Page 9 of The Panther’s Edge

“You deserve this,” he said quietly, and something about the way he said it, like he really meant it, like he understood exactly what I needed, made my heart race. “You deserve to feel good. To let someone take care of you for once.”

I wanted to argue, to tell him I was fine taking care of myself, but the words wouldn’t come. The truth was, I wasn’t fine. I hadn’t been fine in years. And having someone touch me with intention, with actual care, was breaking down walls I’d built so carefully that I’d forgotten they were there.

His strokes quickened slightly, and I could feel the pressure building again, that same exquisite tension winding tighter in my core. My breathing came faster, my hands gripping the edges of the massage table as pleasure rushed through me.

“That’s it,” Ravi murmured. “Let yourself feel it.”

My hips began to move in rhythm with his hand, meeting each stroke. The pleasure was almost unbearable, climbing higher and higher. I could feel the edge approaching, could feel myself about to tip over into release, and then⁠—

He stopped again.

I made a sound that was half groan, half whimper, my body left hanging in that agonizing space between pleasure and frustration. My cock pulsed in his grip, desperate for the friction to continue, but his hand had gone still.

“Why?” I gasped out, my voice almost unrecognizable.

“Because,” Ravi said, and I could hear the smile in his voice, “I want you to last. I want you to feel this for as long as possible.”

He released me entirely and moved away. I lay there on the table, my chest heaving, my cock standing straight up and weeping with need. Every nerve in my body was screaming, begging for him to touch me again, to finish what he’d started.

Instead, I heard the sound of him moving around the room. There was the soft clink of a bottle, the rustle of fabric. When he returned to the table, he was holding something, though I couldn’t quite see what in my current state of overwhelming need.

“We’re going to move down here,” he said, lifting me to a sitting position.

I glanced down at what looked like a beanbag against the wall, completely draped in thick plush towels. I’d never heard of a massage like that before.

“I’m going to penetrate you,” Ravi continued, as if it was a totally normal thing to say. “That way I can massage you from the inside and the outside at the same time. But I won’t fuck you unless you’d like me to.”

“D-Do you do that for all of your clients?” I asked, glancing down at his sizable cock and wondering how I was ever going to fit it inside me.

“Your friend purchased my most expensive package,” he nodded. “So no. Only my most special clients get this treatment.”

I felt my throat go dry. “I… yeah. Okay.”

“Good,” Ravi said, and there was genuine warmth in his voice. “Come with me.”

He helped me down from the massage table, his large hand steady under my elbow. My legs felt unsteady, my whole body still thrumming with that edge of need he’d left me hanging on. We moved to the beanbag and he took a seat first, gesturing for me to sit in his lap, my back to his chest.

“It’s alright,” he said softly. “You’re light as a feather to me.”

I settled into his lap, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against my back. His arms came around me, one hand splayed across my sternum, the other resting on my thigh. I could feel his cock, hard and hot, pressing against my lower back.

“Relax into me,” he whispered near my ear. “I’ve got you.”

I took a shaky breath and tried to do as he asked, letting my body sink back against his. His hand on my thigh began to move, sliding inward with deliberate slowness. When his fingers reached my hole, they were slick with fresh oil. He pressed one inside with careful attention, working it in and out in a slow, meditative rhythm.

The sensation was different this time, deeper somehow, and more intense with my body positioned like this. I could feel every movement of his finger inside me, could feel the way he angled it to press against that sensitive spot that made stars dance behind my eyelids.

“Good?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, letting out a shaky breath. “Really good.”

He added a second finger, working them in and out to gently stretch me. The slight burn of it was nothing compared to the pleasure, and I found myself pressing back against his hand, silently asking for more. His other hand moved up my chest, his large palm covering my pec, his thumb brushing across my nipple. I gasped at the sensation.

“You’re very responsive,” he murmured. “I like that. It means you’re present. Most people come here so numb they barely feel anything.”

I wanted to tell him that I understood that feeling intimately, that I’d spent the last seventeen years going through the motions of living without actually experiencing it. But words felt impossible when he was touching me like this, when every nerve in my body was singing.

His fingers continued their slow work, opening me up with patience I’d never experienced before. When he added a third finger, I tensed slightly, but he just kept the same steady rhythm, letting my body adjust on its own time. The stretch was more pronounced now, and I could feel the anticipation building.