And more.
She would never tell Mark that his friend who had the weird name Spike was doing things to her that no massage therapist ever had. And that was saying something. This man seemed to be massaging muscles she hadn’t known existed, and he was definitely locating knots she hadn’t known were there. Hell, she was beginning to think he was taking care of her massage needs for all time, that she’d never need another rubdown after this.
With that kind of relaxation came a huge problem. Now that she was in a partial state of nirvana, her mind returned to thinking about the man himself—the actual guy touching her—and not just his hands or the job he was performing. She was picturing him in her mind—those deep dimples emphasizing a rakish grin as he took her in his sinewy arms. She smiled in spite of herself, because she knew it was pure fantasy. This guy no doubt could have any woman he could ever want (including models, actresses, porn stars, dancers), so why would he ever want someone like Rachel, a woman who exuded a no-nonsense, business-only attitude—a woman who was so unsexual nowadays that she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been on a date? She was no fool. She was certain she wasn’t his type, no matter how charming he was, no matter how special he was making her feel.
That was his job. And people in this kind of work—be they hairdressers, nail techs, or massage therapists—had to at the very least feign interest in the other person to pass the time and keep things from feeling awkward.
As if he could read her thoughts, he asked, “So what line of work are you in?” He was rubbing her upper arm and moving toward her elbow, followed by her wrist, likely because he knew the deep massage he’d been doing on her back moments earlier had left her with no air in her lungs and she needed a break.
So she took in a breath of air. She wasn’t sure if he could even hear her, because she was already so damned relaxed she could barely raise her voice, let alone lift a finger, but she had to try. It would be impolite not to. “I’m a financial advisor.”
“Hmm. Sounds important.”
Rachel couldn’t answer because he was once more pushing hard on her shoulder, forcing another knot to give up its fight. Once more, her breath left her but damn—she knew the results would be worth it.
When his hands moved to her lower back once more and she found some air, she said, “I’d like to think I’m important to my clients.”
“What does your job involve exactly?”
She felt him adjust the towel that had been covering her ass prior to that point. Her bottom was still partially covered, but she could imagine he saw her crack now. And, in spite of the fact that this man was a professional paid to do what he was doing, she felt her cheeks flame—and she probably wouldn’t have given it a second thought had she not found this guy so unbelievably hot. She felt a wave of relief, knowing he couldn’t look her in the eye. He was rubbing beside her spine just above the area where the towel had been, and she had to concentrate so she could carry on a coherent conversation, because she was afraid of sounding like a babbling idiot. “Just like you’d imagine. I advise clients on how to manage their finances—telling them where they should invest their money and what types of investments should they make. I help them determine, based on their goals, what would be most sound and decide how much risk they should take based on their comfort level. I also have to take into account what kind of wealth they want to amass, how quickly, and their comfort with risk. I’d like to think of it as part art, part science, part psychology. And the concept of money becomes kind of abstract as you mold it into what you want it to be.” God, now she was sounding like an idiot. Time to shut up before he began to think she was completely batshit.
“Interesting,” he said, and then his attention returned to her muscles. It was odd that she wasn’t feeling irritated, because she normally would be in this circumstance—after all, she paid good money for an hour’s massage…with no talk. It had taken her a year and a half to convince the gal who did her hair to not bother with small talk. Rachel had to chitchat all day long, forced to read people every moment she was with them so she could figure out what they weren’t saying as well. When she had her hair colored or saw her masseuse, she wanted to turn her mind off. Communication was ninety-nine percent of her job and she needed downtime.
And turning her mind off might have been easy enough to do had Spike’s hands not slowed down, almost as if his motions were meant to get her attention…as if he had intentionally changed how he was touching her and was still communicating except without words. But that had to be her imagination…right? Instead of feeling drowsy like she often did by this point, Rachel suddenly felt quite aware and was paying close attention. Her eyes were closed but her mind was focused fully on what he was doing with those masterful hands. Holy shit. How someone’s touch could go from powerful and therapeutic to erotic in a matter of seconds was beyond Rachel’s comprehension. Was it all in her head?
Yeah, probably, but the effect on her imagination and her female parts was impossible to deny. She was going to have to dig her battery-powered friend out of the bedside table drawer tonight while letting images of Mr. Sexy dance in her head, because there was no getting him out of there now. She knew she wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about this guy for a very long time. He was so unlike Mark in that regard. Mark was a nice enough guy but definitely kind of a stoner and a bit of a dork. The man touching her right now put her in the mind of a man in control—masculine, self-assured, and not a bit of dorkiness. He felt like all man—and his hands were all over her body. She couldn’t help but think of those hands feeling her flesh in all sorts of other places and definitely not on this table.
His touch was no longer hard and penetrating like the deep tissue massage treatment he’d been giving her just moments earlier, and she supposed that was okay because she no longer felt any of the tension or ache her muscles stored until they’d been manipulated by an expert. Instead, his hands felt gentle as they caressed her lower back. He was still making her feel relaxed, but it was more than that now, and she couldn’t help the small moan that hummed in her throat once more.
Shit. His hands weren’t gentle; they were arousing…
Is it all in Rachel’s imagination—or is her mysterious masseuse taking care of her every need? Find out in Heat: Book One now!
HEAT: BOOK ONE
Note from Jade
Just to clear something up… When the original Savage was published, I didn’t find out until after preorders were locked and loaded and ARCs and beta copies had been sent out that there was a slight problem with the character name Nina. It turns out that author Claire C. Riley is the author of a zombie series entitled “Odium The Dead Saga” and the main character’s name is…yep, you guessed it! Nina. Had I found out any time before ARCs were sent out, I would have changed the name in a heartbeat. Yeah, it’s hard to do that once your character has been “living with you” with that name for a while, but it’s the right thing to do. Unfortunately, it was literally too late (and barely, which made it bite all the more). That said, once I knew, I couldn’t just pretend like I didn’t, so I wrote a blog post, apologizing for the misfortune, hoping that—if the author or her readers discovered it—they would know it was an honest mistake. Well, one of Ms. Riley’s readers did in fact point her to my post and she was so gracious and kind…and then I promptly bought a copy of the first book of her series (entitled Odium). The saving grace? Well, as you know by now, my story might have zombies, but it’s not a traditional zombie story. Like most of my books, it focuses on relationships and personal growth. The zombies are background and a little conflict. They are what set up the situation but they are not the point. Ms. Riley’s books appear to be (although I might discover I’m wrong) post-zombie-apocalyptic novels, filled with action and tension and horror. Mine, at its heart, is what I normally do—steamy romance. So our books have in common zombies and a main character named Nina. Beyond that, I think they’re totally different. That said, I just wanted to clear the air
and let my and her readers know that I did not name my character Nina to capitalize on her success. I love that name and it was in my head during the summer of 2014 as I began to envision her world in my head. I wish Ms. Riley continuing success—several of my readers mentioned that she was very classy about the whole matter, and I agree wholeheartedly and thank her for her understanding.
Oh, and if you like a traditional zombie story? I definitely encourage you to read her series!
Wilder (Savage #2) Page 19
