His lips met mine, and the kiss was hungry from the start. No more pretense, no more careful distance. Just want and needand the taste of him on my tongue, salt and determination and barely leashed desire.
I worked his shirt off. His chest was all muscle and golden skin, the faintest yellow-green shadows around his shoulder the only remaining evidence of the hit that had changed everything.
“Beautiful,” I murmured, tracing the faded marks with my fingertips.
“Don't,” he started.
“Especially this,” I said, pressing a kiss to the tender area. “This is proof you're a fighter. Proof you survived.”
He made a sound low in his throat, and then we were kissing again, deeper this time. I could feel the desperation in him, the need to prove himself. But underneath that was trust.
He was trusting me with this fragile, fierce part of himself.
This was my favorite part of what I did: sex work as healing, using touch and kisses and fucking to make people feel stronger, healthier.
And I was good at this.
I worked his shorts down his legs. His cock was hard, the sight of him naked on my mat, all trust and golden skin in the candlelight, made everything inside me tighten.
“Your turn,” he said, reaching for the hem of my tank top.
I let him pull it off, then shimmied out of my briefs. His intake of breath when he saw me naked was gratifying.
“Fuck,” he said. “You're...”
“What?”
“Perfect.”
The word hit me different than compliments usually did. Like he meant it in ways that went deeper than skin.
“Turn over,” I said softly and handed him a pillow for his shoulder. “Let me get you ready.”
He rolled onto his stomach, and I took a moment to just look at him. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the curve ofhis ass. My hands ached to touch him, map every inch of golden skin stretched over hard muscle.
I started at his shoulders, working my way down his back with firm pressure, feeling the tension locked in his muscles. Each knot I found, I worked through, listening to the small sounds he made as his body remembered how to let go.
“Relax,” I murmured, kneading lower. “I've got you.”
When my hands reached the curve of his ass, I let myself slow down. Squeezed gently, spread him open. His sharp intake of breath made my cock throb, leaking against my stomach.
“Dusty...” His voice was rough, needy.
“Shh. Let me take care of you.”
I spread his cheeks wider and leaned in, dragging my tongue over his hole in one long, slow lick. He arched off the mat, a strangled sound escaping his throat.
“Fuck!”
I did it again, slower this time, circling his rim with the tip of my tongue. He tasted like salt and clean skin and something him. The sounds he made, these desperate, broken moans, had me so hard I was dizzy with it.
I worked him over with my mouth, getting him wet and ready, alternating between broad strokes of my tongue and focused attention that had him trembling. When I slid a finger inside alongside my tongue, he pushed back against me, greedy for more.
“Please,” he breathed. “More, Dusty. More.”
I added a second finger, working him open while I kept licking around where we were joined. The dual sensation had him writhing on the mat, fisting the fabric, lost in it. I curved my fingers, searching for that spot, and when I found it—
“Oh fuck!” He nearly came off the mat. “Right there. Jesus, right there.”
