Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

not to—but I also wanted to know what other little tidbits of his personality would surprise and endear me.
    "Relax, Jase," Wolfgang said, his voice soft and soothing. "Your shoulders are going to hurt when you move. Let me move you. Just relax completely; don't tense them or try to shake it out." As he gave me his instructions, he rubbed my biceps and shoulders. I had a vague notion my wrists weren't bound together any more. The rope was still there, but there was play between my wrists. It didn't matter. He told me not to move, so I remained still, focused completely on his touch and his words.
    "My name is Jason."
    "You don't like sweetie, and you don't like Jase. Do you have any nicknames at all?" I peeked through half-open lids. Did he sound disappointed? He didn't look offended, but he had a point. I shrugged and it hurt. I focused on forcing my body to relax again. He rubbed the rebellious trap muscle without admonishing me.
    "I don't know," I said to his last question. "Everyone calls me Jason."
    "I like Jase. It's sexy. Unless you say the word, I'm going to call you that."
    The word. Uh-huh. Then my melted brain sent out a reminder. Sam had said something about a magic word. The proverbial light bulb lit. I'd read about that, but they called it a safe word. Sam, you mother-fucker.
    "Jase?" Wolf's hands had stopped, and he leaned to the side to look into my face. The seriousness in his expression did nothing to rob him of his beauty, but I still didn't want it there.
    "No," I said. I started to shake my head, but resisted. My neck didn't hurt as much as my back or shoulders, but if I could get a full body massage out of this guy with the magic fingers, I'd let him tie me up every day. "I'm good."
    His smile returned. "I thought you said good was overrated?"
    "Oh, no. I changed my mind. You, for example, are fucking great at massages. Do I want to know how much experience you have?"
    "Does it matter? I'm a professional."
    Are we calling it that again? I'd always been partial to the term rent boy over professional or escort. It's dirty and sexy and playful all at the same time.
    Until he said that, I'd forgotten. I'd started to believe he and I had a connection. I was surprised to find I was disappointed. I'd just met him, but from the shock of purple hair, to the long sexy fingers that could tickle ivories or beat knotted muscles into submission, to his easy going nature graced by a killer smile, I could fall for him. I wanted to. I couldn't.
    Brushing away depressing thoughts, I returned the conversation to music. "So tell me about the cello."
    I lost track of time as Wolfgang rubbed my stinging sore muscles and told me stories of growing up under the pressure of being a perfect child, set out for display by a mother who wanted to relive her younger years through her children. The cello had been a punishment, but Wolfgang had loved it, and not, as he said, because he cradled a huge piece of wood between his legs but because teasing music from such a large, cumbersome instrument felt like a seduction of sound and will. There had been other instruments, but none like the cello. As we moved on in conversation, I learned about his voice lessons, horseback riding, and private dance classes both for performance and the fancier things like the waltz and rumba. He had an amazing, if somewhat busy childhood.
    "I went to a cowpoke camp once," I said when he told me about the riding lessons. "I was ten, and my sister was twelve. She wanted to ride, and I hated her for choosing that camp when I wanted to play sports all summer. Turns out she hated it, and I loved it."
    "Why?" He'd asked me. He sounded truly curious.
    "She wanted to learn fancy riding, like a lady, she'd said. We spent as much time mucking stalls, grooming sweaty horses, and other stuff that she'd never deign to do if they hadn't threatened to take away riding privileges. And forget getting her to wear a cowboy hat." I chuckled, wondering what Kenzie would say now that we'd both grown up.
    "She would've loved my lessons," Wolfgang said as he continued to work my muscles into submission. "I was taught hunt seat, and dressage too. No Western saddles were allowed in my mother's stable. And she'd never let her child brush a stinky horse when she had servants to do it."
    I wondered briefly what he was doing working as a rent boy when his family had money, but I wouldn't ask. Why ruin the wonderful mood? Besides, if my mom had been so strict, I probably would