If he just blatantly grabbed her inner thigh—right then, right there—sure, she might let out a moan.
One. Just one. And that would be it. A single hit, no combo, no critical strike. A waste of an opportunity.
No, Rae knew better than to blow his load of massage power all at once.
He had to improvise. Strategize. Tease her like a sinful monk with a holy mission and a dirty mind.
So he changed his game.
What he came up with was something devilish.
Two slow, deliberate sets of teasing massages over her toned, travel-worn legs.
Smooth strokes. Occasional detours. Just enough pressure to draw out soft gasps from her throat, but never enough to break her defenses.
He flirted with her nerves. Danced around her inner thighs like a demon tempting a nun.
Sometimes, his hands dipped inward—barely skimming the warm skin of her inner thigh.
Featherlight. Wicked. Enough to make her twitch, shudder, gasp.
But not moan. Not yet.
