The towel slips early, and Helena just exhales. Alise moves like sheβs painting with her palms β soft, steady strokes across bare shoulders, collarbones, hips. The lightβs golden, almost too warm, and you can hear the oil drip before you see it.
No talking, no music. Just quiet tension, breath catching in Helenaβs throat. This isnβt the start of a massage. Itβs the start of something else.
π―οΈπ«οΈπ€²