( Delilah's Room)
The room was comparatively silent as Delilah worked on the strong built, tall, scarred man in front of her.
Delilah's fingers, slick with slimy ointment, traced an angry, purple line along his ribcage.
It was a wound meant for a killing blow, now closed, but still the brutality lingered. Her touch was meant to be clinical…like a caregiver's duty…but it was more. The intention had bled into the act hours ago.
Now, her fingertips feathered over the hot skin of his stomach, just beside the bandage. It moved in a slow, deliberate circle. Then another, drifting higher, skating over the hard plane of his pectoral muscle. Her thumb…just a whisper of pressure, brushed over his nipple.
He didn't flinch. He didn't move at all, but the air in the small room changed. It became charged, heavy, like the moment before a lightning strike.
