Happy Ending [Men of Smithfield]

Excerpt:
The covers were gently placed back on my shoulders, and I was gripped with a firm hand on either arm, then the sides of my waist, hips, thighs, and then calves, until the blanket was drawn up and away. My left side out in the open air, ass down to my foot completely bared. The coolness of the air was lost to the heat coursing through my veins as those tantalizing hands kneaded the muscles of my thigh with determination and indisputable skill.

I groaned again, utterly turned on. Oh man. It was almost like the guy was doing this on purpose. I glanced over my shoulder only to see him caressing warm massage butter into the pale flesh of my inner thigh. His fingertips disappearing in that crevice, nearly touching my balls. His hands were smaller than I thought, but broad. His head was bent slightly, curls framed the frown on his brow, and even in that get up, even now noticing that ridiculous earbob—or whatever it was called, a gauge?—I wanted to fuck him. Hard. The words Boy Butter began to hum inside me. I plopped my head back down.

Oh, this was not good and completely out of character, even for me. At least this past year.

“Mr. Weston? Everything all right?” David’s voice was as sultry as smoke in the room.

I rolled my forehead against the head rest trying to get a grip. “Fine.”

“Because we can stop if you’re feeling uncomfortable.”

“I said fine.” No surrender.

Screw it, I lifted up and set my dick straight. Why not? It wasn’t as if this guy didn’t know what kind of equipment we both had. Or were interested in. I figured we were on the same page with our sexual orientation. I tried not to stroke off, just got more comfortable and then sprawled, boneless, onto the table. In for a penny; in for a pound. If nothing else, my body was in the game and my mind was off my troubles.

“Keep going.”

The massage therapist continued his work by sweeping his slicked hands down my thigh, and along the length of my calf. He worked the shea butter into the sensitive skin of my heel and then over my hypersensitive foot. Thumbs dug into the tender arch and holy mother of pearl, I reared up off the bed in exquisite pain and pleasure as the ache was funneled straight down my body and out through my toes. “My God. Again.”

I was panting.

“Excuse me?”

“Do that again. That was amazing.” I was starry eyed and breathless.

“Uh. Are you okay?” He seemed worried. This is what he did for chrissake, and now he was alarmed that I was enjoying it?

“Fine. Do it. Again.”