Chapter 1

What's it like massaging pregnant women? These women, enduring prolonged marital celibacy, often request... additional services from me.

My name is Jake Lawrence, and I’m currently a prenatal massage therapist—which, as the name suggests, means I specialize in providing massages for pregnant women.

The person who introduced me to this line of work was my cousin, Ryan Roscente. Every time he came back to our hometown, he was decked out in designer clothes, his hair slicked back, and the whole village would say he’d made it big. So when he told me he’d take me to the city to strike it rich, even though we didn’t exactly get along, I agreed without hesitation.

It wasn’t until I followed him to the city that I found out what he actually did for a living.

Honestly, at first, I wasn’t keen on the idea. In this line of work, if you’re not careful with your technique and something happens to the pregnant woman, you’re screwed.

Ryan pulled out his phone and showed me his rates—a single session cost a staggering five figures. That blew my mind.

In my understanding, massage therapists were supposed to be part of the service industry, with pretty low wages. But Ryan just grinned and saida I’d understand soon enough.

Not long after, I got my first house-call opportunity.

The client’s name was Vanessa Valentine, 31 years old. Before I could even take a proper look at her photo, Ryan snatched it away from me.

He waggled his eyebrows at me. "Cousin, you lucky dog—this one’s a real voluptuous babe. Today, I’ll let you in on the secret to success: play it by ear. You’re getting the good stuff. In all my years doing this, I’ve never come across such a hot pregnant woman."

Play it by ear? I didn’t get it, especially with that sleazy grin on his face.

In the massage industry, let’s be real—most clients are of the opposite sex, and things tend to happen. But our clientele was… special. I figured nothing would go down.

Still, I was pretty excited for my first official job.

Clients who booked home massages were usually well-off, and this address was no exception—a high-end residential complex with lush greenery and top-notch amenities.

I followed the directions straight to the client’s door.

When she answered, I was stunned.

Her wavy hair cascaded effortlessly over her shoulders, tousled and carefree. Her lips were a seductive red, and even in simple maternity wear, she carried herself with an undeniable allure. And those curves—busty didn’t even begin to cover it.

Her belly was slightly rounded, maybe four or five months along.

Pregnancy hadn’t made her look maternal—if anything, it had only amplified her femininity.

The thought of giving a woman like her a massage made my pulse quicken. Serving a beauty of this caliber was practically an honor.

Vanessa pointed to the couch. "Wait here. I need to shower first." I nodded hastily.

I sat stiffly on the sofa, waiting.

The sound of running water filled the air, and my mind conjured up images of her stepping out, her full, shapely body glistening under the spray. Just as my imagination was running wild, a loud thud came from the bathroom, followed by a sharp scream.

Vanessa’s panicked voice called out, "Ah—masseur, could you come here for a second?"

Worried about the shock to her system—pregnant women were fragile, after all—I rushed over and was met with a sight that sent my blood racing.

Vanessa stood there, draped in nothing but a thin towel, her bare feet damp, water droplets clinging to her hair and cheeks. She huddled in the corner of the bathroom, looking utterly helpless.

Before I could process it, a blur of white lunged at me. A warm body crashed into my arms, and I instinctively caught her, my hands landing on smooth, slick skin.

Only then did I realize—Vanessa had thrown herself against me. From my angle, the view was… unrestricted. The sight left me dazed.

She lifted her doe-like eyes, glistening with moisture, and pouted. "There’s a mouse. I’m scared."

I glanced around. There was no mouse—she must’ve imagined it.

With a beauty in my arms, I didn’t know whether to move or stay frozen.

All I could manage was a stiff, "It’s okay. You just saw wrong."

Then, out of nowhere, Vanessa burst into laughter. "Wow, I didn’t take you for the innocent type."

At that point, even an idiot would’ve realized—this was all a joke on her part. Besides, a high-end place like this wouldn’t have mice.

By the time I’d collected myself and stepped out of the bathroom, Vanessa was already lying on the bed.

She was still wrapped in that towel, her cleavage spilling over in a way that made my throat dry.

Summoning my courage, I began the massage. The moment my hands touched her waist, Vanessa let out a soft moan. "Mmm… that tickles."

Her voice was downright sinful. My heart hammered against my ribs.

I tried to focus on the job, keeping my movements professional.

Halfway through, Vanessa suddenly grabbed my hand and pressed it against her chest.

My first thought? So soft. So full. My fingers sank in, the smoothness making them curl instinctively. The second I squeezed, Vanessa gasped, her breath hitching.

"Rub them for me, masseur," she murmured, her voice dripping with suggestion. "They’re so sore."

My mind went blank. All I could hear was Ryan’s play it by ear and Vanessa’s little whimpers. My hands moved on their own, kneading gently. I gritted my teeth, resigning myself to the torture. This was going to kill me.

Any man would’ve been driven wild by this kind of teasing. Heat pooled low in my body.

Then, abruptly, Vanessa called it off.