The First Touch
The sheet was a flimsy shield. Marta lay face down, the scent of sandalwood oil thick in the warm air, her knuckles bone-white against the table's edge. The door opened—a soft sigh of hinges—and his presence filled the room before she saw him: quiet, solid, a shift in the atmosphere. His first touch was a warm palm, flat and heavy between her shoulder blades. Her breath hitched, a traitorous little sound. His thumb stroked once, a slow, deliberate circle over her spine, and a bolt of pure, unwelcome heat shot straight to her core.