The masseuse's hands moved lower, kneading the tension from my spine.
I'd never experienced anything like this. The heat, the pressure, the way skilled fingers found every knotted muscle and coaxed it into submission.
A soft exhale escaped before I could stop it.
"Good," the masseuse murmured. "Let go."
I tried. My body melted into the table, surrendering to the rhythm of her movements.
But my mind wandered elsewhere.
Through the screen's silk, I heard Haejun's quiet breathing—the subtle shift of his body against padded leather.
The masseuse's hands pressed into my lower back.
I imagined different hands. Larger. Rougher.
Haejun's fingers tracing the same path down my spine, learning every curve, every secret place I'd kept hidden.
Heat pooled low in my stomach.
I willed my mind to stop.
But the fantasy persisted—Haejun leaning over me, his weight a promise rather than a threat, his touch claiming rather than therapeutic.
