Free Sacred Revelations by Harte Roxy

measure of Icy Hot onto his palm until he started rubbing the cream into my muscles. Massaging me until the massage and the Icy Hot covers every inch of my arm, his massaging fingers paying particular attention to the places that make me gasp and moan, his fingers pressing harder, finding all the agonizing tender spots.
    “My God, you’re enjoying this,” I hiss between clenched teeth, trying to breathe through the pain he is causing. He spreads the cool cream into the other arm, bringing me to tears because he won’t stop, even when I beg. He doesn’t stop torturing my muscles with the firm pressure of his fingers.
    “Relax,” he commands, spreading more over my sternum, between and around my breasts, over my abdominals and my ribs. I’m embarrassed that he is touching me intimately, but it isn’t sexual. It still feels sensual. When he rubs my stomach, I tense, feeling things happening low in my belly that I am not ready to face and am relieved when he moves on to my thighs, skipping my private places, not because I fear the sting of the Icy Hot on my genitals, but because I fear my reaction to the man. Bending my knee, he works the liniment into both the front and back muscles of my thighs and my calves until finally he sits back, finished.
    “Icy Hot is such a double-edged sword. Soon your skin will flame, becoming almost unbearable, but within a few minutes the flames will recede and you will be left feeling very warm and deliciously languid—and then you will sleep, and more importantly at this juncture, I will sleep,” he tells me.
    I realize that he has had little to no sleep the entire time I was caged. “You must be exhausted.”
    “That, dear Sophia, is the understatement of the century. Make room.”
    I scoot to the left, making room for him on the right, suddenly forgetting my pain and the burn of the Icy Hot, thinking too much, worrying too much as I watch him pull his shirt over his head. He chuckles. “No worries, sweetheart, there will be no debauchery tonight. Your Master isn’t up to it.”
    Master.
    Is he my Master? I have thought of him only as Lord Fyre, but yes, I suppose he is my Master. I try to not make mental comparisons as he pulls his slacks down his legs. Chewing my bottom lip, I cannot stop making comparisons. Lord Fyre is taller, wider-shouldered, and heavier-muscled than Garrett. He is also darker, a warm golden bronze, his dark brown tan line displaying a paler ass. For some reason his tan lines make me smile.
    I scoot farther away from him when he climbs into the very wide bed, wider than a king, actually longer than a normal bed as well. It dawns on me that there is room in this bed for a lot of people.
    “I didn’t mean scoot off the bed entirely,” he says, lying flat on his back, arms to his sides, eyes closed.
    “I know that you told George that you’re afraid of me, afraid tonight that I was going to have sex with you.”
    “Oh God,” I moan, thoroughly and completely embarrassed, hiding my face behind my hands. “So much for doctor-patient confidentiality.”
    “Don’t fear me,” he mumbles softly and I realize that he is already asleep. It is most anti-climactic after
    being so terribly embarrassed. Well, embarrassed, but in a way that this is something I need him to force me into talking about embarrassed. How am I ever going to get this dialogue started again?
    I close my eyes but reopen them, realizing the lights are on still. I wonder if he left them on because I had such a problem with the dark before. Closing my eyes becomes easier, knowing that it will be light when I open them.
    I move closer to him, allowing my face to rest on his shoulder, happy for the touch of skin on skin in a purely human, non-sexual way after so long being caged. His heartbeat becomes a comforting rhythm in my ear. He smells of exotic incense-fragranced shower gel, cinnamon, and leather. It is a heady, comforting combination that I know I could get used to and that scares me.