My Brother-in-Law’s Postpartum Massage Trap - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
You are reading My Brother-in-Law’s Postpartum Massage Trap, Chapter 8: Chapter 8. Read more chapters of My Brother-in-Law’s Postpartum Massage Trap.
His words sent a shock of fear through my veins.
But then, as if it were nothing, Ryan Lowell released me and resumed the massage with unsettling focus.
I wanted to scream for my husband, but my body felt heavy, sluggish—like I couldn't summon the energy to move, let alone cry out.
This wasn't a massage anymore. His hands weren't kneading—they were caressing, tracing slow, deliberate paths over my skin, making me shiver against my will.
And then, with practiced ease, he undid the clasp of my bra.
His fingers lingered where they shouldn't have, teasing, exploring.
The softness of his touch only fed the heat pooling low in my stomach.
He knew my body too well after all these sessions.
Panic clawed at me. I fought through the fog in my mind, struggling to call out—
But Ryan was quicker. His hand clamped over my mouth, his wolfish eyes locking onto mine.
"Don't," he murmured, voice low. "Think about it—I've been touching you for weeks.
If your husband walks in now, how exactly would you explain this?"
His grip tightened, cutting off my air.
The terror in my chest twisted into something worse—helplessness.
He was right. If my husband saw us like this—me half-undressed, Ryan's hands on me—no excuse would ever be enough.
Trembling, I shook my head, signaling my surrender.
Only then did he release me, smirking.
"You won't regret this."
He grabbed my wrist and forced my palm against his hard stomach. The muscle beneath my fingers was unlike anything I'd ever felt—my husband had never been this defined, not even in his youth. Now, time had softened him.
But did Ryan really think his body gave him the right to take whatever he wanted?
A sickening realization hit me—I'd already fallen into his trap without even realizing it.
There was no way out.
His gaze raked over me, possessive, hungry. My skin was flawless, my figure perfect—even the marks left by childbirth had vanished under his so-called "care."
And worst of all, he had power over me. I couldn't fight back.
He buried his face against my chest, his hands growing bolder, stoking the fire he'd ignited.
Tears of shame burned down my cheeks as I lay there, trapped.
The feeling of violation—of being tainted—shattered what little resistance I had left.
I was breaking.
After a lifetime of being good, one moment would turn me into something dirty, something cheap.
A desperate thought clawed its way into my mind—if he took what he wanted, I'd rather die.
Ryan's movements grew frantic, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with hunger.
And then—just as I teetered on the edge—my husband knocked on the door.
But then, as if it were nothing, Ryan Lowell released me and resumed the massage with unsettling focus.
I wanted to scream for my husband, but my body felt heavy, sluggish—like I couldn't summon the energy to move, let alone cry out.
This wasn't a massage anymore. His hands weren't kneading—they were caressing, tracing slow, deliberate paths over my skin, making me shiver against my will.
And then, with practiced ease, he undid the clasp of my bra.
His fingers lingered where they shouldn't have, teasing, exploring.
The softness of his touch only fed the heat pooling low in my stomach.
He knew my body too well after all these sessions.
Panic clawed at me. I fought through the fog in my mind, struggling to call out—
But Ryan was quicker. His hand clamped over my mouth, his wolfish eyes locking onto mine.
"Don't," he murmured, voice low. "Think about it—I've been touching you for weeks.
If your husband walks in now, how exactly would you explain this?"
His grip tightened, cutting off my air.
The terror in my chest twisted into something worse—helplessness.
He was right. If my husband saw us like this—me half-undressed, Ryan's hands on me—no excuse would ever be enough.
Trembling, I shook my head, signaling my surrender.
Only then did he release me, smirking.
"You won't regret this."
He grabbed my wrist and forced my palm against his hard stomach. The muscle beneath my fingers was unlike anything I'd ever felt—my husband had never been this defined, not even in his youth. Now, time had softened him.
But did Ryan really think his body gave him the right to take whatever he wanted?
A sickening realization hit me—I'd already fallen into his trap without even realizing it.
There was no way out.
His gaze raked over me, possessive, hungry. My skin was flawless, my figure perfect—even the marks left by childbirth had vanished under his so-called "care."
And worst of all, he had power over me. I couldn't fight back.
He buried his face against my chest, his hands growing bolder, stoking the fire he'd ignited.
Tears of shame burned down my cheeks as I lay there, trapped.
The feeling of violation—of being tainted—shattered what little resistance I had left.
I was breaking.
After a lifetime of being good, one moment would turn me into something dirty, something cheap.
A desperate thought clawed its way into my mind—if he took what he wanted, I'd rather die.
Ryan's movements grew frantic, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with hunger.
And then—just as I teetered on the edge—my husband knocked on the door.
End of My Brother-in-Law’s Postpartum Massage Trap Chapter 8. Continue reading Chapter 9 or return to My Brother-in-Law’s Postpartum Massage Trap book page.