Page 113 of Black Light: Cured

that’s just how I like it.”

A companiable silence descends as we stand there snuggled up with each other. For the first time,

my mind is able to let go without the need for a scene. There’s a strength inside him that feels

protective, allowing me to be vulnerable.

“Have you ever thought about leaving D.C.?” he cuts in, his tone light and neutral.

“No way. Where else would I go? I’ve got my kink family here and my clients. I can’t leave them.

Who else would take care of them?”

A chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Do you mean to tell me that there are no other massage therapists

that can do what you do? None at all?”

Pushing up, I meet his gaze seriously, my lips twisted into a slight frown. “Well, no, that’s not

what I’m saying, but I don’t trust anyone else to do it exactly as I do. I care about my clients. All of

them. The very idea of leaving them hurts.”

“I wasn’t chiding or trying to make you think I doubted your abilities. More like… it must be

utterly exhausting carrying that much weight on your shoulders.”

Sighing, I lean back against the car, allowing him to smooth my hair with his fingers. “It is. But I

don’t know what else to do. Are you trying to tell me you don’t feel the same way about your

patients?”

“Not quite the same way. Once I’ve done the surgery, that’s it. I check up with them during office

visits, but just about any doctor can do that. Where I stand out is the surgery itself. If you asked me if

I’d trust another surgeon to provide the same level of surgical care as I do, then no. But once I’ve

done my job, there’s nothing else that needs my level of expertise.”

“Whereas my type of care is far more intimate. I actually get to know the people I’m working on,

their struggles, their heartaches.”

“In that way, you definitely have a leg up on me. As a surgeon, I have to be distant from my

patients. I cannot allow emotion to rule in the operating room. There’s simply no room for it. It has to

be dispassionate precision. Things can go wrong in the blink of an eye.”

Tears prick my eyes at his words as I tip my head back to look at him. Sliding my hand up to cup

his cheek, I do my best to pour all the love and emotion I can into him. “It must be exhausting,” I

finally say, parroting back his words.

“Some days. But most of the time, not really. It helps to be able to cut off all feelings and