The oil was warm, scented with eucalyptus and peppermint. When Franklin first pressed his palms into my shoulder blades, I let out a gasp that was half-sigh, half-moan. He didn't start gently; he used the full weight of his body, leaning into the strokes, kneading the muscle with a precision that felt surgical.
"You're wound tighter than a clock, Georgina," he murmured.
"I can't... I can't seem to turn it off," I replied, my voice muffled.
"That's because you try to control everything. Your lines, your angles, your life. Here, you don't have to control a thing. Just let go."
His thumbs dug into the trigger points at the base of my neck,
and I let out a sharp, jagged breath.
"Mmm, right there," I whimpered.
"You're shaking, Georgina," he whispered, his breath warm against the shell
