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Penelope Featherington hated Easter weekend.
Not the chocolate, mind you. Not the sweet little foil-wrapped eggs or even the dodgy hot cross buns someone always dumped in the staff room. No, what Penelope hated was Easter shoppers—a strange breed of human that descended upon her retail shop like a herd of panicked wildebeasts, each one convinced their last-minute browsing was more important than basic manners.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she repeated for what felt like the thirtieth time that day, “we don’t sell bunny-shaped toasters.”
The man blinked at her like she’d confessed to kicking his nan, then stormed off, muttering about “youth these days” and “nobody wants to work anymore.”
By the time the shutters were down and the tills balanced, Penelope was half-asleep on her feet and silently cursing retail, capitalism, and her own terrible life choices.
Her phone buzzed just as she flopped into a seat on the bus, and she barely glanced at the screen before answering.
“Still breathing?” came Gen’s voice, warm and smug in her ear.
“Barely. I think I’ve aged five years since opening.”
“You deserve sainthood. Or at the very least, a bottle of something strong.”
“I’ve already got the wine,” Penelope groaned, adjusting her bag. “What I need is a new spine. And possibly a transplant for my feet.”
“Well, lucky you,” Gen said brightly. “I’m sending you something even better than new feet: a massage. My treat.”
“What?”
“I’m serious. You’ve been carrying that place for months. You’ve got Tuesday off, haven’t you? Book it in. You deserve it.”
Penelope opened her mouth to argue, but her lower back twinged ominously and she could practically feel her muscles whimpering in agreement.
Moments later, Gen sent a pin and a name: Bridgerton Massage Centre.
Penelope tapped through to the reviews. Five stars. People raving. Clients claiming they floated out the door and slept like babies for a week. Apparently, it was run by some family known locally for their top-tier massage therapy.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Sounds a bit posh,” she muttered.
Still, as her eyes skimmed another glowing review—utter bliss, could’ve kissed the bloke’s hands—Penelope felt her resolve crumble.
Maybe, just this once, she’d let someone else sort her out.
Tuesday was hers, after all.
Tuesday dawned grey and drizzly—because of course it did. Penelope had barely made it through her second cup of tea before the clouds opened properly, and she found herself darting between puddles in her oldest pair of trainers, cursing every cobble of the uneven pavement.
Still, she was determined. No rude customers. No folding jeans into perfect bloody rectangles. No passive-aggressive notes in the staff group chat. Just her, a warm room, and someone else doing all the hard work for once.
Bridgerton Massage Centre was tucked down a quiet side street just off the high road. The kind of place you’d walk past a dozen times and never notice unless someone pointed it out. White frontage, navy trim, and an old-fashioned sign swinging gently in the breeze.
It looked…nice. Classy, but not intimidating.
Penelope hovered at the door for a moment, half-tempted to bolt. She wasn’t good at this sort of thing—treating herself. She always felt like she was playing at being someone else. Someone posh, with a standing appointment and cashmere socks.
Before she could talk herself out of it, the door opened.
“Penelope Featherington?”
She looked up—and promptly forgot how to speak.
The man standing in the doorway was, quite frankly, not what she’d expected. Tall, broad-shouldered, and far too attractive for her already frazzled nerves. His dark brown hair was swept back in a way that looked effortless but probably wasn’t, and his smile was disarmingly warm—like he knew exactly how ridiculous it was to look like that and still make someone feel welcome.
“That’s me,” she managed, adjusting the strap on her shoulder bag.
“Right on time. I’m Colin. Come on in.”
Colin. Of course he had a name like that. Friendly, solid, just a little cheeky. It suited him too well.
The inside of the massage centre was serene—low lights, soft music, the faint scent of lavender and something citrusy. Penelope felt herself begin to unwind just standing in the entrance.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you through,” Colin said, already walking ahead with an easy confidence that suggested he was entirely used to people gawping at him.
Penelope followed, trying not to stare at the line of his shoulders under that navy polo shirt. Definitely not the usual Tuesday.
The treatment room was dimly lit and deliciously warm, with soft instrumental music humming somewhere just beyond the walls. Penelope hovered awkwardly inside the doorway, clutching her bag like a schoolgirl who’d wandered into the wrong classroom.
Colin turned to her with a professional smile—and it really wasn’t fair that his voice had the same effect as his smile. Calm. Low. Friendly. Trustworthy. Dangerous, in a very specific sort of way.
“All right,” he said, hands clasped loosely in front of him. “So before we begin… I’ll request you to take off everything—”
She blinked.
“—your clothes,” he added, eyes twinkling slightly, “and any jewellery. You can pop everything in the little box by the chair. Then just lie down under the sheet, face down to start with. I’ll give you a few minutes.”
She nodded, probably too quickly. “Right. Of course.”
He smiled again, that faint curve that bordered on wicked, then disappeared through a discreet side door with the kind of confidence that only came from being both incredibly good at your job and painfully aware of how attractive you were.
The door clicked shut.
Penelope stood in the middle of the room for a moment, pulse doing something entirely irrational. It was just a massage. People got massages all the time. This was not…whatever this was rapidly becoming in her head.
She peeled off her clothes—carefully folding them, even though no one was watching—and tucked them neatly in the box. Her bra unclipped with a snap that sounded criminally loud in the silence.
She was just about to climb under the sheet when she spotted something on the corner of the table.
Disposable underwear.
Oh.
Right.
She stepped closer, inspecting the crinkled fabric. Barely a scrap of elastic. Slightly papery texture. The sort of thing that looked like it might dissolve on contact with water… or a strong breeze. She hesitated, then slipped it on, biting back a giggle.
It was all a bit ridiculous, really.
And yet…
Her cheeks burned as she slid beneath the sheet, the warm softness of the table cradling her. She tucked her arms in, face pressed into the horseshoe-shaped pillow, trying not to think about how bare she was. About how her skin tingled in anticipation. About how the very idea of Colin’s hands—skilled, strong, large—gliding over her shoulders made something deep in her stomach twist with excitement.
She didn’t know what she’d expected. A gentle-faced woman named Meryl, perhaps. Someone with a calming voice and herbal tea.
She most certainly hadn’t expected a man who looked like a bloody Greek god and had a voice that could melt the lining of your knickers.
Being nearly naked in a closed room with him was…exhilarating. Slightly mortifying. Utterly, deliciously naughty.
And for the first time in weeks, Penelope Featherington felt alive.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
“Are you ready, Miss Featherington?” came Colin’s voice through the door—polite, smooth, maddeningly calm.
“Yes,” she called out, hoping her voice didn’t betray how high her heart rate had spiked.
The door opened—and Penelope lifted her head instinctively, eyes darting towards the movement.
Colin stepped in first, still wearing that annoyingly relaxed smile. But he wasn’t alone.
Behind him was a younger man. Broad-shouldered, tall, clearly related—he had the same bone structure, same dark hair, though his was longer and a bit messier, like he’d just come off a football pitch. His face was fresher, still holding the softness of youth, but there was no denying it—he was handsome too. The sort of handsome that would’ve made her giggle uncontrollably at seventeen.
“This is Gregory,” Colin said as the door clicked shut behind them. “He’s training with us at the moment. He’ll be shadowing me today, just observing. Is that all right with you?”
Penelope’s mouth opened… then closed again.
No. It was not all right. She wanted Colin in the room, yes—but she wanted him alone. She wanted his hands on her skin and his voice in her ear and no witnesses to the flush creeping down her chest or the way her thighs tensed when he touched the small of her back.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it?
If it were just her and Colin… she might very well do something stupid. Like sigh too loudly. Or arch her back on instinct. Or moan. Or…God forbid, jump his bones.
At least with Gregory here, she’d have to behave. Keep her wits about her. Not let her body betray just how much she was enjoying herself.
She cleared her throat. “Yes. That’s fine.”
Gregory gave her a respectful nod and moved to the far wall, notebook in hand, doing his best to look unobtrusive. Still, she could feel the extra presence in the room like a second spotlight.
“Right then,” Colin said, his tone easy. “We’ll start with your shoulders and back. Just relax.”
Relax. Sure. Surrounded by soft lighting, disposable underwear, and two men who could double as magazine cover models. No problem.
Penelope buried her face back into the headrest and let out a long, slow breath.
This was going to be a very long hour.
Colin moved with quiet precision, rolling up his sleeves as he stepped beside the table. Penelope caught a glimpse of his forearms—tan, toned, lightly dusted with dark hair—and immediately shut her eyes again.
Focus. Breathe. Be normal.
“This area here,” Colin began, his voice smooth and measured, “is where most people carry tension. Upper trapezius and levator scapulae—especially if you're on your feet a lot or constantly lifting.”
He placed his hands gently on her shoulders and began to press down, slow and firm, his thumbs moving in small, rhythmic circles just beneath her neck.
Penelope let out a sound that was dangerously close to a whimper.
“She’s got a fair bit of congestion in the fascia,” Colin continued, as if he hadn’t just ignited a fire down her spine. “See here, Gregory? This trigger point just under the scapula? That’s likely from repetitive movement—folding, lifting, stretching forward. You want to use your thumbs to guide the muscle, not force it.”
She had no idea what a fascia was. Or a scapula. Or a levator-anything.
All she knew was that Colin’s hands were magic and his voice made words like deep tissue and rotator cuff sound criminally sexy.
“Pressure okay?” he asked, voice low, the pads of his thumbs digging into the top of her back.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Fine. Lovely. Carry on.”
He chuckled—just a breath of a sound—but didn’t comment. His hands moved lower, tracking the shape of her back with confident ease.
“Now here, between the rhomboids, there’s a lot of residual stiffness. It’s common in clients who don’t take regular breaks or who tense unconsciously while standing. You’ll notice the difference in texture—it’s almost ropey.”
Ropey, she thought dimly. He could describe it as mouldy cheese and I’d still melt under his hands.
She peeked through her lashes at Gregory, who was dutifully jotting things down in his little notepad. Thank God he was too busy scribbling to notice the way her toes curled every time Colin’s fingers skimmed a sensitive spot.
“Be mindful of the rhythm,” Colin was saying now, still in that maddeningly calm tone. “It’s not just about pressure—it’s about coaxing the muscle back into release. Gentle persuasion, not brute force.”
Coaxing. Release. Gentle persuasion.
Penelope was absolutely going to combust.
If this was what shadowing meant, she wasn’t entirely sure Gregory was learning the right things. Because if someone had asked her what was happening in this room, she’d have said: slow seduction via Latin anatomy terms.
And Colin—Colin was entirely unaffected. Or at least pretending to be.
She, on the other hand, was floating somewhere between arousal and mortification.
Colin’s hands paused at the small of her back, resting just above the dip of her hips.
“Now, the lumbar region,” he said, tone still maddeningly level, “is often overlooked. It’s comprised of five vertebrae and a complex set of surrounding muscles—the erector spinae group being the primary focus here.”
Penelope wasn’t entirely sure what an erector spinae was, but it sounded indecent and she was absolutely not going to Google it later while alone with a glass of wine. Definitely not.
He began to work his thumbs inwards, applying pressure just above the line of her knickers—or rather, that whisper of disposable fabric pretending to be knickers. Each slow, deliberate movement seemed to dip closer, the heat of his skin warming her through the sheet.
“This tension here,” Colin said, and she swore his voice dropped half an octave, “could be from prolonged standing, but also stress. Emotional strain tends to settle in the sacroiliac joint. That’s the connection between the sacrum and ilium—here.”
His hand slid lower, fingertips pressing gently into the soft flesh just above her bottom.
Penelope let out a strangled sound and quickly turned it into a polite cough.
Gregory looked up briefly, then went back to scribbling.
She, meanwhile, was trying very hard not to think about the word sacroiliac sounding suspiciously like a sin.
“Pressure’s still all right?” Colin asked, his hands kneading in slow, careful circles.
“Lovely,” she mumbled into the headrest. “Soothing. Very… educational.”
He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t break stride. His fingers traced an achingly slow line along the curve of her lower back, following the natural dip of her spine.
“You want to encourage mobility here,” he said. “The multifidus and quadratus lumborum are key to stabilizsation, but they get tight when the hips are misaligned. Especially if the client spends a lot of time on their feet.”
Or fantasising about their massage therapist, Penelope thought, biting her lip hard.
Every word he spoke was soaked in professionalism, every touch perfectly measured—but to her, it was like poetry read in a bedroom voice. She was embarrassingly close to moaning whenever he said deep pressure or muscle release.
She didn’t dare open her eyes. Didn’t want to see Gregory dutifully taking notes while she melted into the table like some sort of overripe Regency heroine.
Still, beneath the sheet, her skin buzzed with awareness. And somewhere, deep in her core, was a heat she hadn’t felt in far too long.
This massage was going to ruin her.
“Feels good,.” sShe said mindlessly.
He hummed in acknowledgement, and she swore she heard the faintest trace of amusement in it. Just a flicker.
He had to know.
Or maybe she was imagining it. Maybe he was just that focused. That good. That maddeningly in control.
Meanwhile, she was lying here half-naked and increasingly convinced she’d never be able to look at a skeleton diagram again without blushing.
Colin’s hands stilled for a moment, then slid lower—dragging the sheet down ever so slightly as he moved to her thighs.
Penelope tensed instinctively.
“We’re moving into the gluteal and hamstring area now,” he said, utterly composed, as though her skin wasn’t flushing with heat under his fingertips. “The gluteus medius can be surprisingly tight, especially in clients who walk or stand for extended periods. You want to start with broad strokes to ease the muscle group before applying more focused pressure.”
His hands followed the words—broad, sweeping movements across the upper curve of her hip, thumbs pressing down with steady intent. Each stroke was measured, professional… and yet Penelope could feel the electricity humming through her nerves. The sheet had ridden dangerously low, and the only thing keeping her decent was sheer will and maybe an ounce of willpower.
Colin’s thumbs pressed deeper now, kneading the firm muscle with slow, circular motions. The heat of his hands seeped into her flesh, coaxing a small, involuntary gasp from her lips. She couldn’t help it—her body arched into the pressure like a flower toward sunlight.
He didn’t pause. If anything, his touch grew more confident, more deliberate.
“Note the resistance here,” he said to Gregory, his tone maddeningly calm. “That’s the tension built up from long hours on the feet. A firmer approach is needed, but never too aggressive on initial contact.”
Penelope bit her lip.
Next, His palms swept across the tops of her thighs in long, fluid motions, firm but unhurried. The sheet shifted with each pass, tugging gently against the barely-there underwear. His thumbs began kneading the inside edge of her thigh, skimming dangerously close to something that most certainly wasn’t part of the muscle group—but still, he didn’t cross that line.
Not quite.
Penelope clenched her jaw, eyes screwed shut. Her breath came shallower with every drag of his hands.
“The semimembranosus and semitendinosus,” Colin continued, as if he weren’t slowly destroying her ability to speak, “are part of the hamstring group. You need to take care not to overstimulate the nerve endings here.”
Too late, she thought wildly. Far, far too late.
Her hips shifted minutely—she couldn’t help it. The friction, the pressure, the heat of his hands… it was all so maddeningly intimate while remaining just inside the bounds of professional.
He moved lower, hands gliding over the backs of her knees and down to her calves.
“Calf muscles—primarily the gastrocnemius and soleus—often carry hidden tension. Especially if the client wears unsupportive footwear.”
His thumbs pressed into the soft meat of her calves and she whimpered. There was no point pretending now. She was halfway to the heavens, heart pounding in her ears, the coil of pleasure in her belly threatening to snap.
Then—then—he reached her feet.
“Now the feet,” he said. “Often neglected, but deeply connected to the entire body via pressure points. When massaging the plantar fascia, you want to be firm but gentle.”
He took her left foot in both hands, cradling it carefully.
She barely managed to hold still as he dragged his thumbs along the arch—slow, deliberate sweeps that felt like spells cast straight into her spine.
Then he reached the ball of her heel.
A quiet, precise circle of pressure.
And she broke.
It was silent. Subtle. But undeniable. Her breath stuttered. Her back arched the barest inch. A shiver rippled down her spine like a wave crashing against a too-small dam.
It wasn’t a scream, or a cry, or anything dramatic. But it was there.
And Colin knew.
His hands paused, just briefly. Then moved on—professional once more—but she could feel the slight shift in his breathing.
Across the room, Gregory’s pen had stopped scratching.
He was very still.
Colin cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said mildly. “That concludes the lower limb demonstration.”
Penelope wanted to melt into the floor and never return.
Penelope’s breath hitched when she realised that the sheet, which had once been securely covering her, had shifted. In fact, it had bunched up at her hips, leaving her exposed, with everything else on display beneath the thin fabric. She tried to tell herself it was fine. After all, the massage was supposed to be a professional experience, right?
But when she turned her head slightly to the side, her gaze collided with something unexpected. Gregory.
He was standing far too close—so close that, if he took another step, his body would be almost touching hers. His eyes were fixed on her, not her face, but lower, trailing down her body with a look that she knew wasn’t just focused on the muscles.
Penelope’s heart skipped a beat. She swallowed hard, her pulse thumping as she realised with mortification that he was staring right at her side boob, the soft curve of her chest pressed against the table in a way that didn’t leave much to the imagination.
But it wasn’t just that—her mind raced to register the growing bulge in his pants. Oh god, she thought, mortified. Is he actually getting aroused from this?
A sharp clearing of throat cut through her spiralling thoughts.
“Greg…focus,” came Colin’s voice, low and stern. There was an edge to it, though, something dangerous lurking beneath the calm exterior.
Gregory blinked, but didn’t move away. Instead, he seemed to double down, his gaze still fixed on her body. He shifted uncomfortably and cleared his own throat, his voice a little strained.
“Umm...Colin...I don’t think I’d be learning much this way. Might I…Can I…I mean... can I try that thing you did with the heel of her foot? Just for some practical experience?”
Penelope froze. The last thing she wanted was for him to touch her. Not now, not like this, with everything in such a delicate balance. She could feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up her neck and over her cheeks.
“No,” Colin said, his voice suddenly harsh, sharp as a whip. “Absolutely not.” He turned to glare at Gregory, his eyes flashing with a force that made Gregory step back, almost stumbling. “You are nowhere near ready to take on the challenge.”
Penelope couldn’t decide whether she was relieved or embarrassed that Colin had intervened—both, probably.
There was a brief, charged silence.
Gregory opened his mouth to protest, but Colin didn’t let him.
“I said no, Gregory,” Colin repeated, his tone dark, dismissive. “I think you’ve seen enough for today.”
Gregory mumbled something that sounded like an apology and backed up a step, eyes still lingering on Penelope for a moment before he quickly turned towards the door. “I’ll...I’ll wait outside,” he said quickly, his voice a little strained. He hurried out of the room, and the door clicked shut behind him.
Penelope’s body felt like it could finally breathe again. She exhaled a shaky breath, not realising how tightly she had been holding it. It felt as though the air in the room had finally returned to normal, but the tension didn’t fade—it just shifted, rippling in the space between her and Colin.
Colin didn’t move immediately. Instead, he stood there, staring at the door as if contemplating whether he should follow Gregory or just stay where he was. But Penelope could feel the weight of his gaze. She could feel his presence in the room like a living thing—dominant, focused, and unshakable.
She didn’t trust herself to speak just yet. Her head was spinning—half with embarrassment, half with the ache of desire she couldn’t ignore. She shifted slightly, the cool air on her exposed skin feeling almost painfully intimate after everything that had just happened.
Colin moved towards her once more, that quiet command still thrumming beneath his calm exterior.
“I’m going to finish your feet, Miss Featherington. If that’s alright with you.”
Penelope’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “Yes. It’s alright.”
He took her foot again, cradling it with surprising tenderness, and resumed the slow, circular motions along the arch and heel. This time, she could feel the difference—his touch was still skilful, deliberate, but there was something else in it now. A slow burn. A growing weight behind every glide of his thumb, every firm press into her sole. As if they were both aware of what had just happened, and neither of them was pretending otherwise.
Her breath trembled in her throat.
He finished with a soft tap against her ankle, letting her foot rest back on the table. Then he stepped away for a moment, and when he returned, his voice was lower. More intimate. Private.
“Now…” he paused, as if weighing something. Then, with steady confidence: “Lie down on your back, Miss Featherington. I’ll begin work on your front.”
Her heart stuttered.
That was it. That was the line—crossed not in words, not in touch, but in the sheer quiet of it. She hadn’t expected the simple instruction to sound so loaded, but it did. Utterly.
She hesitated for just a beat.
And then, slowly, she turned.
The sheet tangled slightly as she shifted, her skin hot against the cool air of the room. Her breasts, still flushed from the pressure of lying face-down, lifted with each sharp inhale. She tried to keep the sheet modestly in place, but it was hopeless. The fabric clung in all the wrong places. Her hair fanned out against the table and her eyes met his—dark, unreadable, focused.
Colin took a small step closer. He adjusted the sheet, careful and clinical, but his fingers grazed her collarbone in the process. Her skin sparked where he touched her.
“We’ll start with the pectorals,” he said, voice back to that maddening professional tone, “and work down through the abdominals.”
Penelope swallowed, hard. She wasn’t sure if she’d survive this side of the massage.
But heaven help her, she wanted to.
Colin adjusted the sheet over her with a care that felt far too intimate. Penelope tried not to shiver as the fabric brushed her nipples, already peaked from anticipation and the chill. She was fully on her back now, laid out for him like some sort of offering—flushed, tingling, entirely at his mercy.
He moved to her side, the slightest scent of his cologne drifting down as he leaned in.
“We’ll begin with the pectoralis major,” he said smoothly, as though she weren’t nearly bare beneath him, nipples barely veiled beneath the sheet, her skin hot to the touch. “A large, fan-shaped muscle group covering the chest. Frequently overlooked in massage, though it plays a crucial role in shoulder mobility.”
His hands didn’t wait for permission. They slid beneath the sheet—under it—firm and slow as they pressed against the upper swell of her breast, fingers dragging deliberately close to the sensitive peak.
Penelope gasped.
He didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t pause. Just kept speaking, calm and clinical, as though he hadn’t just caressed her in a way no massage therapist ever should.
“Important to use flat-handed pressure here. Work from the sternum outward. Avoid direct contact with glandular tissue unless therapeutically necessary.”
His thumb swept along the underside of her breast, just a breath away from her nipple. Therapeutically necessary, indeed.
She had to bite her lip to keep from making a sound when he started kneading her breasts properly, still avoiding the nipples. She was sure that this wasn't supposed to be a part of the massage. But hell, it felt so good and she anyway had lost her words even if she wanted to stop him. No…she didn't want it to end. Her hips shifted ever so slightly against the table, and he moved with her, unbothered.
“Now the deltoid,” he murmured, as his fingers traced the slope of her shoulder. “Responsible for lifting the arm. Best treated with kneading strokes.”
His palms slid over her shoulders, thumbs pressing into muscle while his fingertips lingered along the neckline—close, so close, to the pulse fluttering madly at her throat. She felt like prey under his hands.
He stepped around the table, then knelt beside her, close now. Too close.
“We’ll move down to the rectus abdominis,” he said, his breath fanning over her ribs. “Key for posture and core strength. Often tight in clients with sedentary lifestyles or those under stress.”
Penelope let out a shaky exhale. She was definitely under stress.
His hands, warm and broad, pressed into her abdomen, dragging slowly downward. Each movement was purposeful, almost reverent. The heels of his palms slid in rhythmic circles, over her navel, lower still—never quite touching anything improper, but dancing right on the edge of sin.
Her thighs clenched. He noticed.
But his tone never changed.
“And finally,” he said, adjusting his position again, this time standing between her feet, “the anterior hip flexors. Often neglected. But crucial.”
He reached for the edge of the sheet again. Lifted it. Exposed her legs once more.
His hands curled around her thighs. Firm. Possessive.
Clinical, his voice said.
Wicked, his fingers whispered.
Penelope gripped the sides of the table to stop herself from grabbing him.
With each slow stroke along her inner thigh, Colin’s hand accidentally brushed higher. Just a little. Just enough.
His knuckles grazed the edge of the thin, disposable underwear she’d donned earlier—now soaked through, clinging to her like a second skin, flimsy and nearly transparent under the low light. She tensed, a sharp gasp slipping past her lips, but he didn’t move away.
His hand paused there.
Right there.
The silence buzzed, thick and electric, and then his voice slid through the air—silky, composed.
“Miss Featherington…”
She tried to look at him, dazed.
“There’s a… specialised form of massage,” he continued, voice still maddeningly clinical. “Not something I offer. Not on the menu. But you—” his thumb traced a slow circle against the top of her thigh, “—you’re a rather unique case.”
Penelope’s breath caught. Her heart pounded, an erratic rhythm in her chest.
“A new technique,” he murmured. “Internal massage. Only to be performed with… a certain tool.”
Her eyes widened, every nerve in her body suddenly on high alert.
He tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk curling his lips. “It requires a different position. You’d need to get onto all fours.”
The air fled her lungs.
Was he serious?
She blinked up at him, flustered, flushed, entirely unsure if this was real life or the most erotic dream she’d ever had. But the intensity in his gaze, the precision of his touch, the way he adjusted the sheet with care even now—it all felt real. Terrifyingly real.
And more than anything, she wanted it to be.
Penelope nodded—shaky, but clear.
Colin said nothing. He simply reached for her waist, his grip strong and sure, and in one fluid motion, he guided her onto her knees, pulling her hips up and arranging her with the ease of someone far too familiar with bodies. Her elbows bent, her cheek resting on the padded surface of the table, breath warm against the cushion.
She felt exposed. Unbelievably exposed.
The sheet had fallen away entirely now, pooled somewhere behind her. Her disposable underwear clung to her like a joke—utterly useless—and the blush that had begun on her cheeks now flooded her entire body.
Was this really happening?
She whimpered softly, uncertain if the sound escaped her lips or just echoed in her mind.
Colin stood behind her now, silent. The tension stretched, long and taut, until she felt his hand return to her lower back—pressing gently, grounding her.
“Just breathe,” he said, his voice calm, almost tender. “Let your muscles relax. That’s the key.”
Penelope nodded again, her fingers curling into the edge of the table, heart pounding as she waited for what came next.
Colin’s hand stilled at the base of her spine, his thumb dragging slowly across the flushed dip of her back. His breath brushed the bare skin between her shoulders, and then—
“Your underwear’s ruined,” he said, voice dark and low, a crackle of something wild buried beneath the calm. “I need it off to continue.”
She nodded—or maybe whimpered. It didn’t matter. He didn’t wait.
The rip of fabric split the air like a warning. Or a promise. The useless scrap fluttered to the floor, forgotten. Her heart pounded. Her whole body was already burning, but now—now she felt feral.
Behind her, the unmistakable rustle of clothes. A belt unfastening. A zipper. Then—
The sound of plastic tearing.
Her mind blanked.
She wasn’t sure if she imagined it. She wasn’t sure if this was real. She didn’t care.
And then she felt it. The heat of his cock. The weight. The sheer intention.
His hands gripped her hips like he owned them. Her skin burned where he touched, her thighs trembling from the effort not to grind back against him like some desperate animal.
And then—
Then he pressed forward.
Slow. Measured. Too controlled, too precise, as if he wanted to draw every reaction from her body with unbearable focus.
Her mouth opened on a gasp—no, a cry—and she didn’t even know what name she said, if any. It might’ve just been please.
“Oh, fuck me!” she panted, the table creaking under her grip.
Colin laughed—low, rough, nearly unrecognisable. “Yeah,” he muttered, like the word had cracked out of him. “On it.”
And then there was no more patience. He moved. Fast. Deep. Like a man possessed.
The room vanished. Everything narrowed to that rhythm, that pressure, that unbelievable heat that built and built and threatened to undo her completely. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, and when his hand found one—rough, greedy—she thought she might actually lose her mind.
“Colin—” she gasped, not sure if she meant to beg him to stop or never stop again.
His fingers twisted at her nipple, and she howled into the pillow. She was utterly undone, open, stretched, taken, and she loved it. God help her, she loved it.
Her thoughts splintered. Her body shattered. And still, he moved, like he couldn’t get close enough, deep enough, far enough inside her.
Somewhere in the chaos, she thought:
This wasn't a massage. This was a hurricane that had upended her life. Turned her into a mess.
And she never wanted to sort through this mess again.
He came just moments after her, groaning low in her ear as his body locked against hers, every muscle taut.
And then…silence.
Still joined. Still breathing heavy. Still trembling from the storm they’d both barely survived.
He stayed buried in her for a moment longer, forehead resting between her shoulder blades, as if he needed to ground himself—then slowly pulled away. She tugged the sheet over her hips, till it was again covering her up, suddenly too aware of everything.
She watched him as he moved across the room—still without a word. He discarded the condom in the bin, then reached for his underwear and jeans, slipping into them with the kind of ease that made her stomach flip. He didn’t look at her straight away.
But when he did—God.
It wasn’t the smirk she had seen on his face earlier. Not that cool, calculated, professional half-smile. This one was… warm. Boyish. Slightly sheepish. The sort of smile that made her heart do something ridiculous.
“That,” he said, rubbing a hand through his tousled hair, “was incredible.”
She managed a breathless laugh. “Agreed.”
A beat passed.
“You should know,” he said, eyes locking with hers, serious now. “I never do that. This…this isn’t that kind of a massage centre.”
“Of course,” she said softly. “And you should know—I’m not that kind of client.”
His smile twitched wider. “Of course.”
They both opened their mouths, then stopped. Then again, at the same time—
“I couldn’t—”
They broke off and laughed.
“You’re so—” he tried again, then laughed too, like he couldn’t believe any of this was real.
Penelope smiled back, warmth spreading through her chest in a slow, lovely bloom. “This is mad.”
He took a small step closer, just one, voice quieter now. “So we both agree this was… special?”
She nodded, cheeks heating. Her voice came out a little shaky. “Yes.”
He swallowed. Once. Twice.
Then—
“Would you…maybe like to have a coffee after this? Or a walk? Something not so…” He motioned vaguely toward the massage table, a boyish glint in his eye. “Horizontal?”
She laughed again—properly this time, the kind that made her feel like the world had shifted slightly on its axis. “I’d like that.”
She let the sheet slip a little lower, just to tease, just to test. “Only if you promise to give me an exclusive massage every now and then,” she said with a wink. “I promise I’d give you a very nice tip.”
His eyes darkened, humour dancing with heat. “Oh, I’d love to,” he murmured. “In fact…”
He took a step forward.
“…can I collect my tip now?”
Her breath hitched when his gaze dropped to her lips. She arched a brow, trying for nonchalance. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
But he didn’t answer. Not with words.
He reached out, cupping her cheek with a gentleness that was entirely at odds with the way he’d just ravished her. His thumb brushed along her jaw as he leaned in, slow and sure, and then—
He kissed her.
It was slow. Deep. Searing. Utterly intoxicating kiss.
Like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it properly.
She sighed into him, fingers finding the edge of his shirt, clinging as her body melted into his.
They finally pulled apart, breathless and smiling like fools, the kind of grin you couldn’t wipe off even if you tried.
Colin tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing the flushed curve of her cheek. “So…” he said, voice low, teasing. “When are you booking your next appointment, Miss Featherington?”
She arched an eyebrow, pretending to think. “Depends. Will I be getting the same therapist, or is Gregory back on the rota?”
Colin scoffed, eyes gleaming. “Absolutely not. You’re mine now.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“I mean, my client. And…I might be persuaded to offer slightly longer, private sessions. Off the clock. In my flat.”
Penelope laughed, the sound utterly wicked. “Oh? Do those come with complimentary tea?”
His smile turned devilish. “Only if you behave. But don’t worry—I quite enjoy a bit of mischief.”
And all Penelope could think was all the ways he could punish her if she did misbehave…