Free Sinful Rewards 10 by Cynthia Sax Page B

vulnerable.
    Which is silly because, according to Cyndi, a frequent spa visitor, massage clients wear much less clothing. My sexually free best friend has gleefully shared stories about male masseurs rubbing down their clients’ naked bodies, how some of the women secretly get off on the contact. That’s socially acceptable. This experience isn’t much different.
    Except masseurs don’t fuck their clients with glass dildos. I push away my concerns and place my face in the cradle. The leather is in mint condition, reassuringly smelling of disinfectant. My view is of black wooden stage floor.
    A click echoes in the space, a spotlight shines down on me, and I tense. The show has started and I’m the sole attraction. I wait and wait and wait, my fears compounding. Shit. I can’t do this. I can’t allow a stranger to touch me.
    I grip the edge of the table, preparing to brace myself upward, to leave, and an energy fills the room, an electric charge I’ve felt only with one other person. Hawke has arrived. He must have.
    I was right. My lips curl upward. Lona is Friendly and she’s incorporated my military man into these challenges.. He saved her from a stalker. She’s doing this for him, in return, I reason, lowering my hands to my sides. Neither of them would allow me to be hurt.
    Wood creaks. Unfamiliar cologne teases my nostrils and I blink, confused. Hawke is present. Why is this stranger approaching me? My always vigilant former marine is possessive, branding my body with his love bites, interrupting Nicolas’s attempts to kiss me, growling when Francois talks dirty to me in French. Why would he allow another man to touch me now?
    He wouldn’t.
    Hawke would never trust my sexual satisfaction to anyone else. I know this as I know the scar on his chin, the wings tattooed across his collarbone, the way he walks, laughs, smells.
    I draw a deep breath, analyzing the scent. It’s late in the day, yet the cologne is abnormally strong, as though it has been freshly applied.
    I relax. The man approaching me is Hawke. He must have splashed the cologne on his skin to camouflage his natural aroma, a scent I’d recognize.
    For some unknown reason, he wants to create the illusion that a stranger is touching me, looking at me, perhaps fucking me. I hope he’s not doing this for me. Having another man’s hands on my body is no fantasy of mine, my loyalty belonging to my military man.
    Softness brushes against my left palm. I close my eyes, concentrating on the sense of touch. He sweeps the length of the feather over my fingers, allowing me to identify its shape and feel, offering reassurance that this is the object he’s using to caress me. Only Hawke would be this careful with me, soothing my fears, allowing me to fully enjoy this decadent experience.
    He swirls the tip over my palm, tracing my life, heart, head lines, exploring every inch of my hand, and I slip fully into the moment. The feather flits over my hand, up my left arm, across the hair draped over my shoulders, and down my right arm, ending its journey at my fingertips.
    The feather lifts and there’s nothing, only his scent and body heat. How many people are watching us? Are the seats filled with horny men? Hawke’s beloved face fills my mind and the feather returns, dancing around my ankles, distracting me. He glides the vane up one leg and down the other, turning at the hem of my skirt, repeating the motion again and again, up and down, up and down.
    My inner freak wants more. I spread my legs wider. The feather drifts to the inside of my legs, skimming along that sensitive skin. This isn’t enough. I wave my ass. He swats my calf with the feather and I smile. This punishment is laughable, a butterfly’s wings having more force than his reprimand.
    My skirt lifts, the hot spotlight shining down on my upper thighs, ass, pussy lips. The fabric is gathered over my lower back. I’m on display.