Massage El Escorpión

Your delicate nails run through his coarse hair, trying to ignore the way your skin crawls at his touch. "Of course, master," you say, keeping the sweetness in your voice. You are smoothing your apron down as you begin to massage his shoulders, you feel the tension in his body ease slightly, but his gaze remains sharp and scrutinizing.

As you work, you notice a piece of paper sticking out of his desk drawer. It's slightly torn, but the edges look fresh, as if it's been hastily hidden. Your heart skips a beat as you consider the implications. Could this be the intel the Syndicate has been searching for? The room seems to hold its breath as you carefully glide your hands across his back, your eyes darting towards the desk.

You rub his chest with feigned attentiveness, your thumbs circling the tense muscles, all the while keeping a sharp eye on the paper. The room is filled with the scent of his expensive cologne, the faint smell of cigar smoke lingering in the air. It's a smell that's become all too familiar, a constant reminder of the man you're **** to be around.

"Use the massage oil." He orders.

You nod obediently and stand up to retrieve the massage oil from the side table. As you do, you subtly nudge the desk drawer with your hip, hoping to coax it open. It doesn't budge. He's watching you like a hawk, his eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. You **** a smile and return with the oil, the paper burning a hole in the back of your mind.

You started to apply the oil, the slickness of it making your hands glide over his skin with ease. His eyes never yours, a silent challenge that sent your pulse racing. You had to be careful; one wrong move and you could blow your cover. The paper was so close, yet so far away.

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