Page 48 of Black Light: Cured

When Master Aiden clears his throat, I turn to take his pants from his outstretched hands, my face

blazing as I slide my gaze towards his crotch. I try to lie to myself and tell my brain that it’s just to

ensure he has on underwear and was only teasing earlier, but I know it’s not that innocent. I just

wanted another glimpse at the tantalizing outline that juts up against the fabric.

He’s hard already, and just staring at it as his dick jumps against his underwear makes my mouth

go dry. I’m lusting hardcore after this man, and yet, I still need to remain in charge, in control. Which

is difficult when all I want to do is tackle him down to the floor and go for a ride.

Most men aren’t able to destroy my calm, but with Master Aiden, it goes so much further than that.

I never fantasize about the men or women on my table. The most I do falls under the realm of creation

appreciation. But with this man, I can’t help but picture us defiling my table, using it for purposes that

are nowhere included in the Hippocratic Oath or my ethics manuals.

Shaking those thoughts out of my head, I grab his pants, not caring if I wrinkle them or not and lay

them with his shirt. Turning back, I watch as he sits down on the table and extends a sock-clad foot

towards me.

“Should I keep these on? Or would you like to take them off?” His voice is husky, stark with need.

“That’s completely up to you. Any article of clothing you keep on, I will ask permission to either

move or remove.”

With a broad grin, he keeps his foot held out for me. Without a thought, I sink to my knees, resting

his foot on my thigh.

“Permission to remove your socks?” The squeak in my voice is unmistakable, and I’m almost sure

he heard it.

His lips curl up into a grin as he leans over to watch me. “Yes. You may.”

Normally, when I’m taking people’s socks off, they’re already face down, covered by the linens,

not watching me with far more interest than de-socking should warrant. But Master Aiden follows my

every move as I slide my thumbs into his designer socks and pull them down.

They’re butter soft with the same Grecian pattern going down the back that mirrors the band of his

underwear. Even his socks are Versace? How much money does this guy have? Humiliation floods my

veins as I picture the mismatched socks on my feet. No doubt with how much he pays for his items,

each pair has its own spot. Not like me that piles all the socks together in one drawer. Would he care

if my socks weren’t the same? Would he even notice?