Page 65 of Black Light: Cured

“No, my little therapist,” I whisper against her lips. “How do you want me on your table?”

That seems to snap her out of it. Standing upright, she smooths down her scrub top and points

towards the face cradle, her hands shaking. “Um. Just undress to your comfort level and go face down

in between the linens. Unless you need me to work something specific? I mean. Not like that but—”

I reach out and slide my hand across her cheek, infusing tenderness into my tone where there’s

usually not. “I’m not even going to go there. You can trust me with this. I will never call this part of

your profession into question again. Your methodologies, hell yes, but I’ll never take advantage of you

in this way. As your client. As your Dominant. You have my word. And if I’m being honest, my neck

and shoulders could use some work. I think I slept wrong last night.”

Small tension lines I didn’t realize were scrunched up start to relax as she beams up at me and

walks over to the table. With an efficiency I’ve never seen before, she pops up a mechanism that lets

the face cradle fall back into the underside of the table.

“In that case, face up, under the linens. Are you allergic to anything that I need to be aware of?”

“If this is your way of asking if you can put more of that damned lavender on me, the answer is

no.”

She rolls her eyes and walks back over to the door. “No lavender. Got it. Any recent injuries or

surgeries?”

“Didn’t we go over all of this last night?” I raise an eyebrow at her as she gives me a sly smile.

“Yes, but we’re in my domain now. Just crossing the Ts and dotting the Is.”

“Evidently,” I grind out, wishing she would just leave so I can take my pants off and let my cock

free.

I know she isn’t going to touch it, but that’s not the point. If I’m going to try and enjoy this

massage, I can’t be adjusting and readjusting things down there. And though I don’t agree with her

methodology, I want to at least give her a fighting chance. It’s the least I can do.

“I’ll knock when I come back in.”

Waiting until she ducks out, I loosen my tie and toss it onto the waiting chair, followed by my

jacket and shirt. I’ll have to get rid of this outfit completely. There’s no way that smell is ever getting

out. Then again, every time I smell lavender, I’ll most certainly think about my little spitfire.

Sitting down on the massage table, I take off my shoes and socks and add them to the pile before

unbuckling my belt and unbuttoning my pants. Hooking my thumbs under the band of my underwear, I