His fingers drove into me, forcing the ointment onto the torn, aching muscles of my lower back. The cool gel seeped into the raw edges, soothing the fire, but the intrusion itself was a stark reminder of my fragility. It's like my body couldn't heal without his intervention.
Lucas wasn't my type, not even in the darkest corners of my shamanic visions. Yet here I was again, spread out and vulnerable, dependent on him.
"It's tight, no wonder you tore like that," Lucas observed, his voice smooth like polished oil.
'Shut up!' I hurled the pillow at him, my protest laced with desperation as I tried to cling to some shred of defiance. My body betrayed me anyway, muscles twitching around his fingers not just from pain but from that insidious spark of relief, the ointment easing the burn while highlighting how utterly I needed to get off.
