My Boss's Bali Massage Trap - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
You are reading My Boss's Bali Massage Trap, Chapter 3: Chapter 3. Read more chapters of My Boss's Bali Massage Trap.
Two more excruciating days crawled by with Ryan and me still locked in our silent standoff. He'd been pulling late nights at work, coming home long after I'd fallen asleep.
Then on Thursday afternoon, just as I was packing up, Mr. Lowell dropped a bombshell. "Evelyn, we've got an important client meeting at seven. I need you to handle the reception."
But when I arrived at the upscale bistro, there was no client—just my boss lounging at a corner table in designer casuals, that smug smirk plastered across his face.
"Mr. Lowell," I said through clenched teeth, "where's the client?"
"Relax, Evelyn," he purred, swirling his scotch. "Sit. I heard about your... marital difficulties." His eyes raked over me. "How about an extra five grand a month? Weekends you could... entertain me instead."
My champagne flute nearly slipped from my fingers.
Before I could react, he'd circled behind me. His hands descended on my shoulders like vultures, his whiskey-laced breath hot against my neck. "We could go upstairs right now," he murmured, one hand slithering toward my blouse, "and... unwind."
I seized his wrist just as the restaurant doors burst open.
"Evelyn?" Ryan's voice cracked like thunder. "What the actual fuck?"
Chaos erupted. Ryan lunged, sending Lowell crashing into a dessert cart. His buddies barely restrained him before punches flew.
The car ride home was nuclear. Through heaving sobs, I spilled everything—Lowell's proposition, his wandering hands. Ryan's anger slowly morphed into horrified realization. "Jesus, Evie... have you been dealing with postpartum this whole time?" His voice cracked. "I've been such an idiot."
By morning, he'd booked us first-class tickets to Bali. "We're fixing this," he vowed, squeezing my hand during takeoff.
Bali worked its magic instantly. After gorging on satay at a night market, Ryan led me to an opulent spa hidden down a lantern-lit alley. The moment we stepped inside, jasmine-scented air wrapped around us like silk.
"Good evening, madam." The voice made me jump.
Standing in the treatment room doorway was Adonis incarnate—chiseled jaw, smoldering blue eyes, and an accent that could melt glaciers. "Mr. Evans personally requested me," he assured me as I nervously fidgeted. "He'll return in two hours."
True to his word, the man had magic hands. Knots I'd carried for months dissolved under his touch. Then his fingers drifted dangerously low.
"Perhaps... our premium service?" His lips brushed my ear.
My pulse skyrocketed. Maybe it was the tropical heat, maybe months of pent-up frustration—but I nodded.
Just as his fingers slipped under my waistband, the door creaked open.
Another godlike masseur stood there, already unbuttoning his shirt.
Then on Thursday afternoon, just as I was packing up, Mr. Lowell dropped a bombshell. "Evelyn, we've got an important client meeting at seven. I need you to handle the reception."
But when I arrived at the upscale bistro, there was no client—just my boss lounging at a corner table in designer casuals, that smug smirk plastered across his face.
"Mr. Lowell," I said through clenched teeth, "where's the client?"
"Relax, Evelyn," he purred, swirling his scotch. "Sit. I heard about your... marital difficulties." His eyes raked over me. "How about an extra five grand a month? Weekends you could... entertain me instead."
My champagne flute nearly slipped from my fingers.
Before I could react, he'd circled behind me. His hands descended on my shoulders like vultures, his whiskey-laced breath hot against my neck. "We could go upstairs right now," he murmured, one hand slithering toward my blouse, "and... unwind."
I seized his wrist just as the restaurant doors burst open.
"Evelyn?" Ryan's voice cracked like thunder. "What the actual fuck?"
Chaos erupted. Ryan lunged, sending Lowell crashing into a dessert cart. His buddies barely restrained him before punches flew.
The car ride home was nuclear. Through heaving sobs, I spilled everything—Lowell's proposition, his wandering hands. Ryan's anger slowly morphed into horrified realization. "Jesus, Evie... have you been dealing with postpartum this whole time?" His voice cracked. "I've been such an idiot."
By morning, he'd booked us first-class tickets to Bali. "We're fixing this," he vowed, squeezing my hand during takeoff.
Bali worked its magic instantly. After gorging on satay at a night market, Ryan led me to an opulent spa hidden down a lantern-lit alley. The moment we stepped inside, jasmine-scented air wrapped around us like silk.
"Good evening, madam." The voice made me jump.
Standing in the treatment room doorway was Adonis incarnate—chiseled jaw, smoldering blue eyes, and an accent that could melt glaciers. "Mr. Evans personally requested me," he assured me as I nervously fidgeted. "He'll return in two hours."
True to his word, the man had magic hands. Knots I'd carried for months dissolved under his touch. Then his fingers drifted dangerously low.
"Perhaps... our premium service?" His lips brushed my ear.
My pulse skyrocketed. Maybe it was the tropical heat, maybe months of pent-up frustration—but I nodded.
Just as his fingers slipped under my waistband, the door creaked open.
Another godlike masseur stood there, already unbuttoning his shirt.
End of My Boss's Bali Massage Trap Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to My Boss's Bali Massage Trap book page.