Page 40 of Judge's Mercy

One eye pops open. “What?”

“Do you have coconut oil, and do you trust me?”

“Yes to both. I use coconut oil for oil pulling, so there’s a bottle in my bathroom, and you know I trust you.”

I walk away only long enough to get the bottle of oil. The jasmine-scented one was fine for the major muscle groups, but it won’t work on the more delicate and sensitive skin of her pussy.

“Let me know if I do anything to make you uncomfortable,” I say.

“Pothos.” Her smile is like a bolt of lightning, striking me with its devastating beauty. I don’t so much as blink, afraid that the moment will pass before I can fully commit it to memory. This rare glimpse of perfection fills me with hope that she’ll still be herself at the end of the road she’s traveling.

I stroke a thumb over her cheek. “Good girl.”

After pouring a healthy drizzle of the new oil over her chest and abdomen, I sit on the edge of the bed in a position that gives me good access to her entire torso. With my hands under her armpits, I run my fingers over her pectorals in a half-moon shape, stopping when I feel a knot so I can work it out.

Myla’s body tells me stories her mouth won’t. She carries the bulk of her stress in her traps, jaw, and pecs, and I wonder if her migraines were brought on by her concussion but have continued because of the way her muscles impinge on her nerves.

“When I was around your age?—”

“Don’t say shit like that. Makes you sound old.”

“I am old. Older than you, at least.”

“Sometimes I forget you’re more than twenty years older than me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re an old soul.”

“That’s what years of not being allowed to be a kid will do to you.”

“What did that look like for you?” I pick up her right arm and rest her elbow on my thigh as I work the muscles in her forearm and hand. I’m not in any rush, and if she’s in a sharing mood, I’ll do whatever I can to encourage it.

“From as early as I can remember, there was this big focus on morality. Even at five years old, my mom drilled into my head that my body was dangerous. At home, I was taught to lock the door when I bathed or changed clothes. I had to sleep in pajamas with long sleeves and pants, and God forbid I ever walk from the bathroom to my bedroom with just a towel wrapped around me.”

“Was your dad a molester or something?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. He was just a dad; not too emotional, and sort of left the parenting up to my mom. But he did like taking us to do fun things now and then. I think my parents were just hardcore religious. Church twice a week, at least. Monday nights were spent at home learning about the gospel with my family, and I was expected to participate in all the young women’s stuff.”

“So it was a church policy to teach girls it’s their responsibility to keep boys and men from raping or molesting them by covering their bodies?” I move to the other side of the bed to work her other arm.

“It wasn’t just that. We were responsible for any impure thoughts they had too, so from five until I was thirteen or fourteen, I felt ashamed of my body.”

“What happened at thirteen?”

“Dance.” Her face lights up. “I quit ballet, which was all about technique and control, and started taking classes like hip hop and anything I could find with Latin dancing. The first time my hip-hop instructor had us thrusting our hips, I thought I’d die of embarrassment, and I was so jealous of the other kids in the class who were so comfortable moving that way. I was used to ballet and technique classes. Being given the freedom to move in whatever way felt good was life-changing. I started to see my body as a beautiful tool and not as a weapon.”

I remove my cut to save it from the oil, but I couldn’t care less about ruining my clothes. Climbing on the bed, I ease her legs open, butting my knees against the backs of her thighs and bending each leg to rest on top of my thighs. “Your body is beautiful.”

“Thank you.” A small blush creeps up her chest and onto her cheeks.

“Have you ever heard of a yoni massage?” I ask.

“No.”

“Then you’re in for a treat.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MYLA

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