The third session began with his hands, warm and slick with aromatic oil, tracing the tense geography of my shoulders. Each deliberate stroke mapped constellations of tension I hadn’t known I carried, his thumbs pressing into the dense knots with a knowledge that felt ancient. A low, approving hum vibrated from his chest, a sound that seemed to resonate deep within my own bones, coaxing a shiver to the surface of my skin. The air itself grew thick with the scent of bergamot and sandalwood, clinging to the heat rising from my body as his palms slid down the length of my spine. My breath hitched when his fingers fanned over the small of my back, applying a firm, steady pressure that melted my resistance into the leather table beneath me. I became acutely aware of every sensation—the glide of his skin agat mine, the soft exhalation I released as a forgotten muscle finally yielded. He worked in a rhythm that was both methodical and intimate, each movement designed not just to manipulate flesh, but to unravel the very threads of my guarded thoughts. A flush spread across my chest as his touch ventured lower, exploring the gentle curve where back meets thigh with a possessive certainty. In that hazy, perfumed silence, I was no longer a patient but a landscape being rediscovered, every inch of me awakening under his masterful, unhurried attention.
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