The accusation was true, but Marke didn't fret. Mrs. Olivarez surely would've informed her of the 'special' massages he gave, and knowing there was a reason behind Mrs. Terri agreeing to this massage, Marke wasn't as embarrassed as he usually would've been at her pointing out the mishap.
"It's a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mrs. Terri," he nodded in greeting. "Mrs. Olivera sings praises about you."
"Does she now?" She raised a brow. "After or before you pound her brains out?"
We've been friends since middle school. Was what Mrs. Olivarez had stated in text, and if Ms. Terri was close and trusted enough for her Ola to divulge the affair between Marke and herself, he saw no problem with it.
"I simply give her massages," he smiled. But, still, plausible deniability. Just in case.
"Yeah, well, Ola sang praises about you, too," she said. "About your massages. Though I won't lend it much credence unless I try it for myself. She doesn't have the experience I have in these fields." She motioned to the countertop to his right with her eyes, a red-wine bottle perched atop it. "Will you get me a glass? For yourself, too, if you would like."
"I'm here to give you a massage, lady," he said flatly. "And that's it."
"Oh well." The woman shrugged, sitting upright and pushing herself up with a mischievous smile. He blinked, a brow rising in astonishment; the woman carried a shelf behind her, the outline of her ample trunk-like thighs visible as a dark outline, the robe molding along the dimples of her cheeks as she swayed to the countertop, poured herself a glass, and turned her head to him. "Want one?" She asked.
"No," he replied, taking a breath to calm himself.
"Suit yourself." She returned to the sofa, dark areolas peeking through the robe as light entered through the curtain walls into the room, as she sat down upright and facing him, lips clamping on a side of the rim as she took a swig.
Her eyes clashed with his, and Marke didn't turn away. As he gazed at her, the image of a vicious tiger lying on a white leather couch formed in his mind. "I'm thankful for the offer," he said, her prior words about having ample experience in massages echoing in the back of his mind.
That's right. He thought. With her money, she can get massages from the best in the world.
A worry about his experience not being enough to satisfy her and earn profession points welled up. But he had no more points to invest. You know what? I'm just going to make up for it with the sexual stuff. A man had to make do with what he possessed.
Mrs. Terri scoffed, then looked around him. "Isn't this a massage, Mr. Marke?" She asked. "Am I supposed to just lie here? Where is the equipment?"
Marke didn't need to look around to know he had forgotten it in the trunk of his car. And him being labelled business only meant she didn't want people knowing the true purpose of his visit, which the security guard would certainly find out if he ever bothered opening the trunk. "Hey, will your security look through my car?" He asked.
"Why?" Her brows jumped. "You forgot the equipment in your car?"
"Something like…that." Marke pursed his lips, nodding. That was more shameful than her noticing the twitch through his jeans.
"Incredible," she snickered. "A masseur without a massage table, oil, towels, or anything else for that matter. But, there is no need to worry. He won't look through it. If he does, well, he knows the consequences."
"You speak like a mafioso," he pointed out.
"You work like an idiot," she countered.
"That's rude," Marke said, frowning. "You know it is."
"So?" She asked with a haughty smirk. "What are you going to do about it?"
Marke was starting to sense the intention behind her rudeness. "When I finish the massage, you will certainly be relaxed by then, Ms." He said, taking a step forward and overtly sweeping his gaze over her body.
"Many have tried," Mrs. Terri licked her lips sensually, "but I'm still the same rude vixen, Marke. What will you ever do that's different than any of them before?"
This was a challenge, and not one Marke would back down from. With a wide gait, he was before the woman, the scent of her perfume, shampoo, and lotion an intoxicating cocktail drilling into his nostrils.
Mrs. Terri's glistening lips parted to exhale a short breath, and Marke found himself wondering what they would feel like wrapped around his shaft.
First, a massage. Marke told himself.
Taking off his jacket, he dropped it on the floor with little regard, moving to the side of the armrest where her legs dangled off.
Crouching, he grabbed her left foot, the sole smooth and supple, like she had never walked barefoot, and dug his index finger under the sole of her foot with appropriate pressure.
Mrs. Terri took in a prolonged breath, eyes staring down at him through the valley of her breasts.
Marke continued, drawing circles and writing 'I see your nipples' on her soles.
She looked at her breasts, nipples still covered by the collars of her bathrobe overlapping each other.
He looked at her for approval. That was funny, right?
A snicker was her response, and Marke knew he had earned some points with the woman. Moving onto the other foot, he repeated the same, writing another sentence that caused the woman to actually lift her lips to a genuine smile: 'I like your house.'
The hem of her robes that had reached her ankles had ridden up at some point, thighs squished together like fleshy logs. Lifting one of her feet, he set it on his left shoulder and began massaging her calves, eyes fixed on the gap that had opened up under her thighs as he did so, round bubble cheeks mashed against the robes and couch, core covered by a white thong stark against her dark skin.
He blinked.
[Profession Points: 1]
The condition of increasing professional points was having his skills recognized.
He had used the only remaining point just before entering the villa, so this was new.
His skills had been recognized; the doubt that lingered in his mind about his skills not being enough to earn approval was alleviated.
However, something told him just one point wouldn't be sufficient to level up his profession again.
How much can I earn if I just give out massages? He wondered.
Earnestly, gaze now focused solely on the section of her flesh he was touching and molding, he moved up to behind her knees, her shivers a tell that she was ticklish here.
Instead of moving up to her thighs—which Marke knew would cause him to lose his focus on massaging—he stood up and went to the other end of the couch, seeing Mrs. Terri with her eyes closed, relishing the massage.
He massaged her shoulders, digging into them and feeling for any knots.
Terri gasped, eyes opening to glare.
"Trust me, it will feel better," he assured, gliding his palm to her neck. Applying very little pressure, he dragged his fingers over her neck, once, twice, thrice, until Mrs. Terri let out an audible sigh of relief.
[Professional Points: 2]
His fingers dug into her scalp next, caressing and raking, and when Mrs. Terri shivered, her prior rude demeanor was gone, reveling in the sensation of relaxation his hands brought.
He had entered such a flow state, each spot of her skin he set his fingers on prompting new muscle memories and knowledge about that section, that when Mrs. Terri opened her eyes, glaring at him with need, he didn't even notice.