The second touch: Returning to the man who awakened me

The bell above the door chimed, that same soft, stupid ding that had been the soundtrack to my life for the last three years. But today, it sounded different. It sounded like a starting pistol. My heart was doing this weird, frantic tap dance against my ribs, a rhythm that said, “girl, you are out of your damn mind for coming back here.”

I saw him before he saw me. Marco. Same broad shoulders under a simple black tee, same focused frown as he wiped down the massage table in the back corner of the wellness studio, which was really just a fancy name for a room that smelled like eucalyptus and poor life choices. My poor life choices, specifically.

It had been six weeks since I’d basically run out of here, my grey sweatpants sacrificed to the gods of sheer embarrassment, leaving me commando and completely flustered on the bus ride home. Six weeks of replaying that “massage” in my head on a loop, every detail burned into my brain like a brand. His big, warm hands, so stupidly skilled as they’d worked the knots from my shoulders, then my back, then… lower. The way my entire body had gone electric when he’d gotten to my thighs. I’d been a mess, a trembling, wet mess, and he’d been so professional, so oblivious. Or so I’d thought.

I’d told myself it was a one-time thing, a moment of madness. But my body hadn’t gotten the memo. It craved that feeling again, that specific shock of his touch. So, I’d booked another appointment. And here I was.

He finally looked up, and those dark eyes locked onto mine. There was a beat, a flicker of something—recognition, surprise, maybe a little amusement—before his professional mask slid back into place. But I saw it. I saw him see the wet stain on my pants that day. I knew he knew.

“Fernanda,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated right through me. “I have you down for a deep tissue. Same issues as last time?”

Yeah, the issue being I can’t stop thinking about your hands on my pussy, my brain screamed. Out loud, I just gave a shaky smile. “Uh, yeah. Lower back is… super tight.” Super tight? God, kill me now.

He nodded, all business. “The room is ready. You can get comfortable.”

Same drill. I walked into the dimly lit room, the familiar scent of the oil hitting me like a freight train of memory. My hands were actually trembling as I undressed, leaving my clothes in a neat pile on the chair. I left my panties on this time. A tiny, pathetic act of self-preservation. I laid face down on the table, pulling the sheet over me, and tried to remember how to breathe.

The door opened and closed. His footsteps were quiet on the floor. The soft squirt of oil. And then… his hands.

They were just as I remembered. Warm, firm, knowing. He started on my shoulders, and it was pure torture. Every stroke, every kneading motion, was a reminder of what happened next last time. I was wound so tight I thought I might snap. I couldn’t relax. My whole body was a live wire, waiting for the spark.

He worked his way down my spine, his thumbs pressing into the muscles along the sides. It felt incredible and agonizing all at once. I was hyper-aware of every inch of my skin, every place he touched and every place he hadn’t yet. The anticipation was a physical ache.

And then his hands were on my lower back, smoothing wide, firm circles. My breath hitched. This was it. The point of no return. My hips gave this tiny, involuntary push into the table, a silent plea.

He paused. The room was so quiet I could hear my own blood pounding in my ears.

“Fernanda,” he said, his voice softer now, closer. “We can stop whenever you want.”

That was all the permission I needed. It was like he’d uncorked a bottle. All the nerves, the tension, the six weeks of pent-up wanting, just exploded out of me. I rolled over onto my back, the sheet falling away to my waist. I didn’t even care that I was exposed. His eyes dropped to my chest, to my hard nipples, and his jaw tightened.

“I didn’t come here for a back massage, Marco,” I said, and my voice sounded braver than I felt.

A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. The professional was gone. “I know.”

He didn’t move. He just looked at me, his gaze hot and heavy, drinking me in. It was the most turned on I’d ever been, just from a look. “Why did you come back?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper.

“You know why,” I breathed out. “Because you didn’t finish.”

That broke him. In one smooth motion, he leaned over, one hand caging me in by my head, the other finally, finally cupping me between my legs over my cotton panties. A jolt of pure lightning shot through my core. I cried out, my back arching off the table, pushing myself against his palm.

“This what you wanted?” he growled against my ear. “This what you’ve been thinking about?”

“Yes,” I gasped. “God, yes. Every day.”

His fingers pressed harder, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over the damp fabric. It was so much better than I remembered. So much more intense without the barrier of fear and shyness. This was raw, and honest, and so fucking hot.

“You left me a present last time,” he murmured, his lips brushing my neck. “A beautiful, wet present. I thought about that stain for a week.”

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through me. I was soaking through my panties already, a desperate, throbbing mess. “Take them off,” I begged, my hands fumbling at his waist. “Please. I need you to touch me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my panties and pulled them down my legs, tossing them aside. Then his hands were on my bare skin, spreading my thighs, and he let out a low groan at the sight of me. “Fuck, Fernanda. You’re dripping.”

And then his touch was on me, for real. No fabric, no hesitation. His thumb found my clit and began to rub, and I saw stars. It wasn’t like my own clumsy touches. This was expert. He knew exactly how much pressure to use, how to circle and tease until I was a writhing, begging creature beneath him.

“Marco, please…”

“Please what?” he teased, sliding one thick finger through my slick folds, coating himself in me. “Use your words.”

“I need you inside me,” I moaned, my hips bucking against his hand. “Now.”

He pushed one finger into me, and I cried out, my inner muscles clenching around him instantly. It was so good, so deep, but it wasn’t enough. I needed more. He added a second finger, stretching me, filling me, his thumb still working magic on my clit. The sounds were obscene, wet and slick, and I didn’t care. I was so close, teetering on the edge.

“Look at me,” he commanded. I forced my eyes open, meeting his dark, hungry gaze. “I’m going to make you come. And then I’m going to make you come again. And you’re not running away this time.”

That was all it took. His words, his fingers, the possessive look in his eyes—it all crashed over me. My orgasm ripped through me, violent and shocking, a tidal wave of pleasure that made me scream his name. My body convulsed around his hand, waves and waves of sensation pulsing through me until I was boneless and breathless.

He didn’t stop. He slowed his movements, drawing out every last shudder, watching me with a look of pure satisfaction. When the last tremor finally subsided, he brought his wet fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Now,” he said, unbuckling his belt. “Where were we?”