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Kristen Scott, Lacy Lennon Pic(s)
The first touch was a shock of warmth, a slow, deliberate pressure that melted the rigid map of my shoulders into something pliant and new. His palms were smooth, gliding over my skin with an oil-slicked heat that seeped deep into the marrow of my bones. Each stroke was a language, a silent question posed to the knotted tension held captive beneath my flesh, patiently waiting for an answer. Fingers, strong and knowing, traced the delicate ridges of my spine, a slow descent that made my breath catch and then release in a long, shuddering sigh. The scent of sandalwood and something faintly citrus filled the air, a heady perfume that clouded my thoughts and sharpened every sensation. He worked the tight cords of muscle along my lower back, a firm, circular pressure that blurred the line between discomfort and a strange, aching pleasure. I felt myself dissolving under his hands, the boundaries of my body softening, becoming liquid and warm, a vessel for this exquisite, deliberate attention. A low, involuntary sound escaped my lips as his thumbs pressed into the hollows of my hips, a gesture that felt less like therapy and more like a claiming. In that dim, quiet room, with only the sound of our breathing and the slide of skin on skin, every reason for resistance simply unraveled into pure, unthinking sensation.
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