Chapter 1242 Giraffe
A week later, Ross finally decided that the time was right to act.
Late that night, he walked quietly through the dimly lit corridors of the base and stopped in front of Anita’s quarters.
He knocked softly, and almost immediately, the door opened.
This wasn’t the first time he had visited her so late.
Their conversations had always been private—especially on nights when Anita’s emotions became too heavy for her to carry alone.
"Ross..." she said softly, stepping aside to let him in.
"I got another trace of him, Anita," Ross began, his voice calm but weighted with concern.
"But when I arrived, he was already gone. I saw blood... a lot of it. I’m not sure if it was his or someone else’s. But don’t lose hope. I know that he—"
He stopped himself deliberately, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air.
Then a breath later he continued to reassure Anita that everything was okay.
Anita’s face paled. Her hands clenched at her sides, and she swayed slightly, as if the words alone were too much to bear.
Weeks of fear, uncertainty, and emotional strain had drained her.
The woman who once carried herself with quiet strength now looked fragile, worn thin by sleepless nights and endless worry.
Ross watched her closely.
He could see the burden pressing down on her shoulders, the way her eyes had lost their light.
And he knew—this was the moment he had been waiting for.
"You’re exhausted, Anita," he said gently, his voice soft and comforting.
"You don’t have to carry all of this alone. Why don’t you lie down for a bit? I can give you a massage, just to help you relax."
His tone was warm, almost tender.
Anita hesitated, biting her lip. Her body felt heavy, her heart even heavier.
She was too tired to argue, too overwhelmed to think clearly. All she wanted was for the pain in her chest to ease, even if just for a moment.
Slowly, she nodded.
"...Alright," she whispered.
All she could think about was her husband—and how desperately she wished this nightmare would end.
The two of them migrated to the wide leather sofa in the corner of the dimly lit room, the kind of plush sectional that seemed built for exactly this: slow surrender.
Anita sank down first, face-down, arms folded under her cheek like a pillow.
Ross knelt beside her, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands already warm from anticipation.
He started professional—almost clinical.
Palms flat against the thin fabric of her shirt, he worked her scalp in slow, firm circles, thumbs pressing into the base of her skull where tension lived like a knot of wire.
Anita exhaled, long and shaky, the first real release she’d allowed herself in weeks.
Down he went: shoulders, kneading the tight ridges of muscle until they softened under his grip; spine, tracing the long line of it with deliberate pressure; lower back, where his hands splayed wide and pushed deep enough that she felt it in her hips.
Then her thighs.
He straddled the edge of the cushion for leverage, thumbs digging into the meat of her outer quads through denim, working upward in long, gliding strokes that made her toes curl inside her socks. He finished with her feet—lifting one ankle at a time, rolling the arch with perfect pressure, thumbs circling the heel until she let out a soft, involuntary moan she immediately tried to swallow.
Ross’s voice dropped, low and velvet-smooth, right against her ear.
"It would feel even better if you took your shirt off, Anita."
The words landed like warm oil on skin. Seductive without being overt, coaxing rather than demanding.
Anita hesitated only a heartbeat—then lifted her torso just enough to peel the cotton tee over her head and drop it to the floor.
She settled back down, now in nothing but her bra and jeans, cheek pressed to the cool leather.
Rationalization came quick: it was just her back. Nothing scandalous. Just skin. Just massage.
Ross reached for the small bottle on the side table.
A quiet pop of the cap, the faint herbal scent of sandalwood and lavender curling into the air.
He warmed the oil between his palms before laying them on her bare back.
The first touch made her breath hitch.
His hands glided now—slick, hot, unhurried—spreading the oil in long sweeps from the small of her back up to her shoulders, then back down again.
Every pass felt deeper, more intimate.
He traced the dip of her spine with his fingertips, then flattened his palms and pushed upward, thumbs bracketing either side of her vertebrae.
Anita’s body melted inch by inch; she couldn’t help it.
The oil made everything slicker, warmer, more decadent.
Ross’s cock had already thickened in his pants, straining against the zipper.
He couldn’t ignore it—the way her massive breasts were squashed against the sofa, spilling slightly to the sides, the soft swell of them visible even from this angle.
Every time she shifted to breathe deeper, they pressed harder into the leather, nipples visibly stiff through the thin lace of her bra.
He swallowed hard, kept his breathing even, but the sight alone was enough to make him ache.
He moved lower.
"I need to work your bare legs now, Anita," he murmured, voice husky, almost hypnotic. "It’ll feel so much better without the jeans. Trust me."
Anita’s pulse thundered in her ears. She knew what this was—knew the line they were drifting toward.
But his hands... God, his hands felt like heaven.
Strong, knowing, never rushed.
Every muscle in her body had turned liquid under his touch; resistance felt distant, abstract.
She nodded once—small, almost imperceptible—then lifted her hips just enough for him to tug the denim down.
The jeans slid off slowly, revealing the smooth expanse of her thighs, the curve of her calves, the black lace panties that clung to her now-damp skin.
Ross folded the jeans neatly and set them aside, professional even in this moment of escalation.
Then he poured more oil into his palms.