I turn quickly before he can read anything more in my face and walk toward my bedroom, hyperaware of him following a few steps behind. I push the door open wider, revealing the king-sized bed with its fresh gray sheets and the stack of clean towels on the nightstand. The evidence of my anticipation is so fucking obvious that I want to crawl under the bed and die.
“This will work,” Riley says, setting his bag down at the foot of the bed. He pulls out his portable face cradle and a few bottles of oil, arranging them on the nightstand. “Sit on the edge of the bed, please.”
I perch on the mattress, trying to look casual and failing miserably. Riley stands in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, subtle and clean. It makes my mouth water.
“Take off your shirt and pants,” he instructs.
The command in his voice sends a shiver straight down my spine and into my groin. I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, tossing it aside. I stand briefly to shove my joggers down, grateful that I decided to wear underwear today—black briefs that at least provide some barrier between his clinical gaze and my semi-hard dick.
“Good,” Riley says, and the simple praise lights up something in my chest. “Let me check your shoulder.”
His hands are on me then, firm and professional as they guide my arm through various positions. I focus on my breathing, trying not to react to his touch.
“Much better,” he murmurs. “You’ve been doing the exercises?”
“Yeah. And the salt baths. Dry sauna after workouts too.”
Riley hums in approval. “And meditation?”
I snort. “Tried it. That app you recommended? The guy’s voice made me want to punch a wall. Couldn’t focus on relaxing with him droning on about ocean waves and shit.”
Riley’s mouth quirks upward. “That’s fine. Meditation isn’t for everyone. There are plenty of other techniques.” His hands move from my shoulder to my neck, thumbs pressing into tight muscles at the base of my skull. “Lie back, please. We’ll start on your front today.”
I sink back onto the mattress as Riley reaches for a bottle of oil. He warms it between his palms before placing his hands on my chest. The angle is awkward—he’s standing beside the bed, having to lean over to reach me properly.
“This isn’t going to work,” I say. “You’ll wreck your back.”
Riley frowns. “The angle is a bit challenging.”
“Just sit on the bed. I don’t care if it’s not how you usually do this. Your back will be fucked otherwise.”
He hesitates, and I see the professional boundaries reshuffling in his head. Finally, he nods and perches carefully on the edge of the mattress beside me, his hip against mine. The shift in position brings his face closer to mine, and I look away quickly, not trusting myself to maintain eye contact.
His hands return to my chest, slick with oil, and begin working the muscles there with confident strokes. Something about his touch instantly dissolves the tension in my body. It’s like my muscles recognize his hands before my brain does, yielding to him without resistance.
A sound escapes my throat as his thumbs dig into a particularly tight spot—something between a groan and a sigh. Riley doesn’t acknowledge it, just continues his methodical work, moving from my chest to my arms, then to my abs. Each press of his fingers sends warmth radiating outward, and I find myself sinking deeper into the mattress, my breathing slowing, my mind emptying of everything but the sensation of his hands on my skin.
My cock stiffens in my briefs, the fabric doing little to hide my arousal. Riley’s eyes flick to it once, then away, his expression unchanged. He continues working on my lower abdomen, his fingers skating dangerously close to the waistband of my underwear.
“Turn over, please,” he says after a few more minutes.
I roll onto my stomach, grateful to hide my erection from view, though the pressure of the mattress against it sends a jolt of pleasure through me. Riley shifts position, standing again towork on my back. His hands slide up from my lower back to my shoulders, focusing extra attention on my right side. I bury my face in the mattress, muffling the sounds I can’t seem to hold back.
His touch is knowing, confident, finding places in my body I didn’t even know needed attention. Each stroke of his hands loosens something in me—not just physically but deeper, like he’s dismantling the armor I’ve worn my entire life.
Riley works his way down my back, then moves to the foot of the bed. His hands wrap around my foot, thumbs pressing into the arch in a way that makes my entire leg tremble.
“Fuck,” I breathe into the mattress.
“The feet contain pressure points connected to the entire body,” Riley explains, his voice clinical despite the intimacy of his touch. “Tension here can affect your shoulders, your back, even your jaw.”
I don’t respond, can’t find words as he works his way up my calves to my thighs. His hands move higher, thumbs pressing into the backs of my legs, working steadily upward until he reaches the edge of my briefs.
“I need to massage your glutes. May I remove your underwear?”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Yeah,” I manage.
Riley hooks his fingers into the waistband of my briefs and tugs. I lift my hips to help him, and then I’m naked on the bed, completely exposed to him. My face burns with embarrassment, but my cock throbs with anticipation.