Captivated by the Tycoon (The Whittakers #4)(23)
Author: Anna DePalo

Now was a different matter, though, and she couldn’t hide the signs of how he affected her. She felt small and delicate next to him, but rather than being daunted by the difference in their size, she was turned on by it.

He picked her up and laid her on the bed. Then he retrieved a tube from the pocket of his suit jacket, as well as a familiar-looking foil packet.

At her questioning look, he said, “Massage.”

She’d never had a massage before. Just the thought of his hands kneading her all over sent her senses into overload.

She watched as he squeezed some sweet- smelling lotion from the tube and rubbed it between his hands.

“Apparently,” he said conversationally, as if he wasn’t about to get to know her inch by inch, “the use of massage oils contributes to the calming and soothing benefits of the massage.”

“Really?” she croaked as he kneeled beside her on the bed.

He arched a brow. “Are you going to turn over?”

She hesitated.

“I dare you.” Then he nodded at her underwear. “Bra and panties optional.”

She was scared of disappointing, but also so turned-on her fingers were shaking.

In the end, rampant need won out, and she fumbled with the clasp of her bra.

When the bra fell away from her—the rustle loud in the silence—he sucked in a breath, his pupils large, his eyes dark.

“Lovely,” he murmured.

She slipped off her underwear and flipped over before she lost her courage.

He straddled her and placed his hands on her back.

A ripple of sensation went through her.

“I’ve been told,” he said, his voice low, “the secret to a great massage is confident hands.”

His hands stroked down her spine toward the middle of her back, then swiveled outward toward the sides of her rib cage, before coming back up again.

“This is called an effleurage stroke,” he said as he repeated the motion. “It’s to loosen up and soothe.”

He went through the motion again and again, his rhythm hypnotic.

She sighed. She didn’t care what they called it. It was heavenly.

His hands shifted direction, massaging in a spiraling circle, first on one side of her body, then on the other.

She felt herself unwind. The massage felt wonderful.

“When did you learn to do this?” she said, her voice muffled as she rested her head on her crossed arms.

He gave a quiet laugh. “Yesterday. I’m trying out my technique for the first time.”

She lifted her head and glanced over her shoulder at him. “Yesterday?”

“I bought a book on massage therapy and flipped through it last night.”

She turned back around and laid her face sideways on her hands. “You were planning this?”

“Let’s just say I was hopeful.” He added, “If you’d been around when I was reading, I never would have gotten to the end. The urge to test out the instructions would have been irresistible.”

She wondered how she should feel about his planning this, then decided she was feeling too good to bother continuing to analyze it.

She felt loose. His magical hands lulled her into a state in which she was both acutely aware and yet entranced by what he was doing.

His thumbs pressed along her spine, working their way down in small circular motions.

“This,” he said, “is a petrissage stroke. It releases tension.”

Umm was all she could think.

He used similar moves on one leg, then on the other. “They’re techniques of Swedish massage.”

“Umm.” She took a deep breath. “I have Swedish ancestry.”

“A petite brunette like you?”

She heard the smile in his voice.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” she responded. “The rest is a mix of Welsh and French. What about you?”

“Pure Boston blue blood,” he admitted, his tone regretful. “One predecessor came over on the Mayflower.”

“Just one?”

“Well, that’s if you don’t count the rumored infidelities.”

She smiled.

“So, I’m curious,” he said. “What have you learned from these years of being a matchmaker?”

“About?” She nearly moaned as his fingers worked at a knot near her shoulder blades.

“About the difference between men and women.”

She could feel his arousal and thought fleetingly about giving him the obvious answer. “You really want to know?”

“I really want to,” he said in confirmation.

“Well…after an argument, women are too upset to have sex, while men only want to have sex.”

She heard him laugh low in his throat.

She sighed. “This is wonderful.”

“I could’ve used massage toys, but I prefer to use my hands.”

She had no complaints about his hands.

He leaned in and asked, “What was that?”

Realizing she must have spoken out loud, she mumbled, “No complaints.”

His hands were square and firm. Perfect.

After what seemed like hours, he turned her over and massaged her from the front, starting with her feet and working his way up, using his lips as well as his hands.

An eon passed, and she drifted in and out of sensible thought, moaning as he did incredible things to her.

Each time she thought he would take her, however, he found another part of her to fascinate him.

“Feel good?” he said thickly, once or twice.

“Yes,” she responded, her voice breathy and shallow.

“Remember, learn to ask for what you want.”

And she did, slowly, hesitantly, but gradually with more confidence. At one point, he used some lubrication, and if possible, she relaxed even more.

Eventually, he rolled to his side, and she heard the rustle of foil being ripped.

She felt like wax melting around a candle, and he braced himself on his arms above her.

“Okay?” he said hoarsely.

She was too boneless to make a coherent reply, causing him to chuckle.

He positioned himself and entered her slowly, giving her time and letting them savor the moment.

It was lovely, she thought hazily. Rather than a tumultuous storm tossing waves onto bleak cliffs, this was a joyous roller-coaster ride under sun showers.

He kissed her long and deep. His hands were everywhere, touching, soothing and sampling the texture of her skin and bringing her to life in her most secret places until, suddenly and unexpectedly, her senses rioted and she blossomed like a flower under the sun.