Love and Neckties - Lacey Black Page 0,55

too much force.

“Excuse me?”

“Why are you massaging a strange woman in my house?” I whisper-yell so said strange woman doesn’t overhear.

“What are you talking about? Priscilla isn’t a strange woman. I’ve been massaging her for years.”

“In my house?”

She crosses her arms, and I can’t help but notice the way her top dips down low. “No, in my house. But since I currently don’t have an apartment, I’m doing it here.”

“Without asking?” I ask, rubbing my forehead and willing the headache forming to go away.

“Umm, did you not tell me to make myself comfortable?”

I throw my hands in the air. “Well, yes, but that was in your bedroom. You know, like put your clothes in the dresser drawers and your books on the nightstand?”

“Well, I only did what you offered me to do. This is how I make money,” she tells me, lifting her eyebrow, as if daring me to argue more.

“I get that,” I grumble, glancing down at my shiny brown leather shoes. “I just thought you went to the massage parlor for, you know, massages.”

She shrugs and heads to the fridge, retrieving a water bottle. “Usually, I do, but some of my clients that I’ve had forever have always come to my place. Priscilla is one of them.”

“One of them?”

“Sure, there’s Sally and Garth Peterman and Emmie Snodgrass, who refuses to wear underwear. Plus, Phyllis Jones and Angel Cays. They both come once a week,” she tells me, making my eye twitch.

“Okay, okay, so I get that you need to work, and apparently, some of that is from home. I think we just need to set some ground rules,” I concede.

Before she can reply, the bathroom door opens. “Hold that thought, Sammy,” Freedom says, patting me on the chest and heading back to the living room.

I follow, but linger in the doorway, leaning a hip against the wood trim. Freedom goes over post-massage details, even though I know she doesn’t need to, and gives her client the bottle of water on her way out the door. Once she shuts the door, Freedom turns and busies herself with picking up the sheets and setting them in a pile to be washed, all while humming along to the sounds of the ocean waves rolling through the speakers, as if you can somehow hum to unheard music. But she does.

When she grabs a Clorox wipe and starts cleaning her table, I say, “Freedom.”

She glances up and smiles. And my heart pounds heavily in my chest. That one simple gesture is enough to bring me to my knees. To beg her to stay. The concept is so foreign to me, I’m not sure what to do with it. Before I even realize what’s happening, she’s standing directly in front of me. Her wide brown eyes gaze up, innocence and desire battling for dominance.

“What?” she whispers, the mintiness of her breath tickling my chin.

Clearing my throat, I try to push all inappropriate thoughts of kissing her—or worse, making love to her—from my mind. That’s not going to happen.

Even if we are technically still married.

Freedom slides her hands up my arms, and even through my dress shirt, I can feel the burn of her touch. My brain starts to malfunction. I can’t seem to think about anything but her. Wanting her. Tasting her. Needing her.

Freedom.

I’m not sure who moves first, but suddenly, my lips are on hers, a hunger I’ve never felt before. No, I take that back. It feels familiar, yet new at the same time. A sudden flashback of kissing her in the shower with the same fervor parades through my mind. My hands on her ass as I press her against the wall, press my cock into her body. It’s the slightest glimpse of a memory, but it’s there, flashing like a neon sign and refusing to leave.

I wrap my arms around her back and pull her against me. My body completely takes over. Desire and demand crash together like two cars in a demolition derby, both fighting for dominance. Freedom goes up on her tiptoes, her chest pressing tightly against mine. She purrs, like a kitten. A sexy kitten in a long blue and paisley skirt and tight pink top.

“This isn’t exactly the ground rules I was planning to discuss,” I grumble, gasping for air.

She’s still in my arms, her nipples hard and pressed against the material of her shirt, pretty much confirming she’s not wearing a bra. Her eyes are even darker, full of her own desire. So, when she