Portsmouth Pearl
"Naval officer Commander Jacobs hasn't been with a woman in years. When thick Kenyan masseuse Amara works on his shoulders, she offers to work on other tensions too."
Commander Jacobs' back was a disaster. Twenty-five years in the Royal Navy had left him with knots on top of knots.
"Deep tissue," the spa receptionist had recommended. "Amara's the best."
She was. She was also gorgeous—Kenyan, thick and strong, with hands that found every point of tension and pressed until he groaned.
"You carry a lot of stress, Commander."
"Comes with the job."
"Mmm." Her hands moved lower, working his spine. "When was the last time someone touched you? Really touched you?"
He couldn't remember.
"My wife left five years ago. Since then..." He trailed off.
"Since then, nothing?"
"The Navy doesn't leave much time for romance."
Her hands paused. "That's very sad. A man your age, still strong, still handsome. Going to waste."
"I wouldn't say waste—"
"I would." She moved around the table to face him. "Turn over."
He obeyed, suddenly very aware of his body's response to her touch.
"Ah," she said, noticing. "Not all of you is tense, I see."
"I apologize—"
"Don't." Her hand rested on his chest. "It's natural. A man's body knows what it needs, even when his mind doesn't."
"Amara, this isn't appropriate."
"Probably not." Her hand traveled down. "But I make my own rules in this room. And I think you need this more than any massage."
She gripped him through the towel, and he couldn't suppress a groan.
"Five years is too long, Commander. Let me help."
She stripped efficiently—her uniform falling away to reveal curves that made his mouth water. Full breasts, soft belly, thick thighs built for gripping.
"You're beautiful," he breathed.
"I know." She climbed onto the massage table with him. "Now let me show you what you've been missing."
She rode him right there on the padded table, rolling her hips with practiced skill. He gripped her waist, lost in sensation.
"That's it. Let yourself feel it. Let go."
He came faster than he wanted to, years of tension releasing in one explosive moment. She smiled, not stopping.
"Again. You have more in you."
She was right. Her mouth and hands coaxed him back to life, and then she was riding him again, slower this time.
"Yes," she breathed. "There you go. Now you're getting it."
The second time was better. The third was transcendent. By the fourth, he was begging.
"Please, Amara—"
"Please what?"
"I can't—"
"Yes you can. One more. For me."
Afterward, she lay beside him on the narrow table, both of them breathing hard.
"Same time next week?" she asked.
"I have deployments. Unpredictable schedule."
"Then whenever you're in port." She traced patterns on his chest. "I'll make time for you, Commander. A man like you deserves proper care."
"Is that what this is? Care?"
"What else would you call it?" She kissed him softly. "You needed release. I provided it. That's my job."
"Your job description is very... comprehensive."
She laughed. "Only for the right clients."
He saw her every time he returned to Portsmouth. Sometimes for actual massages, sometimes for other things. Often both.
"People will talk," he warned.
"Let them. The Navy wives already think I'm a witch who steals husbands." She grinned. "Might as well give them something to gossip about."
Commander Jacobs retired at sixty with a healthy back, a relaxed demeanor, and a Kenyan masseuse who'd become much more than that.
"What do you call what we have?" his daughter asked at his retirement party, watching Amara across the room.
He smiled. "Therapeutic."
More therapeutic than any treatment the Navy had ever provided.