Page 47 of Black Light: Cured

isn’t massage for dominance or massage as pain or punishment. That’s not what I do. I heal people. I

don’t hurt them. I’m only agreeing to hurt you because of this damned wager.”

His soft laugh caresses my skin as he leans in to whisper in my ear. “Don’t even give it another

thought. You’re not going to be able to hurt me.” He pulls back and flashes me another killer smile.

“Now then. How do you want me?”

I stare up at him, my mouth drying. It’s now or never. “I would prefer if you kept your boxers on,

please. I just need access to other areas not covered by your underwear.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m wearing any,” he teases back as he starts to undo his cufflinks.

The teasing, the banter, it’s easy, light, enough for me to almost forget what happened between us.

Almost. But not quite. I stare at the flash of metal as he unhooks the cufflinks and hands them to me.

“I best be getting these back afterwards,” he murmurs before dropping them into my outstretched

hands. “Or I might have to search your person until I find them.”

Heat floods my body as his words slide over my skin. My core aches and clit throbs as he starts

to unbutton his shirt, and my eyes follow the path, desperately wishing I could be the one to undress

him. But I have to keep up my persona of professionalism. Now, more than ever, I have to remain in

control.

Though I don’t think he would use it against me, I don’t want to open myself up for questioning by

crossing lines, even in this class. It doesn’t matter that I’m teaching techniques that can be used in a

more sexual setting, as the teacher, as the therapist, I can’t let my libido get in the way.

It doesn’t help the small moan that sticks in the back of my throat as he eases the shirt off his

shoulders and hands it to me. It’s still warm, radiating with the heat from his body, and it takes every

bit of my self-control to not bury my face into that warmth and inhale.

When his hands drift lower to graze his belt buckle, that’s when I lose it. Pulling away, I take his

shirt and drape it over a nearby spanking bench before continuing with my setup. Grabbing the linens,

I get the table ready by laying them on top before busying myself with the other tools I have for later.

My mind doesn’t need to drift to what I want him to do with that belt once he takes it off.

I don’t need to picture him grabbing me by the hair and bending me over my massage table,

yanking my scrub pants off to reveal my ass to him. I don’t need to imagine the sting of his belt as it

kisses my skin. My brain doesn’t need to obsess over whether or not he’d spank me hard or just tease

me with that band of leather.