The second was the cool drag of a damp cloth and the warm stroke of Stephen’s hands over her back. Then she felt the pain. Oh God. Each place the whip had touched her sparked and flared with flame-tipped electricity, and each spark echoed in her nipples and clit. When Stephen’s hands, slick now with soothing aloe gel but still so warm, spread over her shoulders, it was all she could do not to squirm against the thick cushion of the massage-type table he’d laid her on. Aloe. Table. Lack of music and absence of the murmuring crowd. They’d moved to a private room while she was flying, she realized. A little whimper escaped. She wasn’t ready for them to be done yet. “Hush, pet.” His voice stroked her as surely as his hands, and Ginger found herself obeying, relaxing into his touch. “Are you back with me now?” “Hmmm.” Forming actual words was harder than she expected. She’d flown before, of course. It was kind of the point of being a masochist, wasn’t it? That out-of-body bliss?
