Martina thought the massage was the trap. It wasn’t. The trap was her feet, bare, tender, too damn close to ignore. One stroke and she fell apart. Her laugh hit the ceiling, raw and jagged, her face pulling every desperate shape in the book. She looked like a goddess till the tickles got her. Then she looked like every other dame caught in the wrong place, helpless, loud, and paying in laughter she couldn’t afford to lose.
