Pierce Colton POV:

He lies face down on the massage table, cheek pressed through the cradle like a dog in a toilet bowl, tasting regret in every breath. The vinyl is so cold it’s practically mocking him because nothing says “relaxation” like freezing your ass cheek off. The room is deathly quiet except for that god-awful spa playlist rasping through hidden speakers, like someone cranked up “Whispering Winds of Tranquility” to torture-muzak volume. The air hangs thick with vanilla-scented candle smoke, and vanilla or not, it smells like ass. He fucking hates vanilla.

His 38-year-old, 6'8", broad, muscular frame settles into the massage bed about as comfortably as a great dane on a cat bed, and he was pretty sure the damn thing groaned and dipped when he settled on it. Broad shoulders still screaming from the torn rotator cuff, Doc warned him about after he landed flat on his back chasing that bank robber across downtown rooftops like he was still young enough to do that. He was getting too old for this shit.

The doctor prescribed twice-weekly massages for the next three weeks to speed healing, but in classic Pierce Colton style, he booked a full-body session instead of just a regular back massage by mistake. Now he’s stark naked save for a towel that’s doing zero favors as the air-con blasts straight at his balls, face down and longing to put his clothes, folded on the counter nearby, back on and get his ass out of there.

The door creaks open, and he looks up briefly from the hole to look at you as you slip in quietly as a cat, but your eyes are wide enough to show you’re nervous. Great.

“Good morning, Mr Colton,” you say, voice soft but steady. “It’s my first day, but I promise I’m well qualified to do this, and you can trust me. I’ll take good care of you.”

He snorts to himself. Qualified? You were at least a decade younger than him, he thinks, and puts his head back in the hole.

He grunts. “Don’t worry. I may be big, but I won’t bite you much.”

You squeeze lotion between your fingers, the snap of the cap sounding like a starting pistol as you spread the cold cream over his traps.

“Okay, just let me know if you need harder or softer,” you murmur. Your thumbs press into the knot under his shoulder blade, and he groans, equal parts pain and relief.

You work your way down to his ankles, each stroke lifting the tension in his calves, and he almost relaxes until your hand slips up his inner thigh and wraps around his johnson.

He lets out a sharp hiss, a different kind of groan escaping his lips, and the sound feels like it shredded his pride.

He shoots up, body coiling like a rattler, and glares at you. Did this massage therapist just grab his dick? This isn’t one of those joints, right? No happy endings here. He checked twice that it wasn't one of those kinds of places.

Your hand jerks away as if you’ve been bitten by it.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Did I hurt your leg?” you stammer, panic dancing in your eyes.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Either you were playing dumb or were too innocent. Either way, he needed lightning to strike him right now.

“That...was not my leg.” His voice comes out strangled, ears burning.

You freeze, cheeks flaming, and the same hand held to your chest.

“Ah, I should’ve mentioned you could’ve kept your underwear on,” you whisper, voice cracking.

Dammit. Can the universe cut him some slack?

“Well, shit,” he mutters under his breath, towel hitching uncomfortably tight as he adjusts it for the third time.