Page 3 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

My body goes tight. So damn tight. And then it snaps.

Heat rushes through me. My thighs twitch. My fingers ball into fists. My toes curl against the sheet.

Icome.

Right there on the table. Without warning.

I stare at the floor beneath the face cradle, blinking at nothing, brain wiped blank.

For a second, I think I imagined it. Maybe I dissociated so hard I hallucinated an orgasm. That’s a thing, right? That could be a thing. Please, for the love of all things holy, let that be a thing.

But then the aftershocks roll through me. A wave of heat. A throb between my legs. The unmistakable hum under my skin that says this happened. It was real. And now I have to live with it.

I haven’t come that easy…ever. This man didn’t even touch my lady bits. How could this have happened?

Alright, Lola. Calm down and get your shit together, girl.

I do not, in fact, get my shit together though.

I spiral further.

My mind flashes back to when I was fourteen. I had this stuffed bear, soft and squishy and worn from years of sleeping with it. I would lie on top of it, pressing against it, barely moving, just enough to build friction. I remember my heart racing, my legs shaking, and my whole body humming with this delicious release I didn’t know how to explain.

This moment—this accidental, embarrassing unraveling under a stranger’s hands—feels the same.

Except worse.

Because now I know exactly what it is.

And I have no idea if he noticed.

He had to.

Hehadto feel the way my entire body tightened all at once and then just released. He’s a trained massage therapist, for fuck’s sake.

I lie there, completely still, willing my pulse to calm down and my skin to cool off. Neither one cooperates. My heart isthudding like I just sprinted a mile, and there’s heat flooding up my neck and between my legs.

I hold my breath and try to recenter. The only thing worse than climaxing on a massage table is drawing attention to the fact that I climaxed on a massage table. If I can just stay still—breathe evenly—maybe we can both pretend it didn’t happen.

He takes his hands off me for a moment, and I wonder what’s going on. Is he getting more massage oil? Or taking a sip of water?

And then?—

“Let me know if you need a minute to come down.”

The words land in my ear with the force of a wrecking ball.

My eyes snap open.

I can’t see his face from this angle, thank god. I keep my head buried in the cradle like it’s going to shield me from the fact that I may never emotionally recover from this moment.

I don’t move. I can’t move.

Everything in me locks up again, but this time, it’s not from pleasure. It’s pure, red-hot mortification.

I manage a small nod, and he resumes. There’s not a single flicker of anything other than calm, capable professionalism.

And yet.