Page 49 of Healer to the Ash King
Or perhaps I’m only wishing.
My hands move to his neck and shoulders again, easing the remaining tension before moving down, pressing along both sides of his spine. He sighs heavily and relaxes completely. I hadn’t realized he was still holding so much tension until he lets it all go.
My fingers press around the base of his spine, then move to his rear, working over the material of his undershorts. I use the heel of my hand on those large muscles, pressing my other palm on top for deeper impact.
A moan breaks from the Ash King’s mouth, and his whole body tenses again, as if he’s embarrassed for letting that sound out.
“Sshh,” I soothe him. “I’m the only one here. Let it all go.”
He obeys, relaxing again, and I move to his thighs, then his calves.
I usually finish a massage by returning to the shoulders again. And now that we’re both more comfortable with this, I want to try what I was too nervous to attempt earlier.
I position myself astride the narrowest part of the Ash King’s waist, braced on my knees, and I rub his back and neck and arms thoroughly, evenly. My rear rests against his, and the brushing contact makes me wet again. To be honest, my arousal never really abated.
When I swing off him, there’s a damp place on his skin where my underwear touched his back. I rub over it with my ointment-covered hands, hoping he won’t notice. He’s completely limp, his flushed face half sunk in the pillow and his eyes closed. Stripped of his usual haughty calm, he looks far younger than usual.
“Turn over,” I tell him softly.
A frown line dents his brow. “I can’t.”
“Come on.” I push at his shoulder.
“Very well.” He sighs. “You asked for it.”
The Ash King rolls over onto his back, arms relaxed at his sides. His arousal is pushing his undershorts into a pronounced peak, and there’s a tiny damp spot on the fabric.
“We’re going to work on those pectorals,” I murmur as evenly as I can. My heart is beating so fast it’s echoing in my ears, and my cheeks are fiery and tingling.
“Mm,” says the Ash King, eyes still closed.
With him face-up, it’s harder to focus on providing a simple massage. The muscles I’m pressing are so firm, yet the skin over them is so deliciously silky and hot. He’s not flexing, but I can still see the subtle shapes of his abdominals, exquisitely sculpted. He’s brimming with ferocious power, but at my touch, the molten lines of him have eased and cooled.
I skip the genital area and move to the muscles of his legs, working over them before dragging my thumbs along the inner thighs.
At the slow rub of my thumbs, his rigid length jerks beneath the undershorts, and his jaw tightens. But he says nothing, and he doesn’t open his eyes.
He isn’t asking me to pleasure him. And perhaps that is what tips me over the precipice into the valley of wicked, wanton impulses that have been racing through my mind ever since he yielded under my hands.
He wants release, but he won’t ask. He’s either too considerate or too proud for that—probably the latter.
I’m not ready to fully give in to him, either. I have too many questions.
But perhaps in the interest of healing… for the purpose of sleep and relaxation… there is something I can do.
17
“Say no anytime,” I whisper. My hands press firmly against the ridges of the Ash King’s hips. Some call them love handles. To me they are guiding lines, intersecting at the yearning center of him.
The heady, hazy, herbal scent of the ointment hovers thickly over his glossy skin, rising to tantalize my nostrils. We are linked by touch in a world of slow movements, where breath feathers into warm air suffused with candle-glow, and soft pillows cradle our beating hearts.
Gently I pull down his shorts, lifting the band away from his skin so his erection can bob free. The Ash King’s penis is solid, not overly thick, but a healthy girth and a perfect length, with a slight upward curve and a neatly shaped head. I’m seized with the primal urge to lick it, but I have a little restraint left, so I don’t touch it at all. I touch him everywhere but there. My thumbs rub over his abdominals, my fingertips press into the hollows of his hips, the heels of my hands roll along his thighs.
The King talked of pleasurable torture once. I’m showing him that I know exactly how to do such things. I once teased Rince almost to the peak, over and over again, for two hours as we lay hidden in a grassy hollow by a stream. I would bring him to the edge and then stop, while he writhed and begged so beautifully. I did that over and over. By the end, his skin was coated with sweat and he was whimpering, entirely helpless to my lightest touch. When release finally came, it was exquisite to watch.
I smooth my palms over the Ash King’s pectorals again—only this time I circle his nipples and roll them gently between my fingers. His head tilts back, muscles along his jaw flexing, and his cock dips again.
I work my way lower. His stomach is rock-hard and ridged now, taut with impending release. I mold my palms to each muscle, enjoying them on the way down. This time, when I reach his cock, I curl my hand around it and stroke upward once, firmly, and then let go.
