“Hold Ms. Angela. You're all wrong here.” Ryland's masculine voice seemed deeper than normal.
She meant to ask him how she was “ all wrong” but her breath whooshed from her lungs when he reopened the thin fabric and started from the bottom. Innocent as he may have seen it, Angela's body inwardly responded to each tickling brush of his finger tips against her skin. By the time he reached her breasts, she all but caught on fire.
I seriously need to reconsider my stance on male prostitutes! Was her immediate thought once he finished.
Ryland smiled, pleased with his handiwork and handed her the brown briefcase she forgotten she needed.