He shot me a dark look, as if he thought I’d played a trick on him.
“You sat on one of the jets. They’re for massaging your muscles.”
Judging by the way he rubbed his butt, he’d gotten more of an enema than a massage. I couldn’t blame him for being offended.
“Here, sit down.” I patted the bench beside me to make sure there weren’t any jets on it—he must have sat on a lounging seat designed to massage calves—then pulled him down.
He let me, fortunately putting his lower half under the surface, and settled beside me. Sort of. He felt the jets pushing at his back and kept adjusting himself. It was amusing seeing all the goofy facial expressions on someone who usually wore a hard mask that was either full of arrogance and indignation or simply difficult to read.
Finally finding an accepta
