herself for how much she enjoyed it, but she couldn't deny the pleasure. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her onto him with each thrust until the sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room.
"I'm going to make you feel things you've never felt before," he promised.
He moved even harder, and she felt herself spiral toward another climax. The pressure built until she shattered, screaming his name into the empty air of the living room. He followed moments later, a rough groan escaping his lips, and she felt the sensation of him finishing before he pulled out.
He leaned over her, kissing the nape of her neck. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"
She couldn't respond. Her legs felt like jelly, her body humming with a strange mixture of contentment and guilt.
"Same time next week?" he asked, his voice light and playful. "Fridays at one?"
She should have said no. She knew she should have said no.
"Okay," she whispered.
He smiled, satisfied, and began packing up his supplies. "Good. I'll see you then, Kortney."
The door clicked shut behind him, and she was left alone on the table, the scent of lavender and sex lingering in the air. She stared at the ceiling, wondering what the hell just happened, and why she had already agreed to let it happen again.
She stared at the ceiling, wondering what the hell just happened, and why she had already agreed to let it happen again.
The white sheets beneath her were rumpled, damp in places she didn't want to think about. The smell of lavender oil hung thick in the air, mixing with something else, something muskier that made her stomach turn. She pushed herself up slowly, her arms trembling, and swung her legs over the side of the table. The towel lay in a heap on the floor where Trent had dropped it. She picked it up, hugged it to her chest, and sat there for a long moment, staring at the closed door.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She blinked at it, the glow of the screen pulling her back to reality. Joe's name lit up the display. A picture of the two of them at the lake last summer, his arm around her shoulder, her laughing at something he'd said.
She let it ring until it stopped.
Then she stood, walked to the bathroom on unsteady legs, and turned the shower on as hot as she could stand. She stood under the spray for a long time, watching the water swirl down the drain, trying to wash the feel of his hands off her skin. But she couldn't. She kept feeling his fingers inside her, his breath in her ear, his weight pressing her into the table.
What had she done?
The shower didn't help. The steam filled the bathroom, fogging the mirror, and she pressed her palms against the cool tile, letting the water pound against her back. She thought about Joe. About his rough hands that worked on engines all day, his laugh that came from deep in his chest, the way he held her when she had a bad shift at the hospital. The man who had been nothing but good to her for three years.
And she had just let another man—a man who had promised to heal her, for Christ's sake—fuck her on the living room table.
The nausea hit her like a wave. She turned off the water, stepped out, and wrapped herself in a towel. Her phone buzzed again from the living room. She padded out, dripping, and picked it up.
Joe: You okay? Not answering your texts.
She stared at the message. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. She typed: Fine. In the shower.
The lie felt like ash in her mouth.
Joe: Good. Heading home now. Picked up dinner. Thai, your favorite.
She closed her eyes. A sob caught in her throat, raw and ugly. She pressed her fist against her mouth, biting down on her knuckles to keep the sound in. He was bringing her Thai food. Her favorite. Because that was the kind of man he was. And she had repaid him by spreading her legs for the first guy who gave her a compliment.
She dressed in a pair of loose leggings and an old t-shirt of Joe's that had a grease stain on the collar. She sat on the couch, hugging a throw pillow, and waited. The apartment felt different now. Smaller, dirtier. The massage table was gone—Trent had packed it up with clinical efficiency—but the memory of what had happened on it lingered in every corner.
The key turned in the lock at 7:42.
Joe walked in carrying a white plastic bag, his face breaking into a smile when he saw her. His work shirt was smudged with oil, his hair a mess, and there was a smudge of grease on his cheek that he hadn't bothered to wash off.
"Hey, babe," he said, setting the bag on the kitchen counter. "You look tired. Everything go okay with Trent?"
She opened her mouth to answer, but the words wouldn't come. Her throat closed up. She sat there, frozen, the pillow clutched to her chest like a shield.
Joe's smile faded. He took a step closer. "Kort? What's wrong?"
"I'm sorry," she whispered. The words came out cracked, barely audible. "Joe, I'm so sorry."
His brow furrowed. Concern flickered in his eyes—then something else, something slower and harder. He walked over, crouched in front of her, and took her hands in his. His palms were rough and calloused, so different from Trent's smooth, oiled hands.
"Talk to me," he said softly. "Whatever it is, we can figure it out."
She looked at him. At his kind, open face. At the trust in his eyes that she had just shattered like a glass against the floor.
"He touched me," she said. "Trent. He touched me and I let him. I let him do things, Joe. I don't know why. I don't know what happened to me."
Joe's grip on her hands tightened. His expression didn't change, but she felt his pulse jump under his skin.
"What things?" His voice was flat. Careful.
She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Everything. He massaged me, and then he just—he kept going. He made me feel good and I couldn't stop. I didn't want to stop. And that's the worst part. I wanted it. I wanted him."
The confession hung in the air between them, ugly and raw. Joe stared at her, his face a mask of controlled emotion. He let go of her hands, stood up slowly, and walked to the kitchen. He stood there with his back to her, gripping the edge of the counter.
"Joe, I'm so sorry," she pleaded. "I don't know what came over me. It was like I wasn't even in my own body."
"Fridays at one," he said quietly. "That's when he comes, right?"
She nodded, even though he couldn't see her. "That's what I agreed to."
Joe was silent for a long moment. When he finally turned around, there was a hard set to his jaw that she had never seen before. His eyes burned with something she couldn't name—anger, hurt, or both.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
"Okay?" she whispered.
He walked back to her, knelt down again, and took her face in his hands. His thumbs wiped her tears away, gently, so gently it made her chest ache.
"We're going to fix this, Kortney," he said, his voice steadier than she deserved. "We're going to fix it together. But you're going to need to be honest with me. Every last detail. And then we're going to figure out what to do about him."
She nodded, a fresh wave of tears spilling down her cheeks. "I'll tell you everything. I promise."
"No more secrets," he said.
"No more secrets," she echoed.
Joe pulled her into his arms, and she buried her face in his chest, breathing in the smell of motor oil and sweat and everything that was safe and familiar. She had made a terrible mistake. But maybe, just maybe, she hadn't lost him yet.