The Woman Trapped in a Sexless Marriage - Chapter 21: Chapter 21

My pulse was already wild by the time his hands settled near my underarms. His fingers skimmed the curve of my chest, still pressed tight from lying facedown, sending sparks skittering under my skin. I craved it—that slow, molten heat pooling low in my belly, stoked by his murmured compliments about my curves, my softness. It woke something hungry and hollow inside me.
Then his touch drifted lower, gliding up from my ankles with practiced ease. He kneaded my calves, slow and firm, before his palms skimmed higher—only to ghost over my thighs, barely there. I bit back a whimper. I wanted more. I didn't dare ask.
"Turn over," he said.
I flipped onto my back, arms instinctively crossing over my chest, thighs clamping together. His voice was a low hum against my ear: Relax. He guided my hands to my sides before his fingers dug into my shoulders, working the tension loose.
Except—his gaze kept slipping downward. My snug top had ridden up during the massage, the fabric clinging, revealing the swell of one breast.
He kept talking as his hands slid to my thighs, but his attention never wavered from my chest. His touch inched higher, teasing beneath the loose hem of my shorts, fingertips brushing the lace edge of my panties before retreating. Again. Again. My legs fell open just a fraction, letting his fingers glide along my inner thighs, so close to where I ached. Each near-miss left me trembling.
Accidental? I wondered, even as my panties grew damp. The oil slick on his hands hid the evidence.
Afterward, I showered fast, dressed quicker, and exchanged stiff pleasantries in the lobby before bolting home.
Alone in bed, I squeezed my eyes shut—but all I saw was him. The weight of his body, the rough warmth of his hands mapping me. My skin burned. My right hand slid under my skirt, rubbing slow circles over soaked lace, while the other tugged my collar aside, fingers pinching my nipple hard—
The louder I moaned, the harder I touched.
I must've drifted off, because the phone jolted me awake past four. Him. Clients. Dinner. Running late.
I was halfway to my closet when the phone rang again. A stranger's voice—the club's coach. My forgotten swimsuit. A survey. My pulse kicked. Yes. Bring it.
I scrubbed away the sticky heat between my thighs.
By five, the doorbell chimed. I led him to the sofa, then bent over the coffee table, letting my neckline gape as I gathered scattered magazines. "Sorry," I lied, voice airy.
He smiled, all polite small talk, but his gaze clung—to my pen tracing the questionnaire, to my chest with every breath. The longer he stared, the hotter I burned.