Page 2 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

I turn my head slightly to take a peek.

There is a literal golden god standing next to me.

He’s tall—really tall—with a lean, surfer build kind of thing going on. His dirty-blonde hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck, a little messy, but it totally works. Perfect amount ofstubble on his jaw. His eyes are warm, maybe hazel or green or something in between, and he’s wearing a soft-looking T-shirt that hugs his chest and biceps.

Of course my massage therapist looks likethat.

When I haven’t been touched by a man in way too long.

Because the universe is mean that way and I’ve obviously done something to piss it off..

“Do you need anything before we get started?”

Somehow I manage to shake my head no.

“Let me know about the amount of pressure you like,” he says. “I’m happy to make adjustments.”

I nod again. Apparently this man has struck me mute.

It’s fine. This is fine. I can do this.

But then his hands are on my back.

And nothing is fine.

He presses into the exact places I carry tension without fumbling or second-guessing. My entire body leans in without hesitation.

I didn’t know just how touch-starved I was until this moment.

My traitorous brain begins to wander.

First to how long it’s been since I’ve had sex. And we’re not even going to talk about how long it’s been since I hadgoodsex.

Then to the idea of letting him flip me over and wreck me. He clearly knows what to do with his hands. I'd bet he's spectacular in bed.

The fantasy begins to build even though I’m trying desperately to evict it from my thoughts.

I’m still face-down, doing my best to stay grounded, but every pass of his fingers pulls me in deeper. There’s nothing suggestive in the way he touches me. Nothing that crosses a line. But my body doesn’t seem to care. It keeps leaning into the pressure.

He works slowly, methodically. One shoulder, then the other. Long sweeps down my spine that make me want to moan out loud. Every muscle he touches loosens—and every body part he leaves behind aches for more. I try to breathe through it, focus on the rhythm, the calm, but it’s no use. All I can think about is having sex with him.

God, I bet he's hung. Men with hands this skilled, this confident—they always are. I picture myself sinking down onto him, taking him inch by delicious inch, watching his face as I do.

I'd set the pace—slow at first, savoring the stretch and fullness of him inside me. Then faster, grinding down, chasing that perfect angle. His hands would travel up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts before cupping them entirely.

"Is the pressure okay?" he asks, snapping me back to reality.

"Perfect," I manage to say, my voice embarrassingly breathy. Thank god he can't read my thoughts.

He moves to my lower back, and I have to stifle a moan. The pressure is exquisite, bordering on painful in the best possible way.

"You're carrying a lot of tension here," he observes, his thumbs pressing into a particularly stubborn knot.

And then—he moves lower.

His thumbs dig deep into the muscles just above my glutes, pressing with a kind of focused pressure that hits hard and holds.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.