“You’re holding a lot of tension here,” I murmur, using my elbow to work a particularly stubborn knot.
“Fuck,” he hisses, but it doesn’t sound like pain.
His groans grow more frequent, less restrained. Each one sends a jolt straight to my groin, making it increasingly difficult to maintain professional distance. My pants grow tighter, and I have to shift my stance to accommodate my growing erection.
“I need you to turn around now,” I say, stepping back to give him space. “Lean back against the backrest.”
Jacob hesitates, then slowly swings his leg over the bench to face me. As he leans back, I see why he hesitated—he’s hard too, his erection tenting the front of his sweatpants. A small wet spot has formed on the fabric.
Our eyes meet briefly, and I see the same mix of embarrassment and arousal from our last session. Only this time, neither of us looks away.
“I’m going to work on the anterior deltoid and pectoral muscles now,” I explain, coating my hands with more oil.
Jacob nods, his eyes closed. I place my hands on his shoulders, working my way down to his chest. I try to avoid his nipples, remembering how responsive he was last time, but it’s impossible to work the pectoral muscles thoroughly without coming close. His breathing becomes shallow as my hands move across his chest, his hips shifting subtly.
“Why does it…” he murmurs, almost to himself, “why does it feel so good when you touch me?”
He bites his lower lip hard enough to turn it white, shame coloring his face. His eyes flutter open, meeting mine with raw vulnerability that knocks the wind out of me. His gaze drops to my crotch, where my arousal is undeniable.
“Fuck,” he curses, his hand moving to his own erection, tugging at it through his sweatpants.
My hands have stopped pretending to be therapeutic. They caress rather than treat, sliding across his chest. Before I can stop myself, I brush my thumbs across both nipples simultaneously.
Jacob’s head falls back, his eyelids fluttering. “Christ,” he gasps.
I do it again, harder this time. His hand moves faster against his clothed erection, his breathing ragged.
“It’s never—” he pants, “—never felt like this before. With anyone.”
The confession hangs between us, heavy with implications. I should stop. I should step back, apologize, maintain boundaries. Instead, I watch as Jacob hooks his thumbs into his sweatpants and pushes them down, freeing his cock. It’s thick and flushed, curving up toward his stomach, the head glistening with precum.
“Touch me,” he says, his words a mix of demand and plea. “Please.”
My body moves before my brain can process. My hand, slick with oil, wraps around him. He hisses at the contact, his hips bucking upward.
“Fuck, yes,” he groans as I begin stroking, finding a rhythm that makes his thighs tense beneath me.
Jacob’s hands grip the edges of the bench, his knuckles white with the force of his hold. His abs contract with each stroke, muscles rippling beneath tanned skin. I tighten my grip, twist on the upstroke the way I like it myself, and am rewarded with a choked gasp.
His head turns, his eyes finding our reflection in the mirrored wall. The sight inflames him further: his massive body spread out before me, my hand working his cock with confident strokes. His eyes lock with mine in the mirror.
“Holy fucking shit,” he breathes, transfixed by our reflection. “I’m going to—I can’t—”
“Do it,” I command, surprising myself with the authority in my voice. “Let it go, Jacob.”
Jacob’s back arches off the bench, a harsh cry tearing from his throat. My name falls from his lips as he pulses in my hand. Hot ropes of come paint his chest and stomach, the orgasm going on and on as I milk every last drop from him.
When it finally subsides, he collapses back against the bench, his chest heaving, looking up at me with glazed eyes. Before I can move away, his hand shoots out, grabbing my belt and pulling me closer. I stumble forward, caught off guard by his strength even in his post-orgasmic state.
His fingers work my belt open with surprising dexterity, popping the button on my slacks and lowering the zipper in quick succession. I don’t stop him. I watch, breath held, as he tugs my underwear down just enough to free my aching cock.
Jacob looks up at me through thick lashes, awe mixed with hunger on his face. His hand wraps around me, his callused palm creating delicious friction.
“Christ,” I gasp as he begins stroking, his grip firm and confident.
He doesn’t tease or draw it out. His strokes are hard and efficient, intended to bring me to the edge as quickly as possible. After the buildup of working on his body, feeling him come apart under my hands, I’m already close. When his thumb swipes over my sensitive head, collecting the wetness there and using it to smooth his strokes, my control slips.
“Jacob—” I warn, but it’s too late.