I almost hesitate to ask, but I break down. “Begin what?”
Helena smiles. “Everything.”
We’re awakened by gentle alarm clocks at seven-thirty, and it’s surprisingly easy to wake up despite having stayed up late sipping wine and talking after the most amazing dinner of Chilean sea bass and some type of risotto. We mainline coffee, sip orange juice, and put on the spa robes that we’ve been told to wear today.
When our liaisons, Becky and Dana, arrive at our doorstep, we’re eager to see what’s in store for us. As it turns out, Helena wasn’t exaggerating. We start with dips in the mineral waters, then move inside for facials and waxing and—because Becky whispers to me that Mr. Stark requested it—I even submit to a little more intimate wax. Not Brazilian, because ouch, but by the time I leave the waxing room, I have a neat landing strip that looks more professional than the shaving and Nair job I’ve managed all these years. My legs are smooth, my brows are fabulously shaped, and we move on to our choice of mud baths or seaweed wraps.
I go with the mud, because my mother never allowed me to play in the mud as a kid, and the tubs are outside. Jamie does, too, and so we lay back in our squishy beds of mud with glasses of sparkling water in our hands and cool cucumbers on our eyes. We don’t talk—by this time we’re both limp and relaxed—but it’s amazing just soaking up the luxury. So much so that I almost moan in protest when they help us out, scraping the mud off us with things that look like miniature shower squeegees, and then lead us to another mineral spring, which relaxes us even more and cleans us off.
After that, a cold dip wakes us up again, and then Jamie and I are led inside for a delicious lunch. Afterward we get to sit side by side for manicures and pedicures.
The last official spa treatment for the day is a massage. After that, we’re told we can go back to our bungalow or look over the activity list. Everything from hiking to horseback riding to yoga to golf. Fresh clothes will be waiting for us. Linen slacks and tops courtesy of the resort.
We part ways to go to our private massage rooms, and the masseuse, a woman with arms so defined I’m sure she must have been a professional athlete at some time, guides me to the table. She picks out an oil with just a hint of spice and I nod agreement. It’s unusual, but edgy, and it reminds me of Damien.
Oh yes, he is getting such a thank-you for this surprise.
I strip down and slide under the sheet. The table is the kind with a cutout for your face, and I lay limp, eyes closed, my body more relaxed than it’s been in a long time. “Just my back and arms and calves, please,” I say. “Not my thighs.”
“Of course.” She puts on music, and we begin. Her hands are like magic, and as she works the tightness out from along my spine, I’m pretty sure that I’ve gone to heaven.
Her touch is strong, but not so much as to be uncomfortable, and soon I’m drifting. Not really asleep, but not really there, either. I feel it when she takes her hands off me, then hear the clink of bottles as she gets more oil. I hear another click I can’t identify, and I lay still, waiting for her to continue with the massage.
When she puts her hands back on me, they feel different. Larger. Stronger. My body realizes the truth before I do, and my pulse kicks up. Damien.
I smile at the floor but say nothing as his oiled hands glide over me, working the kinks from my body, making me relaxed, making me squirm with desire.
He works my arms, paying attention to each little finger, which turns out to be so desperately erotic that I feel the tug of each stroke between my legs. Then he eases his strong hands down my back and over the towel that covers my ass and thighs. He draws his hands firmly down the back of each leg, then strokes the sole of each foot, and now I do moan with pleasure.
He drives me just a little bit crazy before moving on to each toe and then, finally, turning his attention to my calves. Long, gentle strokes, higher and higher until I feel his fingers grazing the edge of the towel, then easing my legs apart so he can direct his strokes even higher.
I am going completely crazy now, and it’s all I can do not to lift and twist my hips. I’m wet and I want him and I’m determined not to say anything but to just lay there and enjoy the moment. But oh, God, I want to feel him inside me.
I’m sure he knows how much he’s teasing me, and he pushes the towel up to massage my hips with firm, even strokes. He does the same to my inner thighs, coming so deliciously close to my cunt that I think I’m going to scream with frustration every time he dips near but doesn’t touch me.
Then I feel the soft brush of his fingers against my sensitive clit. The firm stroke of his hand over my slick heat. His fingertip dances circles over my clit and I can’t help it, I moan with the pleasure of it. And then it’s as if the world has slipped away and I’m nothing but this tiny point of sensation concentrated between my thighs, building and building, higher and faster, until I can’t take it anymore and I shatter in his hand.
“Damien,” I whisper. I am spent. My body is liquid. There’s no way I’m ever moving again.
I hear his low chuckle, then feel the press of his lips at the nape of my neck. “I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am that you knew it was me.”
When I am no longer a limp noodle and can actually compel my limbs to function, I get off the table and back into my robe. Damien and I leave at the same time, and Jamie’s door opens as we’re passing. She looks between me and Damien, then glances sideways at her masseuse, a tall blond man with large, capable-looking hands.
“You know,” Jamie says dryly, “nothing personal, but I don’t think I got the same level of service that she did.”
To his credit, the masseuse smiles. “Come,” he says, gesturing for her to follow.
“That’s the problem,” she mutters to me as she passes, “I didn’t.”
Back in the bungalow, I start to change into the linen outfit, but Damien has brought a peasant style skirt and matching blouse for me. I put it on, enjoying the way the loose cut of the material feels over my newly polished and primped skin.
He taps on Jamie’s door and tells her that he’ll be seeing me back to Los Angeles. She’s welcome to stay another night. Edward will be back to fetch her at nine in the morning. Jamie’s thank-you is so enthusiastic it borders on embarrassing, but Damien just tells her she’s very, very welcome.
“What are we doing?” I ask as we walk the path toward the front parking area.
“Celebrating,” he says, and I can tell from his enigmatic smile that I’m not going to get more of an answer than that.
I expect to see his uber-expensive car with the odd name, but apparently Damien wasn’t kidding about having three Ferraris. A glossy black one is parked right in front of the reception area.
“I thought you might like to take her for a spin,” he says.
I gape at him. “Seriously?”
He nods.
“Seriously?” I repeat, and this time he laughs. He opens the driver’s door for me and motions for me to slide in. “Just start slow.” His grin turns wicked. “But it’s no fun if you keep it slow.”
The bucket seat hugs me and I sigh as I wait for Damien to get in on his side. “Is she new?”
“No, why?”
Helena smiles. “Everything.”
We’re awakened by gentle alarm clocks at seven-thirty, and it’s surprisingly easy to wake up despite having stayed up late sipping wine and talking after the most amazing dinner of Chilean sea bass and some type of risotto. We mainline coffee, sip orange juice, and put on the spa robes that we’ve been told to wear today.
When our liaisons, Becky and Dana, arrive at our doorstep, we’re eager to see what’s in store for us. As it turns out, Helena wasn’t exaggerating. We start with dips in the mineral waters, then move inside for facials and waxing and—because Becky whispers to me that Mr. Stark requested it—I even submit to a little more intimate wax. Not Brazilian, because ouch, but by the time I leave the waxing room, I have a neat landing strip that looks more professional than the shaving and Nair job I’ve managed all these years. My legs are smooth, my brows are fabulously shaped, and we move on to our choice of mud baths or seaweed wraps.
I go with the mud, because my mother never allowed me to play in the mud as a kid, and the tubs are outside. Jamie does, too, and so we lay back in our squishy beds of mud with glasses of sparkling water in our hands and cool cucumbers on our eyes. We don’t talk—by this time we’re both limp and relaxed—but it’s amazing just soaking up the luxury. So much so that I almost moan in protest when they help us out, scraping the mud off us with things that look like miniature shower squeegees, and then lead us to another mineral spring, which relaxes us even more and cleans us off.
After that, a cold dip wakes us up again, and then Jamie and I are led inside for a delicious lunch. Afterward we get to sit side by side for manicures and pedicures.
The last official spa treatment for the day is a massage. After that, we’re told we can go back to our bungalow or look over the activity list. Everything from hiking to horseback riding to yoga to golf. Fresh clothes will be waiting for us. Linen slacks and tops courtesy of the resort.
We part ways to go to our private massage rooms, and the masseuse, a woman with arms so defined I’m sure she must have been a professional athlete at some time, guides me to the table. She picks out an oil with just a hint of spice and I nod agreement. It’s unusual, but edgy, and it reminds me of Damien.
Oh yes, he is getting such a thank-you for this surprise.
I strip down and slide under the sheet. The table is the kind with a cutout for your face, and I lay limp, eyes closed, my body more relaxed than it’s been in a long time. “Just my back and arms and calves, please,” I say. “Not my thighs.”
“Of course.” She puts on music, and we begin. Her hands are like magic, and as she works the tightness out from along my spine, I’m pretty sure that I’ve gone to heaven.
Her touch is strong, but not so much as to be uncomfortable, and soon I’m drifting. Not really asleep, but not really there, either. I feel it when she takes her hands off me, then hear the clink of bottles as she gets more oil. I hear another click I can’t identify, and I lay still, waiting for her to continue with the massage.
When she puts her hands back on me, they feel different. Larger. Stronger. My body realizes the truth before I do, and my pulse kicks up. Damien.
I smile at the floor but say nothing as his oiled hands glide over me, working the kinks from my body, making me relaxed, making me squirm with desire.
He works my arms, paying attention to each little finger, which turns out to be so desperately erotic that I feel the tug of each stroke between my legs. Then he eases his strong hands down my back and over the towel that covers my ass and thighs. He draws his hands firmly down the back of each leg, then strokes the sole of each foot, and now I do moan with pleasure.
He drives me just a little bit crazy before moving on to each toe and then, finally, turning his attention to my calves. Long, gentle strokes, higher and higher until I feel his fingers grazing the edge of the towel, then easing my legs apart so he can direct his strokes even higher.
I am going completely crazy now, and it’s all I can do not to lift and twist my hips. I’m wet and I want him and I’m determined not to say anything but to just lay there and enjoy the moment. But oh, God, I want to feel him inside me.
I’m sure he knows how much he’s teasing me, and he pushes the towel up to massage my hips with firm, even strokes. He does the same to my inner thighs, coming so deliciously close to my cunt that I think I’m going to scream with frustration every time he dips near but doesn’t touch me.
Then I feel the soft brush of his fingers against my sensitive clit. The firm stroke of his hand over my slick heat. His fingertip dances circles over my clit and I can’t help it, I moan with the pleasure of it. And then it’s as if the world has slipped away and I’m nothing but this tiny point of sensation concentrated between my thighs, building and building, higher and faster, until I can’t take it anymore and I shatter in his hand.
“Damien,” I whisper. I am spent. My body is liquid. There’s no way I’m ever moving again.
I hear his low chuckle, then feel the press of his lips at the nape of my neck. “I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am that you knew it was me.”
When I am no longer a limp noodle and can actually compel my limbs to function, I get off the table and back into my robe. Damien and I leave at the same time, and Jamie’s door opens as we’re passing. She looks between me and Damien, then glances sideways at her masseuse, a tall blond man with large, capable-looking hands.
“You know,” Jamie says dryly, “nothing personal, but I don’t think I got the same level of service that she did.”
To his credit, the masseuse smiles. “Come,” he says, gesturing for her to follow.
“That’s the problem,” she mutters to me as she passes, “I didn’t.”
Back in the bungalow, I start to change into the linen outfit, but Damien has brought a peasant style skirt and matching blouse for me. I put it on, enjoying the way the loose cut of the material feels over my newly polished and primped skin.
He taps on Jamie’s door and tells her that he’ll be seeing me back to Los Angeles. She’s welcome to stay another night. Edward will be back to fetch her at nine in the morning. Jamie’s thank-you is so enthusiastic it borders on embarrassing, but Damien just tells her she’s very, very welcome.
“What are we doing?” I ask as we walk the path toward the front parking area.
“Celebrating,” he says, and I can tell from his enigmatic smile that I’m not going to get more of an answer than that.
I expect to see his uber-expensive car with the odd name, but apparently Damien wasn’t kidding about having three Ferraris. A glossy black one is parked right in front of the reception area.
“I thought you might like to take her for a spin,” he says.
I gape at him. “Seriously?”
He nods.
“Seriously?” I repeat, and this time he laughs. He opens the driver’s door for me and motions for me to slide in. “Just start slow.” His grin turns wicked. “But it’s no fun if you keep it slow.”
The bucket seat hugs me and I sigh as I wait for Damien to get in on his side. “Is she new?”
“No, why?”
