Alessandra Torre - End of the Innocence

“I’ve set up the table in the bedroom. Are you ready?” the man asked, a hint of California surfer in his tone.

I nodded, and he gestured for the door, holding it open as I moved through into a dim room, lit candles littering the space.

“I’ll give you privacy,” he spoke from behind me. “Please lie face up on the table. If you need me, just call out. My name is Tyler.” I glanced over to him, nodding, my eyes catching the movement of the other attendants, their quiet and respectful departure as they left the suite. Then, the bedroom door closed, and I was alone.

I shed the robe, suddenly too aware of my nakedness, of his presence on the other side of the door. Candles filled the room with lavender and vanilla scents and danced flickering shadows over my skin. I laid on the table, pulling the sheet up to my chest, and then lowered myself until I was flat, my breasts tickled by the soft fabric, my head encased in a soft pillow. I closed my eyes and waited nervously for him to return.

Why was I nervous? Massages, once a foreign treat, had become commonplace in my new life of luxury. My body had been accustomed to strange hands, to men and women alike oiling up my body, to nudity a hairbreadth from gentle touches. I should be calm, relaxed, and ready for a treatment I have had fifty times before. But I wasn’t. I was tense. Jittery. Wet. Why the hell am I wet? The panicked question flitted through my mind at the same time as I heard him enter.

The sound of the door first. It opened, then soft steps, the pad of feet against carpet, a sound I had to strain to hear. When he spoke, I flinched, my nerves a bundle of live wires. “Do you have any sensitive areas? Or places you’d like me to focus on?” He spoke softly, the husky tone sending a shiver through my body.

Sensitive areas? A few. Places I’d like him to focus on? Yes, please. “No. Just a normal Swedish massage, please.” My voice behaved, coming out casually and unaffected, the right amount of offhand decorating its syllables.

“I understand. Mr. De Luca left very particular instructions,” he said the words with a hint of seduction, his sentence causing my eyes to open.

Particular instructions from Brad? That could be worrisome. His earlier threat echoed in my mind. Be careful what you wish for ... I had wished, hopefully he hadn’t granted.

♥♥♥

Brad drove, borrowing Phillipe’s sedan, wanting the control of driving and the solitude of an empty car. He had brushed off Julia’s concerns over Alexis, but Julia had every reason to be worried. Alexis was not going to take this well. He called her from the road, taking a deep breath in mental preparation as the phone rang.

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me.”

“I’m headed to Saffire now. We need to talk.”

“As exciting as that sounds, I’m not working tonight. And there’s no way I’m going into Fire on my night off.”

He could see this conversation, the direction it was taking, a red blinking sign indicating that his demise was ahead in one decision. He sighed. “Where are you? Can we meet for coffee somewhere?”

She huffed into the phone. “I don’t drink coffee , Brad. I’m home. Come here. I trust you’ll remember the address.” The phone beeped, and he looked at the screen, the END CALL message mocking him in its finality.

This was bullshit. Since when did he follow orders from women? Julia was one thing; she managed to boss him around with ease, but Alexis had no hold on his heart. He could turn around and head right back to Julia. To her soft skin and feisty eyes. Skin that was probably being touched eight ways to Sunday right now. He had set her up with Tyler, a masseuse who moonlighted as an escort, his clientele mostly older women married to casino whales. He tried to push the thought of Julia out of his mind, tried to not think of her, naked on a table before Tyler, the man’s hands sliding over her oiled body. He moved to the right lane, preparing for the exit that would take him to Alexis’s townhome.

Alexis ended the call, a smile spreading on her face. So, Brad had finally called. She was ready: shaved, moisturized, and naked. She slid a silk robe over toned shoulders, slid her feet into stilettos and fastened them. Unlocking the front door, she positioned herself on the couch, the robe open, in full view of the front door. She closed her eyes and ran a hand softly down her body, lingering over the soft skin, running a finger down her shaved slit, teasing the lips of her sex, feeling moisture as she dipped a finger inside. She sighed deeply, fully opening her legs, spread eagle facing the door, and let her mind take her back to the last time Brad was there.

It had been winter, the cold air bringing a blast of refreshment after the long, hot summer. He had enjoyed his night at Saffire, fought over by the girls, every dancer wanting a shot at his attention. Then, an after party, champagne shared by all, the DJ pumping music through the speakers and turning down the black-lights. Brad had a slew of white-suited chefs take over the kitchen, wheeling in carts full of still-moving lobster. They had all dined, new bottles of bubbly popping every few minutes, eyes starting to shine as the night progressed. And, when the sun started to come up, his limo was put to good use, twelve dancers piling in for a ride home. The car had turned into a sea of sexuality, drunken hands roaming over tan bodies, tops pulled off and bottoms pulled aside. The car sang along to Black Eyed Peas, a sea of naked euphoria. It had emptied slowly—twosomes and threesomes dropped off in the Vegas suburbs. Then it had been just her and him and Lida, a Puerto Rican beauty who had been jockeying for Brad since he bought the club. And they knew, as if by preplanned design, the future of the evening, the limo coming to a stop and all of them spilling out, Brad supporting both of them until they stood, the three of them in her bedroom.

He had stood in front of them, his shirt unbuttoned and untucked, his hair mussed from one too many lap dances. And then they had all feasted, this time not on champagne, but on skin, and somehow, with two of them and one of him, he had made it about them, and they had ended the night entwined as three, their hair spilling over his muscular naked body on her soft bed.

Her body was tightening, responding to her touch, and she was panting by the time the knob turned and the door opened.

♦♦♦

Alexis had texted him, the message coming through as he drove down the suburban highway that led to her neighborhood. The text was short, indicating the door was unlocked and he could come right in. The text should have alerted him, should have warned him of what to expect, but it didn’t, and he opened the door to silver stilettos leading to glistening legs, open and spread for him, her fingers inside her, the pink of her sex framing her motion, her eyes opening and meeting his, a heavy gaze that instantly communicated her need.

Fuck.

He stepped inside and shut the door.

I let out a quiet breath. Willed my body to loosen, willed my tense muscles to stop telegraphing my stress. Why was this so difficult? Maybe I could blame it on the fact that we were in a bedroom instead of a spa. But more likely it was the tan Adonis whose hands were feeling a little too perfect. Mr. De Luca left very particular instructions. Trouble. I was definitely in trouble.

My nervousness melted a little with his movements, confident strokes of sensuality, attending to safe areas: my hands, forearms, and biceps. When he moved higher, I tensed; his hands kneaded me back to butter, his focus on my neck and shoulders. He slid his hands into my hair, used his fingers to massage and release tension. I exhaled, my lips parting slightly, and he traveled, a scent of candlewood and eucalyptus trailing behind him, and ended up at my feet, starting at my soles and working upward.