My Cousin's Pregnant Girlfriend - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
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What's it really like massaging pregnant women? Let me tell you—these women, stuck in long stretches of marital celibacy, sometimes ask for... extras from me.
My name's Jake Lawrence, and yeah, I'm a prenatal massage therapist. That means my job is kneading out the aches and pains of expectant mothers.
The guy who dragged me into this? My cousin, Ryan Roscente. Every time he rolled back into our hometown, he was dripping in designer labels, hair slicked like some Wall Street hotshot. The whole town swore he'd hit the jackpot. So when he offered to take me to the city to "make real money," even though we weren't exactly best buds, I jumped at the chance.
Turns out, his idea of "making it big" wasn't what I expected.
At first, I wasn't sold. Mess up with a pregnant woman, and you're looking at a lawsuit—or worse.
Ryan just smirked and flashed his phone at me. His rates? Five figures per session. My jaw hit the floor.
I always thought massage therapists were scraping by, but Ryan just chuckled and said, "Stick with me, kid. You'll get it."
Soon enough, I got my first house call.
Client's name: Vanessa Valentine. 31 years old. Before I could even get a good look at her photo, Ryan snatched it back with a grin.
"Damn, cuz," he said, wiggling his eyebrows. "You hit the jackpot. This one's stacked. Here's the golden rule—play it by ear. Trust me, in all my years, I've never seen a pregnant woman this fine."
Play it by ear? The way he said it, with that sleazy smirk, made my stomach twist.
Look, in massage work, things happen. Clients get handsy. But with pregnant women? I figured it'd be strictly professional.
Still, I couldn't deny the buzz of excitement.
Vanessa's place was exactly what you'd expect from someone who could afford a private prenatal massage—high-end complex, manicured lawns, the works.
When she opened the door, my brain short-circuited.
Wavy hair tumbling over her shoulders, lips painted a sinful red, curves that defied gravity—even in loose maternity wear, she oozed sex appeal. Her belly was just starting to round out, maybe four or five months along.
Pregnancy hadn't softened her. If anything, it made her more irresistible.
The idea of touching her sent my pulse into overdrive.
Vanessa gestured to the couch. "Wait here. I need to shower first." I nodded like an idiot and sat stiffly, trying not to imagine what was happening behind that bathroom door.
Then—thud. A sharp scream.
Vanessa's voice, panicked: "Masseur! Can you come here for a sec?"
Heart in my throat, I bolted to the bathroom—and nearly choked.
There she stood, wrapped in nothing but a flimsy towel, water dripping down her collarbone, looking up at me with wide, doe-like eyes.
Before I could react, she launched herself into my arms. My hands landed on slick, warm skin, and suddenly, I had a full-frontal view of everything.
"There's a mouse," she whimpered, pressing closer.
I scanned the spotless bathroom. No mouse.
She was playing me.
Before I could call her out, she burst out laughing. "Wow. You're adorable."
By the time I stumbled out, Vanessa was sprawled on the bed, that damn towel barely hanging on.
I swallowed hard and got to work. The second my hands touched her waist, she let out a moan that went straight to my—
"Mmm… that tickles."
Her voice was pure sin. My hands shook.
I was halfway through when she grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand against her chest.
Soft. Full. Perfect. My fingers curled on instinct.
"Rub them for me," she whispered, breath hitching. "They're so sore."
My brain shorted out. All I could hear was Ryan's play it by ear and Vanessa's little gasps.
Then, just like that—she stopped me.
This job was going to be the death of me.
My name's Jake Lawrence, and yeah, I'm a prenatal massage therapist. That means my job is kneading out the aches and pains of expectant mothers.
The guy who dragged me into this? My cousin, Ryan Roscente. Every time he rolled back into our hometown, he was dripping in designer labels, hair slicked like some Wall Street hotshot. The whole town swore he'd hit the jackpot. So when he offered to take me to the city to "make real money," even though we weren't exactly best buds, I jumped at the chance.
Turns out, his idea of "making it big" wasn't what I expected.
At first, I wasn't sold. Mess up with a pregnant woman, and you're looking at a lawsuit—or worse.
Ryan just smirked and flashed his phone at me. His rates? Five figures per session. My jaw hit the floor.
I always thought massage therapists were scraping by, but Ryan just chuckled and said, "Stick with me, kid. You'll get it."
Soon enough, I got my first house call.
Client's name: Vanessa Valentine. 31 years old. Before I could even get a good look at her photo, Ryan snatched it back with a grin.
"Damn, cuz," he said, wiggling his eyebrows. "You hit the jackpot. This one's stacked. Here's the golden rule—play it by ear. Trust me, in all my years, I've never seen a pregnant woman this fine."
Play it by ear? The way he said it, with that sleazy smirk, made my stomach twist.
Look, in massage work, things happen. Clients get handsy. But with pregnant women? I figured it'd be strictly professional.
Still, I couldn't deny the buzz of excitement.
Vanessa's place was exactly what you'd expect from someone who could afford a private prenatal massage—high-end complex, manicured lawns, the works.
When she opened the door, my brain short-circuited.
Wavy hair tumbling over her shoulders, lips painted a sinful red, curves that defied gravity—even in loose maternity wear, she oozed sex appeal. Her belly was just starting to round out, maybe four or five months along.
Pregnancy hadn't softened her. If anything, it made her more irresistible.
The idea of touching her sent my pulse into overdrive.
Vanessa gestured to the couch. "Wait here. I need to shower first." I nodded like an idiot and sat stiffly, trying not to imagine what was happening behind that bathroom door.
Then—thud. A sharp scream.
Vanessa's voice, panicked: "Masseur! Can you come here for a sec?"
Heart in my throat, I bolted to the bathroom—and nearly choked.
There she stood, wrapped in nothing but a flimsy towel, water dripping down her collarbone, looking up at me with wide, doe-like eyes.
Before I could react, she launched herself into my arms. My hands landed on slick, warm skin, and suddenly, I had a full-frontal view of everything.
"There's a mouse," she whimpered, pressing closer.
I scanned the spotless bathroom. No mouse.
She was playing me.
Before I could call her out, she burst out laughing. "Wow. You're adorable."
By the time I stumbled out, Vanessa was sprawled on the bed, that damn towel barely hanging on.
I swallowed hard and got to work. The second my hands touched her waist, she let out a moan that went straight to my—
"Mmm… that tickles."
Her voice was pure sin. My hands shook.
I was halfway through when she grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand against her chest.
Soft. Full. Perfect. My fingers curled on instinct.
"Rub them for me," she whispered, breath hitching. "They're so sore."
My brain shorted out. All I could hear was Ryan's play it by ear and Vanessa's little gasps.
Then, just like that—she stopped me.
This job was going to be the death of me.
End of My Cousin's Pregnant Girlfriend Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to My Cousin's Pregnant Girlfriend book page.