The room smelled of lavender and sandalwood, thick in the warm air, the low hum of music vibrating faintly through hidden speakers. The massage table gleamed under the dim light, draped in crisp white sheets. She climbed onto it, belly down, her towel wrapped loosely around her hips.

When he entered, she felt him before she saw him — a shift in the air, heavier, charged. His voice was low, steady.

“Relax. Let me take care of you.”

The first brush of his hands was professional, almost clinical. Oil dripped, warm, onto her bare back. He spread it across her skin with slow, deliberate strokes, working her muscles with practiced...