Chapter 11
Kellan
I ignored the text from Deacon Manchester, founder and CEO of Florida Faces—his third text of the day. Damn, I thought as I puttered around the patio of Carla’s spacious loft, trying to get everything just right before she got home from work. The little fucker’s persistent!
Ever since my star turn on the catwalk for Sidelines Sports Apparel made the front page of Male Model Magazine last week, Deacon had been texting me. Non–fucking-stop! The dude was obsessed, and I couldn’t say I wasn’t flattered.
Still, I couldn’t complain about life with Carla at Miami Models, either. Since rocking a day-glow life vest and a snorkel for Sidelines Sports, she’d been keeping me busy—in and out of the office.
For now, admiring the rooftop view, I muted my text messages and called up the sexy, chill, Tantric playlist I’d been compiling all day. Setting the volume to background noise, I set the phone amidst a smattering of funky votive candles, adding to the romantic scene on top of Carla’s cloistered patio. The tropical night was sultry and I had long abandoned the silk shirt I’d worn to Carla’s after work that day.
Now, I strolled around in drawstring pants—and not much else—sliding a fresh bottle of wine into the ice bucket next to the long, padded table I’d put up an hour earlier. I was just starting to line up the fragrant body oils I’d picked up at a specialty store earlier that day, when I heard her key in the door.
Quickly pouring a glass of wine, I had it ready and waiting as she strolled curiously onto the rooftop deck. Her beautiful face was less than amused, despite my obvious efforts.
“Kellan,” she whined, accepting the glass graciously. “This is all very romantic, but it’s been a long day and…”
“All the more reason why you need this,” I insisted, taking her free hand and leading her to the temporary massage table. An old friend had left it behind months ago, and it had been sitting unused in a back room since. Nearly stumbling over it while looking for something earlier that morning, I’d been inspired to put it to good use.
Sipping her wine, Carla sighed dramatically. “Is that what I think it is?”
I laughed, reaching for my own glass. “If you think it’s a long, padded gateway into the type of erotic ecstasy you’ve never felt before, then yes, it’s exactly what you think it is.”
She smirked, finally letting her ever-present messenger bag slide off her shoulder. “I think it’s a fold up massage table one of your ex-girlfriends probably left behind when you dumped her and now you figured you could put it to good use on your latest squeeze,” she said knowingly, with a smile. “But I have to admit—the idea sounds pretty amazing, too.”
I grunted, topping off both our glasses of wine. “I know you’ve had a long day, Carla. I know you’re probably tired of having me around, ‘pawing’ at you night and day…”
She held up a hand. “I wouldn’t say I’m tired of the ‘pawing’ part,” she teased, sipping her wine.
“I just can’t help myself,” I admitted.
She rolled her eyes. “I already said your idea sounded good, Kellan, you don’t have to keep piling on the lines.”
“Good,” I said, putting my wine glass down on the patio table. “Because I’ve never been very good at lines.”
She waved her hand at the results of my efforts over the last hour or more, openly admiring the hanging bulbs, the twinkling lights in the bushes, the flickering candles and chilled bottle of wine.
“Who needs lines,” she purred, “when you’ve clearly gone to so much trouble? I’m flattered.”
I reached for her glass, taking it from her hand and putting it on the table next to mine. “Don’t be flattered, just be naked.” Her impromptu snort of laughter made all the effort more than worth it.
She stood in front of me defiantly, hands on her hips. “I don’t know which spa you go to, pal, but all the masseurs I’ve been to provide undressing as part of their service.”
I made a grand flourish, bowing slightly at the waist and rolling my arm in the air in her general direction. “Forgive my oversight, Madame, allow me…” She’d dressed simply for the day, in a black skirt and sleeveless silver blouse. Her auburn up-do looked to be held in place with a pair of simple chopsticks, offering me an unbroken view of her delicate shoulders as I gently slid down the straps of her blouse.
I could feel the tension of the day already easing along with her first item of clothing. I left her black bra on for now, and slowly unzipped the back of her skirt. Her panties were black and sheer, clinging firmly to the pale skin of her curvy backside. I slid the skirt down and off her legs, folding it carefully and laying it on top of a nearby chair.
Smiling, I gently eased off each high heel, before standing and unclasping her lacy black bra. It gave way with a practiced ease, offering me a front row view of her full, womanly breasts.
I resisted temptation, patting the top of the table, rather than devouring her right then and there. She seemed surprised by my restraint, and dutifully slid, face first, on top of the massage table. I heard a soft sigh of contentment ease from her lips, and that was before I reached for the imported bottle of tropical warming oil.
It was silky and smooth on my palm before I rubbed it on the soft patch of skin between her delicate shoulder blades. Unlike most of the women I’d been with, Carla’s skin was smooth and ink-free, making it almost more exotic than the miles of tattooed skin I’d savored over the years. It quickly grew slick and glossy beneath my oiled fingers, the candle light flickering in the reflection of her skin.
She was a supple and pliant client, lying flat on top of the table and both verbally and physically responsive to my every touch. By the time I’d made it down to the waistband of her panties, gently dragging them over and off her glorious round ass, I saw her wetness had darkened a spot on her panties. I ignored the more obvious erogenous zones below her waist, and gave my attention instead to her long, willowy legs.
By the time I was through with them, the backs of her thighs glistened with an oily sheen, her calves glowed beneath the pale moonlight and even her feet had been carefully and reverently worshipped, heel to toe and back again. I paused in my work to admire the view, almost regretting that it was now time to turn my attention toward the equally erotic tableau that awaited me once she turned over.
When at last I patted her shimmering ass, the universal masseuse sign for “Roll over and let’s get down to business,” she steadfastly refused. Instead, she turned her head to face me, and issued a counter offer.
“Why don’t we see if those expert hands can make me come without rolling over, huh, pretty boy?”
Cocking one eyebrow, I smacked her ass playfully, gladly accepting the personal challenge and eager to surprise my skeptical boss with the joys of a dick-free orgasm.