She booked for a massage but he & his friend wanted so much more

The rain started just as I pulled up to the address. Not a gentle, romantic drizzle, but a hard, angry downpour that hammered against the roof of my old Volvo. The wipers slapped back and forth, frantic, doing little to clear the view of the iron gate and the sleek, modern monstrosity of a house behind it.

Of course, I thought. High-powered client. Of course he lives in a glass box on a hill.

The text had come through my booking site two days ago. Simple, direct. No pleasantries.

*Elijah Thorne. Require in-home deep tissue. 90 mins. Tuesday, 8 PM. Address attached. Budget is not a concern.*

I’d almost declined. I don’t usually do evenings. I don’t usually do in-homes for new clients. There’s a safety in the studio, a professional distance. The lighting is soft, the music is neutral, the boundaries are clear. But the fee he’d quoted was… persuasive. It was three times my usual rate. Enough to cover my rent for the next two months. Enough to quiet the constant, low-grade hum of financial anxiety that was my default setting.

So I’d typed back, Confirmed. See you then.

And now I was here, in the pounding rain, feeling a knot of something—nerves, anticipation, dread—tighten in my own shoulders. I was my own worst client. I could work the tension out of anyone’s body but my own.

I gathered my gear—the portable table, my bag of oils, linens—and made a mad, soaking dash for the covered entrance. The door was massive, dark stained wood with a single, vertical brushed-steel handle. It swung open before I could even ring the bell.

He stood there, backlit by the stark, cool light of the entrance hall. He wasn’t what I’d expected. I’d pictured someone older, thicker, softened by wealth. Elijah Thorne was all sharp lines and contained energy. Maybe mid-thirties. He was tall, a good head taller than me, and lean, dressed in simple black trousers and a grey henley that clung to a frame that was more wiry strength than bulk. His hair was dark, a little too long, and looked like he’d been running his hands through it. His face was all angles—a strong jaw, a blade of a nose, and eyes so dark they seemed to absorb the light around them. He held a crystal tumbler with an inch of amber liquid in it.

“You’re the therapist.” It wasn’t a question. His voice was a low baritone, a vibration I felt in my chest.

“Lena,” I said, shifting the weight of the table. “Yes. Sorry I’m late. The rain…”

He glanced past me at the deluge, then back at me. His gaze was a physical thing. It didn’t feel like he was checking me out; it felt like he was assessing me. Cataloging. The water dripping from my hair onto my jacket. The way I held my equipment. The slight tremor in my hands from the cold.

“Come in,” he said, stepping aside. “You’re wet.”

An understatement. I dripped onto the polished concrete floor. The entrance hall opened into a vast, open-plan living space. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of the city lights below, now blurred and smeared by the rain. The interior was all minimalism and cold luxury: concrete, steel, leather. It was stunning, and utterly soulless. It felt more like a museum exhibit than a home. There was no clutter, no personal photos, no worn-in couch. Just a stark, beautiful emptiness.

“You can set up there,” he said, gesturing with his glass toward a cleared space near the windows. The rain streaked the glass like tears.

I nodded, my professional mask snapping into place. “Of course. I’ll just need a few minutes.”

He didn’t offer to help. He just watched as I unfolded the table, laid out the fresh sheets, arranged my bottles of oil—sandalwood, lavender, eucalyptus. I was hyper-aware of his eyes on my back, on my movements. I usually worked in a flow, a practiced dance. Now I felt clumsy. My fingers fumbled with the strap on my bag.

“Can I get you anything? Water?” he asked, though his tone suggested it was a formality he’d read in a manual on hosting.

“I’m fine, thank you.” I kept my voice even, professional. Therapist voice. Calm, reassuring, slightly detached. “For the session, I’ll need you to change into something comfortable. Shorts, or… you can disrobe to your comfort level underneath the sheet. I’ll step out.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “There’s no need to step out. This is my home. Privacy isn’t an issue.”

Something in his tone, a subtle challenge, made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. “It’s standard procedure,” I said firmly.

He gave a slight, dismissive shrug and turned to walk down a hallway, presumably to a bedroom. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The air in the room was cool, but my skin felt warm.

I dimmed the overhead lights, leaving on a single floor lamp in the corner, casting the room in deep shadows. The city glittered below us, a silent, electric show. I warmed the oil between my palms. The familiar scent of sandalwood filled the space, a small piece of my world invading his.

He returned wearing a pair of black athletic shorts. He moved with an unnerving quietness. He didn’t say a word, just looked at the table, then at me.

“Please, lie face down,” I said, pulling the sheet back. “We’ll start there.”

He did, settling onto the table with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. For the first time, I saw it. The story his body was telling. It was a map of tension. The muscles of his shoulders and back were rigid, ropy with strain, locked into a permanent state of alert. I could see the knots even before I touched him.

I draped the sheet over his lower body. My hands hovered just above his skin for a second. A ritual. Centering myself. Connecting.

Then I made contact.

My palms, slick with warm oil, pressed flat against the broad plane of his upper back. The second I touched him, I felt him jolt. A sharp, involuntary intake of breath. His skin was hot, almost feverish, and the muscles beneath were like granite.

“Jesus,” he muttered into the face cradle.

“Just breathe into it,” I said softly, my voice dropping into the rhythm of the session. “The muscles are guarding. They need to remember how to let go.”

I began to work. Deep, slow, gliding strokes to spread the oil and warm the tissue. He was silent, but his body was screaming. Every muscle fiber was clenched, resisting. This wasn’t just physical stress. This was a fortress. This was a man who carried his armor under his skin.

I leaned into him, using my weight, not just my strength. My thumbs found the first major knot, a hard, angry lump right at the medial border of his right scapula. A classic. The “I carry all my stress right here” knot. I applied steady, unrelenting pressure.

He sucked in another sharp breath, his entire body tensing further.

“Elijah,” I said, and the use of his first name felt strangely intimate in the dark, quiet room. “You have to breathe. You’re fighting me.”

“It’s my job to fight,” he grunted, his voice muffled.

“Not here it’s not.” My voice was firmer now. “Your job here is to surrender.”

A beat of silence. The rain lashed against the glass. The word hung in the air between us. Surrender. I felt the moment something shifted. A subtle release, a giving way. He exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that seemed to come from the very depths of him. And under my hands, the rock-like muscle began to soften. Just a fraction. A millimeter of trust.

“That’s it,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the rain. I worked the knot, feeling it slowly, grudgingly begin to melt under my persistent pressure. My fingers learned the landscape of him. The ridge of his spine, the powerful sweep of his latissimus dorsi, the surprising softness of the skin at the small of his back, just above the line of his shorts.

I lost track of time. The session became its own universe. The smell of sandalwood and warm skin. The sound of our breathing and the storm outside. The sight of my hands, pale against his olive skin, moving with a knowledge that felt deeper than conscious thought. I worked down his body, his arms, his powerful forearms—a climber’s arms, I thought—his hands. His fingers were long, elegant, but calloused. Working hands. A contradiction.

When I gently took one of his hands in mine to work the palm, he flinched again.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Ticklish.”

But it wasn’t ticklish. It was sensitive. It was vulnerable. I held his hand, applying a firm, grounding pressure to the center of his palm. He let out another slow breath, and his fingers uncurled, relaxing into my hold. It was an act of profound trust. More intimate, in a way, than anything else we’d done. This powerful, guarded man, letting me hold his hand.

“Turn over, please,” I said softly, after I’d worked every line of tension from his back.

He moved slowly, languidly, like a man waking from a deep sleep. I rearranged the sheet, draping it across his hips and waist. Now I could see his face. His eyes were closed, his dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. The harsh, assessing lines of his expression had smoothed out. He looked younger. Softer. Open.

I warmed more oil in my hands. My gaze traveled over his chest, the defined pectorals, the flat planes of his abdomen. A light dusting of dark hair traced a line down from his navel, disappearing beneath the sheet. My mouth went dry. This was part of the job. Bodies were my medium. I’d seen hundreds. But this felt different. This felt… charged.

I started on his shoulders again, working the remaining tension from his pectoral muscles. My fingers brushed against the side of his breast, and I felt his heartbeat, a strong, rapid rhythm under my touch. My own heart was hammering in response. The professional distance I clung to was thinning, becoming透明.

I worked on his neck, my fingers sliding into the thick hair at his nape. His scent was different here. Clean sweat, the faint, expensive scent of his soap, and something else, something uniquely, essentially him. Musky. primal. I had to fight the urge to lean closer, to breathe him in.

My thumbs stroked up the column of his throat, finding the tight cords there. His head lolled back, offering himself to me. A silent submission. A low, almost inaudible sound escaped his lips. A groan of pure, unadulterated relief.

The sound went straight through me, a lightning bolt to my core. Heat pooled low in my belly. My professional intent was blurring, mixing with something else, something raw and hungry. I was supposed to be reading his tissue, but all I could read was the wanting in my own body.

I moved down to his arms, his hands. When I took his left hand again, his eyes opened.

He looked at me. Really looked at me. The assessment was gone, replaced by a dark, startling intensity. A question. He watched my face as I massaged his palm, my thumb pressing into the center, my fingers laced with his. The air crackled. The space between us shrunk to nothing. It was just his gaze, and my hands, and the frantic beating of my heart.

I lost my rhythm. My breath hitched. I was supposed to be guiding him, but I was the one who was lost.

His other hand came up. Slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. His fingers, warm and slightly rough, wrapped around my wrist. Not tight. Not restraining. Just… holding. Connecting.

“Lena.” My name on his lips was a different sound altogether. Not a label. A caress.

I stopped moving. I couldn’t breathe. The storm outside had quieted to a soft patter.

“You have incredible hands,” he said, his voice a low rasp. He turned my hand over in his, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist, right over my frantic pulse. He could feel it. He knew. “They’re… perceptive.”

“It’s… it’s my job,” I whispered, the words sounding weak, foolish.

“Is it?” he asked, his dark eyes holding mine. “Or is this who you are?”

He continued to stroke my wrist, a slow, hypnotic rhythm. My skin was on fire. Every nerve ending was screaming. The logical part of my brain, the professional part, was shouting warnings. Boundaries. Ethics. Get out.

But the rest of me, the 25-year-old woman who lived in a cramped apartment and whose deepest desires were often buried under a mountain of responsibility and fear… that part of me was leaning in.

He sat up slowly, the sheet falling to his waist. We were eye to eye now, our faces inches apart. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. I could smell the sandalwood on mine, mixed with his own scent. It was dizzying.

“The session is over,” I said, but it came out as a question.

“Is it?” he asked again, and this time, the hint of a smile was back, but it was different. Softer. Knowing. “I paid for a lesson in surrender. I don’t think I’ve quite mastered it yet.”

His free hand came up and cupped my cheek. His touch was electric. A jolt went through my entire system. I should have pulled away. I should have packed my things and walked out into the rain.

Instead, I leaned into his touch. I closed my eyes. A small, broken sound escaped me. A surrender of my own.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. His breath was warm on my lips. “And I will. Right now. This ends.”

I opened my eyes. I saw the question in his. I saw the want, mirroring my own. But I also saw the respect. The offer of a choice. It was that, more than anything, that undid me.

I didn’t tell him to stop.

I leaned forward and closed the infinitesimal space between us.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a collision. A release of all the tension, the charged energy, the unspoken want that had been building in the room for the last hour. It was heat and hunger and sandalwood. His lips were firm, insistent. His hand slid from my cheek into my hair, holding me to him. My hands, my perceptive, traitorous hands, came up and flattened against his chest. I could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart under my palms, a rhythm I now felt pounding in my own veins.

He broke the kiss, both of us gasping for air. His forehead rested against mine. Our eyes were closed. We were just two people, breathing each other in in the half-light.

“Stay,” he whispered. It wasn’t a command. It was a request. A plea.

The professional was gone. The boundaries had dissolved. All that was left was the raw, thrilling, terrifying truth of the moment.

“Yes,” I heard myself say.

He moved then, sliding off the table, keeping one hand entwined with mine. He led me away from the massage table, away from the windows, down the dark hallway. The house was silent except for the sound of our footsteps and our breathing. He pushed open a door.

His bedroom was different from the rest of the house. It was still minimalist, but it felt lived in. A large, low bed dominated the room, unmade, the sheets a tangled mess of dark grey linen. Books were stacked on a nightstand. A single, framed photograph of a mountain range stood on a dresser. It felt like him. The real him, hidden away from the curated perfection of the main house.

He turned to me, his eyes searching mine in the dim light filtering in from the hallway. The confidence he’d worn like a cloak was gone. He looked… uncertain. Vulnerable.

“I don’t do this,” he said, his voice rough. “Just so you know.”

“Neither do I,” I admitted.

It was all the permission we needed.

His hands came up to the zipper of my jacket. He pulled it down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room. He pushed the wet fabric from my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His eyes never left mine. His fingers went to the buttons of my simple black tunic, the one I wore for work. He undid them, one by one, with a painstaking slowness that was its own form of torture. His knuckles brushed against the skin of my stomach, and I shuddered.

He pushed the tunic off my shoulders. I stood before him in just my black leggings and sports bra. I felt exposed, but not ashamed. His gaze was worshipful. He saw me. Not the massage therapist. Me. Lena.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, and it sounded like a discovery.

His hands settled on my waist, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the waistband of my leggings. He leaned in and kissed me again, softer this time, deeper. A kiss of exploration. His tongue traced the seam of my lips, and I opened for him, a moan catching in my throat.

My hands went to the hem of his henley. I pulled it up, and he raised his arms, letting me drag it over his head and toss it aside. Finally, skin to skin. My palms flattened against the hard planes of his chest, feeling the crisp hair, the heat, the solid reality of him. He was all lean muscle and taut skin. I leaned in and pressed my lips to the center of his chest, tasting the salt of his skin, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against my mouth.

A groan ripped from his throat. His hands tangled in my hair, holding me to him. “Lena…”

He walked me backward until my knees hit the edge of the bed. I sank down, and he followed me, covering my body with his. The weight of him was exquisite. Solid. Real. He kissed me with a growing desperation, his hands roaming my back, my sides, skimming the edge of my bra. He found the clasp and undid it with an expert flick of his fingers. The garment loosened, and he broke the kiss to look down at me, his eyes dark with want.

He hooked a finger under the strap and pulled it down, slowly, revealing me to him. The cool air hit my nipple, pebbling it instantly. His gaze was hot. He lowered his head and took me into his mouth.

I cried out, my back arching off the bed. The sensation was electric, a direct line from his mouth to the throbbing ache between my legs. He laved me with his tongue, sucking gently, his teeth grazing in a way that made me see stars. His hand came up to cup my other breast, his thumb rubbing circles over the peak.

I was dissolving. Melting under his hands, his mouth. This was a different kind of massage. A deeper intimacy. He was reading my body in a new language, and I was answering him in gasps and moans.

My hands were everywhere—in his hair, down his back, clutching at his shoulders. I pushed at the waistband of his shorts. He understood, rising up on his knees to shuck them off, along with his briefs. He stood beside the bed, gloriously, unashamedly naked in the dim light. He was fully erect, and the sight of him, long and thick and wanting, sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through me.

His eyes were locked on me as he hooked his fingers in the waistband of my leggings and underwear. He pulled them down in one slow, agonizing motion, leaving me completely bare to his gaze. I should have felt self-conscious, but the raw hunger in his eyes made me feel powerful. Desired.

He came back to me, his body covering mine again. The feel of his skin against every inch of mine was overwhelming. I could feel the hard length of him pressing against my thigh. I was wet, aching, ready for him.

He kissed me, deep and soulful, as his hand slid down my stomach, through the curls, and found the heart of me. I gasped into his mouth as his fingers parted me, finding the swollen, sensitive nub. He stroked me, slowly, deliberately, his eyes watching my face, learning what I liked.

“Elijah…” I begged, my hips moving against his hand. I was close already, teetering on the edge. The built-up tension of the entire evening, the professional restraint, the electric charge between us—it was all coalescing into a tight coil in my lower belly.

“I know,” he murmured against my lips. “Let go. Surrender for me.”

His words, the same words I’d used on him, spoken back to me in that dark, rasping voice, were my undoing. The coil snapped. Pleasure, white-hot and blinding, ripped through me. I cried out, my body bowing off the bed, shuddering under the force of it. He held me through it, his hand gentle now, his lips on my forehead, whispering words I couldn’t understand.

As the waves began to recede, I felt him shift above me. I opened my eyes, still hazy with pleasure. He was poised at my entrance, his eyes asking one last, silent question.

I answered by wrapping my legs around his hips and pulling him into me.

He filled me in one smooth, deep stroke. We both cried out at the sensation. It was perfection. A completeness. He was still for a moment, buried deep inside me, his forehead resting against mine, our breath mingling. The connection was more than physical. It felt… fated.

Then he began to move.

It wasn’t frantic. It was slow, deep, and devastatingly intentional. Each stroke was a promise. Each withdrawal an agony. Each return, a homecoming. He held my gaze, our eyes locked as our bodies moved together in a rhythm that felt ancient, innate. The only sounds were our ragged breathing, the soft slap of skin on skin, and the distant, fading rain.

I could feel another orgasm building, deeper this time, coiling from the very core of me. He felt it too. His pace quickened, his thrusts becoming more urgent. His control was slipping. I could see it in the clench of his jaw, the desperation in his eyes.

“Look at me,” he gritted out, his voice strained. “I want to see you.”

I held his gaze as the pressure broke. My name was a prayer on his lips as he came, his body shuddering, pulsing deep inside me. The sight of his surrender, his complete loss of control, triggered my own. My second climax washed over me, a warm, endless wave that left me trembling and boneless beneath him.

He collapsed on top of me, his weight a comforting anchor. His face was buried in my neck, his breath hot against my skin. Our hearts hammered against each other, slowly returning to a normal rhythm. We lay like that for a long time, tangled together in the wreckage of the sheets, in the silence of the big, empty house.

Eventually, he rolled off me, but he pulled me with him, tucking me against his side, my head on his chest. His arm was wrapped around me, holding me close. I could hear the steady, strong beat of his heart under my ear.

Neither of us spoke. Words would have been too much, too soon. They would have broken the spell.

I traced idle patterns on his chest, feeling the relaxed muscle there. The knots were gone. Under my fingertips, he was pliant. Soft. He had surrendered. And in doing so, he had taught me how to do the same.

I must have dozed off, because I woke to the faint grey light of dawn filtering through the windows. The rain had stopped. The city below was quiet. I was still in his arms. He was awake, watching me, his dark eyes soft and unguarded.

“Hi,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

“Hi,” I whispered back.

He didn’t ask me what it meant. He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. He just leaned over and kissed me, a slow, tender kiss that tasted of morning and possibility.

And in that moment, in the quiet aftermath of the storm, it was enough. It was everything.

The memory of that first night with Elijah was a ghost that lived under my skin. For a week, I moved through the world in a haze, my body humming with the echo of his touch. The scent of sandalwood on my hands could trigger a full-body flush. The feel of my sheets against my skin at night was a poor, pathetic imitation of the weight of him. I was ruined for my own life.

My studio felt different. Smaller. The neutral colors seemed drab. My clients’ bodies were just bodies—fascinating, intricate maps of tension, yes, but they weren't his. They didn’t come with a pair of dark, assessing eyes that saw straight through my professional veneer to the raw, wanting thing underneath.

When his text came in, a week to the day later, my phone didn’t just buzz. It seemed to vibrate with a specific, familiar frequency that went straight to my core.

Lena. Thursday. 8 PM. My place.

It was so like him. No greeting. No question. A statement of fact. A command he knew I would obey. My thumbs hovered over the screen. I should ask for clarification. A 60-minute or 90-minute session? Just a massage? My professional self screamed for boundaries, for a re-establishing of the lines we had vaporized.

The rest of me, the part that still felt the phantom press of his lips on my neck, typed back: Confirmed.

He replied a second later. Mark will be joining us.

The phone nearly slipped from my suddenly numb fingers. Mark? Professor Evans? My mind spun, a carousel of confused, illicit images. The stern, elegant man from the university, with his kind eyes and careful hands, here? In Elijah’s stark, beautiful house? Joining us. The words were a door swinging open into a room I hadn't known existed.

The two days that followed were a special kind of torture. My focus was shot. I mixed up my oils. I found myself staring into the middle distance, wondering what ‘joining us’ truly meant. Was it two separate massages? A social call afterward? My mind, and my body, kept circling back to the most thrilling, terrifying possibility. The one that made my stomach clench and a slow, heavy heat settle low in my belly.

Thursday arrived cloaked in a nervous, electric energy. I dressed with a ridiculous amount of care, choosing simple black leggings and a draped, dark green top that was professional but felt softer, more feminine, than my usual tunics. I re-packed my bag twice. I added a second bottle of sandalwood oil.

The drive to his house was a blur. This time, there was no storm. The evening was clear and cool, the sky a deep periwinkle. The iron gate swung open silently as I approached. The house looked less like a fortress tonight, more like a sleek predator lying in wait.

I pulled my portable table from the trunk, my hands trembling. I walked to the door, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. Before I could reach for the handle, the door opened.

Elijah stood there. He was dressed similarly to last time—dark trousers, a simple black t-shirt that stretched across his chest. His eyes found mine immediately, and the same intense assessment washed over me. This time, I saw a flicker of something else in their dark depths. Anticipation. A shared secret.

“Lena,” he said, my name a low vibration that I felt everywhere.

“Elijah.” My voice was steadier than I felt.

He stepped aside to let me in. My eyes immediately scanned the vast living room. And there he was.

Mark Evans stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of wine in his hand, looking out at the glittering city. He turned as I entered, and a warm, slightly hesitant smile touched his lips. He looked different outside of his office. He wore dark jeans and a soft-looking navy sweater. He looked younger, more approachable, but the same gentle intelligence shone in his eyes.

“Lena,” he said, his voice a familiar, calming baritone. “It’s good to see you.”

“Professor Evans,” I said, setting my table down. My professional mask was a fragile thing, cracking under the weight of this surreal situation.

“Please, it’s Mark. Especially here.” He took a step forward, his gaze flicking to Elijah, then back to me. There was a nervous energy to him, a slight flush on his cheeks. “I hope this isn’t… terribly unprofessional. Elijah can be very persuasive.”

“He can,” I agreed, my eyes darting to Elijah, who was watching us with a faint, unreadable smile. He looked like a composer about to conduct a symphony he’d been writing in his head for years.

“I assured Mark that your talents should be shared,” Elijah said, moving to a sideboard and pouring a second glass of wine. He brought it to me. Our fingers brushed as I took it, and a spark of electricity jolted up my arm. “And that you are the soul of discretion.”

I took a sip of the wine. It was rich and dark. I needed it. “Of course.” What else was there to say?

“Shall we begin?” Elijah asked, his tone leaving no room for further small talk.

I nodded, setting the glass down. The familiar ritual of setting up my table was an anchor in the increasingly surreal sea of the evening. I unfolded it in the same space by the windows. The city lights twinkled, silent witnesses. I laid out the fresh sheets, arranged my oils. The two men stood watching me, saying nothing. The air was thick with a tension that had nothing to do with sore muscles and everything to do with unspoken desire.

I turned to them. They were both looking at me. Mark’s expression was one of open curiosity and a touch of awe. Elijah’s was pure, smoldering intent.

“For the session,” I began, my therapist voice sounding thin and reedy to my own ears. “I can work on you one at a time, or…” I trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence.

“Together,” Elijah finished for me, his voice leaving no room for argument. “We’re both here for the same thing. A lesson in surrender.” His eyes held mine, and I knew he was recalling my words, throwing them back at me in this new, dangerous context.

Mark shifted on his feet but didn’t object. He just took another sip of his wine, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Okay,” I breathed, the word feeling monumental. “Then… if you’d both like to change. There’s a bathroom just down the hall.” I needed a moment. Just a moment alone to catch my breath, to try and steady the earthquake happening inside me.

They disappeared down the hallway. I stood in the middle of the room, pressing my cool palms to my flaming cheeks. What was I doing? This was career-ending, life-altering madness. I listened to the soft murmur of their voices from down the hall, a low, intimate rumble. Then the click of a door closing.

Silence.

I focused on my breathing. In. Out. I was a professional. I was in control. Even if the situation was utterly, completely out of control.

When they returned, the last vestiges of my professional detachment crumbled to dust.

Elijah wore the same black athletic shorts. Mark was in a pair of dark grey sweatpants and no shirt. The sight of him, bare-chested, was a shock to my system. I’d seen him in tweed jackets and crisp oxfords. This was a different man. His body was leaner than Elijah’s, more elegant, with a swimmer’s build. There was a gentle dusting of silver hair on his chest that trailed down his stomach. He looked vulnerable, and that vulnerability was somehow more potent than Elijah’s raw power.

They stood side-by-side, a study in contrasts. Dark and light. Intensity and calm. Storm and still water.

“Who first?” Mark asked, his voice slightly husky.

“Lie down,” I said, gesturing to the table. “Both of you. There’s room.”

The table was wide enough for two, if they lay on their sides, facing each other. It was an intimate arrangement, but then, everything about this was intimate. They complied, moving with a strange, silent understanding between them. Elijah lay on his right side, Mark on his left, so they were facing each other, their bodies curved like parentheses. The space between them was a charged void.

I draped a sheet over both of them, covering their lower bodies. My hands were trembling. I warmed the oil between my palms, the scent of sandalwood rising like an incense. I stood behind Elijah, placing my hands on his back. His skin was already warm. His muscles, though, were tense. He was holding himself still, controlled.

I began to work on his back, my hands sliding over the familiar terrain of his shoulders. My touch was different tonight. Less clinical. More… exploratory. I was hyper-aware of Mark’s eyes on me, watching my hands move over another man’s body. I could feel his gaze like a physical touch.

I leaned into Elijah, working a knot near his spine. A low groan escaped him, and I felt Mark shift on the table. I glanced over. Mark’s eyes were fixed on my hands, his lips slightly parted. There was no jealousy in his gaze. Only a deep, captivated fascination.

“Your turn,” I murmured to Mark after I’d warmed Elijah’s muscles.

I moved around the table to stand behind Mark. I placed my hands on his back. His skin was softer, smoother than Elijah’s. His tension was different—a high, wiry stress held in his trapezius and neck. He flinched slightly at my first touch, then melted into the table with a sigh that seemed to come from his soul.

“God, that’s incredible,” he breathed, his voice muffled by the table.

I worked his shoulders, feeling the knots loosen under my fingers. I was aware of Elijah watching me now, his dark eyes tracking my every movement. I was the pivot between them. The connection. My hands on Mark’s body felt illicit, a secret shared in front of an audience of one who was very much in on the secret.

I lost myself in the rhythm. The slide of my oil-slick hands over skin. The sound of their breathing, starting to syncopate. The low, approving sounds they made. I moved from one to the other, a minister at a strange altar. I worked on Elijah’s powerful legs, then on Mark’s leaner ones. My hands slid over the curve of Mark’s calf, and I felt him tremble.

The air in the room changed. It became heavier, thicker. The professional massage was slipping away, transforming into something else entirely. It was in the way Elijah’s hand came up to rest on Mark’s hip as I worked on Mark’s back, a silent gesture of connection. It was in the way Mark’s eyes fluttered open and he looked at Elijah, a silent communication passing between them.

I was no longer the conductor. I was part of the orchestra.

I moved to the head of the table. They were both on their stomachs now. I poured more oil, warming it. My hands went to Elijah’s back, then slowly, deliberately, I let one hand slide over to Mark’s, so I was touching them both at once. My left hand on Elijah’s scapula, my right on the small of Mark’s back.

The effect was instantaneous. Both men stilled. A sharp, simultaneous intake of breath. The connection was made. A circuit completed.

I slowly dragged my hands across their skin, a bridge of touch linking them. I saw Elijah’s hand shift again, his fingers stretching until they brushed against Mark’s. Mark didn’t pull away. He turned his hand over, and their fingers laced together there, on the table, under my watchful eye and my moving hands.

The sight undid me completely. Any pretense of this being a simple massage vanished. This was foreplay. This was an awakening.

“Turn over,” I heard myself say, my voice a husky whisper I barely recognized.

They moved in unison, slowly, languidly, as if in a dream. The sheet tented over them. I pulled it back, my heart hammering against my ribs. They lay on their backs, side by side. Both were visibly aroused, the evidence clear beneath the fabric of their shorts and sweatpants. The air was charged with a potent, silent hunger.

I stood at the side of the table, between them. I looked at Elijah, at his dark, burning eyes. I looked at Mark, at his flushed, open, slightly dazed expression. I reached out with two oil-slick hands. One hand I placed on Elijah’s chest, over his heart. The other, I placed on Mark’s.

Their heartbeats hammered against my palms, two frantic, syncopated rhythms. I could feel the heat of their skin, the crispness of Elijah’s chest hair, the smoothness of Mark’s. I stood there, connected to them both, the conduit.

Then I leaned down. I didn’t know who I was going to kiss. The decision wasn’t conscious. I turned my head to the left and brought my lips to Mark’s.

He made a soft, startled sound against my mouth, then his hands came up to cradle my face. His kiss was softer than Elijah’s, more exploratory. It tasted of red wine and curiosity. It was sweet, and hesitant, and then, as I deepened the kiss, deeply passionate.

I pulled back, breathless, and turned to Elijah. His eyes were blazing. I kissed him, and it was like striking a match. It was all heat and possession and knowing. His hand tangled in my hair, holding me to him.

When I broke away, both men were watching me, their chests rising and falling rapidly. I reached for the hem of my top and pulled it over my head. I stood before them in just my black leggings and sports bra. I saw Mark’s eyes darken with desire. I saw Elijah’s jaw tighten with pure want.

My hands went to the waistband of my leggings, and I pushed them down, along with my underwear, stepping out of them until I was standing completely naked between them. The cool air on my skin was a shock, but the heat of their gazes was warmer than any sun.

I was the offering. The catalyst.

I climbed onto the table, kneeling between them. I looked down at their faces, both filled with awe and hunger. I reached out and touched them. My left hand went to Elijah’s stomach, my fingers tracing the line of hair that disappeared into his shorts. My right hand went to Mark’s chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart.

“Let me,” I whispered.

My fingers hooked into the waistband of Elijah’s shorts. I pulled them down, freeing his erection. He lifted his hips to help me. I did the same for Mark, whose hands were trembling slightly as he helped me push his sweatpants down. And then they were both bare before me.

I took them in, these two beautiful, different men. Elijah, thick and hard and demanding. Mark, long and elegant and ready. The reality of it, the sheer audacity, sent a fresh wave of liquid heat between my own legs.

I leaned down first over Elijah, taking him into my mouth. He groaned, a raw, guttural sound, and his hands fisted in the sheets. I loved him with my mouth, tasting the salt and musk of him, feeling him pulse against my tongue. I lost myself in the rhythm, in the sounds he was making.

Then I felt a touch on my back. Mark’s hand. It was tentative at first, then more sure, stroking down the line of my spine. I moaned around Elijah, the vibration making him curse. I pulled back from Elijah, a string of saliva connecting my lips to him for a second before it broke.

I turned to Mark. I saw the nervous anticipation in his eyes. I bent my head and took him into my mouth. He cried out, a sharp, breathy sound of pure surprise and pleasure. His taste was different, cleaner. His hands came up to my hair, not guiding me, just resting there, trembling. He was whispering, “Oh god, oh Lena, yes…”

I moved between them, tasting one, then the other. I was the pivot point, the shared pleasure. I looked up and saw Elijah watching me, his eyes black with lust. He reached out and touched Mark’s arm, a gesture of solidarity, of shared experience. Mark met his gaze, and something unspoken passed between them—a permission, a camaraderie.

Then Elijah moved. He shifted off the table and came to stand behind me. I was still on my knees, my mouth on Mark. I felt Elijah’s hands on my hips, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin. He leaned down, his lips finding the back of my neck, kissing, sucking. I moaned against Mark, who shuddered in response.

Elijah’s hands slid around to my stomach, then up to cup my breasts. He kneaded them, his thumbs rubbing over my nipples, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core. I was writhing between them, caught between the man in my mouth and the man behind me.

“I want to taste you,” Elijah growled in my ear.

He guided me off the table. My legs were weak. He led me to the large, low leather sofa a few feet away. He sat down and pulled me onto his lap, so I was straddling him, facing Mark, who was still lying on the table, propped up on his elbows, watching us with dazed, hungry eyes.

Elijah’s hands gripped my hips, positioning me over his face. Then he pulled me down.

His mouth on me was an electric shock. His tongue was relentless, expert, laving and sucking at my core. I cried out, my head falling back. My eyes found Mark’s. He was watching, mesmerized, his hand slowly stroking his own length. The sight of it, of this elegant, intellectual man pleasuring himself while watching another man pleasure me, was the most erotic thing I had ever seen.

“Elijah…” I moaned, my hands tangling in his hair.

He increased his pressure, his tongue delving deep inside me. I was bucking against his face, losing all control. I was a live wire, and he was the source of the current.

“Come for me,” he muttered against my flesh, his voice thick. “Let him see you come.”

The command, the sheer voyeuristic thrill of it, pushed me over the edge. A scream was torn from my throat as the orgasm ripped through me, violent and shattering. My body convulsed, and I would have collapsed if Elijah hadn’t been holding me up.

Through the hazy aftermath, I felt him shift me. He laid me down on the soft rug in front of the sofa. The city lights glittered above me through the windows. Then Mark was there, kneeling beside me, his face filled with wonder. He leaned down and kissed me, deeply, tasting me on his lips.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice full of reverence.

Then Elijah was there too, lying on my other side. We were a tangle of limbs on the floor, three bodies seeking, exploring. Mark’s mouth found my breast, his tongue circling my nipple while his hand cupped my other breast. Elijah was kissing my neck, my shoulder, his hand sliding down my stomach to where I was still throbbing from my climax.

His fingers found me, stroking me, and I gasped. I was so sensitive, every touch was magnified, electric.

“I need to be inside you,” Elijah breathed in my ear. It wasn’t a demand. It was a raw confession of need.

I looked at Mark. His eyes were on mine, and he gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. A blessing.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Elijah moved over me, positioning himself between my legs. He looked down at me, his eyes locking with mine. I felt the blunt head of him press against my entrance. I was so wet, so ready. He pushed inside me in one slow, devastating stroke, filling me completely. I cried out, my nails digging into his back.

He began to move, a deep, rhythmic pace that stole my breath. Mark was beside us, watching, his hand moving on himself again. Then he leaned over and kissed me, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of Elijah’s thrusts. I was being kissed by one man while being made love to by another. The sensory overload was incredible.

I turned my head, breaking the kiss with Mark, and found Elijah’s lips. I kissed him with a ferocity I didn’t know I possessed. He met my hunger with his own.

Mark’s lips traveled down my body. He kissed my breasts, my stomach, and then lower. He looked up at me, his eyes asking a question. I nodded, breathless. He lowered his head and his tongue found the place where Elijah was moving in and out of me. He licked and suckled, his tongue circling my clit.

The sensation was unbearable. Two sets of hands, two mouths, two men focused entirely on my pleasure. I was being worshipped. I was being devoured. The coil inside me tightened again, impossibly tight.

“I can’t… it’s too much…” I sobbed.

“Let go,” Elijah gritted out, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. “Surrender to us.”

Mark’s tongue worked me in perfect counterpoint to Elijah’s thrusts. The two rhythms merged into one overwhelming wave of sensation. I shattered. My orgasm was a supernova, blinding and all-consuming. I screamed their names into the quiet room, my body convulsing around Elijah, milking him.

My climax triggered his. With a guttural roar, he drove into me one last time, pulsing deep inside me, his body shuddering with the force of his release. He collapsed on top of me, his weight a welcome anchor.

For a moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing. Then I felt Mark’s hand on my cheek. I turned my head to look at him. His face was flushed, his eyes soft. He leaned in and kissed me, a sweet, tender kiss that tasted of salt and shared secrets.

Elijah rolled off me, but immediately pulled me against his side. I lay between them, my head on Elijah’s chest, my leg thrown over his. Mark lay on his side facing me, his hand resting on my hip, his fingers drawing slow, absent circles on my skin.

None of us spoke. The silence was comfortable, filled with the aftershocks of what we’d shared. The city lights continued their silent vigil. I could feel Elijah’s heart slowing under my ear. I could feel the warmth of Mark’s body beside me.

Mark was the first to break the silence. His voice was a soft wonder in the dark. “I’ve never… that was…”

“I know,” Elijah said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. His hand came up to stroke my hair.

I tilted my head back to look at him. His face was relaxed, the usual sharp lines softened. He looked down at me, and for the first time, I saw something in his eyes that looked like peace.

He then looked over my head at Mark. “You okay?”

Mark let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I’m… more than okay. I think I’m reborn.”

Elijah’s chest vibrated with a quiet chuckle. The sound was rich and warm. I felt Mark’s hand squeeze my hip.

We lay there for a long time, tangled together on the floor, in the quiet aftermath of the storm we had created. The boundaries were gone. The masks were off. There was no professor, no client, no therapist. There were just three bodies, three souls, who had found a shocking, beautiful, and utterly unexpected connection in the dark.

Eventually, we moved to the bedroom, a sleepy, sated tangle of limbs. We fell asleep in Elijah’s large bed, me in the middle, surrounded by their warmth and their breath. I drifted off with Elijah’s arm draped possessively over my waist and Mark’s hand resting gently on my shoulder.

I had gone there for a massage, chasing a feeling. I had found something else entirely. Not just one man, but two. And in their arms, I had discovered a new part of myself. A woman who could surrender, and in surrendering, become more powerful than she had ever been.