No man had ever done that to her. She had lived for more than half a century, and for more than half that time, she had been married to a man who never touched her feet.
She moaned. She couldn't help it.
His hands were big, and warm, and they kneaded her aching feet, pressing and rubbing and squeezing, sliding his fingers slowly, achingly between her toes, pressing his thumbs into her arch, and she melted, like cold butter on a hot griddle. She felt wanton, and all her lady parts tingled with a mixture of need and anticipation. She swallowed the next moan, but could not keep from moving her legs, to try and ease the ache that was building inside her.
He noticed.
She knew he did, because his hands paused in their seduction of her through her feet, and one hand trailed teasingly up to grasp her ankle and pull her leg back straight. She smiled, and tried to relax. He finished her left foot, and moved to treat her right with the same bone-meltingly exquisite attention.
She had long since given up any attempt at holding back her absolute enjoyment of his ministrations. She also gave up pretending to herself that she was not as turned on, as stimulated, as powerfully aware of every touch of his hands, of every breath she breathed, as she had ever been. She didn't know enough about men, after having spent so long with only one, to know whether or not it had been his intention to arouse her beyond her ability to control it, and she didn't know how he would react if she let her guard down enough to let him know.
She waited till she thought that he was done, and then tried to sit up. His hands on her her ankles held her in place.
"You're so tense," he murmured. "I can help you with that."
She shivered, although it was the middle of an unusually warm summer, and they were in the solarium, with a heating sun beaming through the glass windows.
"I know you're busy, Bram," she said, feeling foolish not being able to see his face as she tried to deny herself the pleasure of his hands wherever he wanted them on her person.
"I took the afternoon off," he said, "because we haven't had a minute to ourselves since last week."
He paused, and trailed a lazy finger up the outside of her left leg, from ankle to knee, and she gasped, as though he had delivered a stinging jolt of electricity to her.
"You promised me you'd think about my proposal," he added, finally releasing her ankles and helping her to sit up. "I hate to see how hard you're working, and how tired you are when we meet for lunch every week. If you trust me, we can make a go of this, and then I won't need to massage your feet again." A small pause, then, "Unless you ask, of course."
