I Indulged in an Ultimate Massage

The postpartum therapist studied my figure with quiet professionalism, his gaze clinical yet appreciative. I'd worked hard to regain my shape after the baby—three months of discipline, and my body was even more striking than before. The curves were fuller now, softened by breastfeeding, but childbirth had left its mark.

My husband had noticed too—just not in the way I'd hoped.

"It's not the same," he'd muttered more than once, rolling away after another disappointing attempt. Lately, he'd been coming home late, whispering into his phone behind closed doors. One sleepless night, I finally checked his messages.

Yvonne Laurent.

Hotel receipts. Tuesday afternoons. Flirty texts that made my stomach twist.

I spent hours blaming myself—if only I could fix what childbirth had changed. So I booked an appointment with the best postpartum specialist in the city.

The only catch? He was a man.

"They say the treatment can restore everything," I murmured to my husband, testing the waters. "Like before. Should I try it?"

He barely looked up from his phone. "It's just massage, right?"

I nodded, leaving out the details.

The next day, Kyle Roscente walked in—tall, sculpted, impossibly handsome. Late twenties, with the kind of presence that made my breath hitch. I led him to the bedroom, leaving the door wide open.

"Should I lie down?" I asked, fingers twisting the hem of my nightgown.

"Not yet," he said, voice smooth. "First, I need to check your pelvic alignment. Just stand naturally."

Then he knelt in front of me.

His breath warmed my skin as his hands settled on my hips, guiding me into position. "Widen your stance a little."

I hesitated before obeying.

"Any... damage?" I whispered.

His fingers traced downward, brushing the inside of my thighs. A traitorous shiver ran through me, heat flooding my cheeks.