Her breath hitched when his thumbs dug into the small of her back, just above the towel's edge.
The scent of almond oil mixed with the quiet hum of the room's ventilation, the kind of sound that faded into nothing if you stopped paying attention.
She was face-down on the table, her fingers curled loosely around the edges of the padded surface, her body already softening under his hands.
"You always find the worst knots," she murmured into the cradle of her forearms.
He didn't answer, letting the slow drag of his palms along her spine do the talking.
Her skin was warm, smooth where it wasn't marked by tension—those tight ridges along her shoulders, the stubborn resistance near her hips.
His fingers traced them like a map, pressing just hard enough to make her exhale sharply before the tension unspooled beneath his touch.
The towel shifted as he worked lower, slipping slightly where her waist curved inward. He didn't adjust it. Neither did she.
"Would you like the deeper one today?" His voice was low, barely more than a rumble, as his thumb dipped into the ridge where her ass met her thigh, pressing just enough to make her hips twitch against the table.
The question hung in the air between them, oil-slick and deliberate.
She didn't answer right away, but the way her breath hitched told him everything.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the edges of the table, knuckles whitening for a fleeting second before she relaxed again—deliberately, as if reminding herself not to seem too eager.
He didn't wait for words.
His hands moved with practiced ease, gliding down to the swell of her hips, fingers spreading to cradle the curve of her body.
The towel had slipped further now, pooling just above the dimples at the base of her spine. He nudged it aside with his wrist, exposing the taut skin beneath, and she shivered when the cooler air brushed against her.
"You're quiet," he murmured, kneading the flesh of her thighs now, working inward with slow, deliberate circles. "Usually you tell me to stop by now."
A soft, muffled laugh escaped her, half-buried in the cradle of her arms. "Maybe I'm curious."
He chuckled, the sound warm and knowing as his palms slid lower, fingertips brushing the sensitive dip where her thigh met her hip.
"Curiosity's dangerous," he murmured, tracing idle patterns there—just enough pressure to tease, not enough to relieve.
She shifted slightly, her breath uneven against the table's leather. The air between them thickened, heavy with almond oil and something else, something unspoken that coiled low in her belly.
Then—
The vibration of her phone buzzed against the table's surface, a jarring interruption to the quiet rhythm of the room.
Her body tensed beneath his hands, shoulders tightening as she lifted her head slightly, eyes flicking toward the screen. The caller ID flashed—*Husband*—bright and insistent.
Her fingers snatched the phone before the second buzz could finish, her body jerking upright so fast the towel slid completely off her back, pooling around her waist.
The sudden movement broke the warmth between them like a snapped thread—oil-slick skin meeting cool air, the quiet rhythm of the room shattered by the tinny ringtone.
"Hello?" Her voice was too bright, too quick, the kind of tone people use when they're trying to sound unruffled.
He stepped back, wiping his hands on the cloth tucked into his waistband, watching the way her shoulders hunched slightly as she listened. The table creaked under her shifting weight, the leather sighing where her nails had dug in moments before.
"No, no—just finishing up," she lied smoothly, her free hand tugging the towel higher, though it did nothing to cover the flush still spreading down her spine. Her husband's voice crackled through the speaker, indistinct but insistent.
The air conditioner kicked on overhead, a sudden gust lifting the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.
She glanced at him then—just a flicker of eyes, dark and apologetic—before turning away, her bare feet curling against the stool's edge.
"I'll be home soon," she promised, softer now, and something in her posture wilted when he answered. The call ended with a muted click, leaving the room drowning in silence thicker than the oil on her skin.
She looked at him, her lips parting slightly before she murmured, "Sorry, I have to go. Guests are coming home."
Her fingers lingered on the edge of the towel, knuckles pressing into the table like she was steadying herself—or stopping herself from reaching for something else entirely.
He nodded with a smile, smooth and practiced, though his voice dropped lower when he answered, "Of course. Come anytime."
Then, deliberate, he let his gaze flick downward, just for a heartbeat, where the fabric of his trousers strained against his erection. A silent, unmistakable punctuation.
"Though I'd say you'll have to pay extra next time," he added, the words curling at the edges with something darker, "for what we didn't finish on this table."
Her breath caught audibly, and the flush that had been creeping down her chest deepened, spreading like spilled wine. She didn't look away—not immediately—her eyes darting to the tent in his pants before snapping back up to his face, her lips pressing together like she was biting back a response.
Then, abruptly, she pushed off the table, the towel slipping further as she twisted away, her movements hurried but not quite graceless.
"I—I should clean up," she muttered, half to herself, and all but fled toward the bathroom, her bare feet padding against the floorboards.
He watched her go, the sway of her hips unguarded now, the dimples at the base of her spine flexing as she moved. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone in the oil-scented quiet. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders before adjusting himself with a wry twist of his mouth.
----
The bathroom door creaked open, and she emerged dressed—blouse hastily buttoned, skirt smoothed down—but still carrying the slick sheen of oil along her collarbones, the faint pink imprint of his fingers lingering above her hips.
She hesitated by the doorway, her purse dangling from one wrist, the other hand lifting to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Then, with a quick glance toward the still-closed front door, she stepped close enough that he caught the fading warmth of her skin, the ghost of almond oil clinging to her breath as she leaned in.
Her lips brushed his—light, almost chaste—but the tip of her tongue darted out to wet his lower lip at the last second, a fleeting promise.
"Compensation," she whispered, already pulling away, her heels clicking against the floor as she hurried out before he could react. The bell above the door jingled, then fell silent.
He stood there for a long moment, thumb swiping absently at his mouth where her kiss had lingered. The room still smelled of her—warm skin and something floral beneath the oil—but the table was empty now, the leather marked by the indent of her body.
He exhaled through his nose and turned toward the bathroom, rolling the kinks out of his wrists as he went. The mirror was fogged at the edges when he flicked the light on, condensation clinging to the edges from her shower.
He caught his reflection—the dark amusement in his eyes, the lazy smirk—and reached for the faucet, scrubbing the oil from his hands with practiced efficiency. The water ran hot, steam curling around his forearms as he rinsed away the traces of her.
----
The water dripped from his wrists as he stepped out of the bathroom, the scent of antiseptic soap replacing the lingering almond oil.
He was halfway through toweling his hands dry when the air shifted—something sharp, something wrong. The hairs on the back of his neck rose before his eyes even registered the figure standing motionless by the massage table.
Black from head to toe, gloved fingers curled around the matte finish of a suppressed pistol. The intruder didn't fidget, didn't blink. Just stared.
"Who—"
The gun fired twice. A muffled *thup-thup*—like someone dropping a book onto a carpet.
The impact slammed him backward, his shoulder blades hitting the bathroom doorframe before he slid down, legs folding beneath him. Warmth bloomed across his chest, seeping through his shirt, sticky and insistent.
His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The edges of his vision darkened first, tunneling inward until all he could see was the masked man stepping closer, the barrel of the gun tilting downward to aim between his eyes.
"Target is dead." The voice was mechanical, filtered through a mask.
A crackle of static, then a reply: "Good job."
The world tilted sideways as his head lolled against the doorframe. The pain was distant now, like a radio playing in another room.
His thoughts unraveled—why? who?—but the questions dissolved before they could fully form. The last thing he heard was a sound like static, but beneath it, a voice—not the killer's, not human at all—crystalline and cold:
[System Awakening initiated...]
Then nothing.
----
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