<em>"My hair?"</em><br/><br/>The question and the smile that accompanied it drew a half-apologetic, half-sly grin from Atticus, quite sure his admiration of it could not be so strange, not when it was so luxuriously thick and dark as sin. He felt no shame in admitting it – though it must sound so very coy, even naïve, for a seasoned whore to crave something so simple, so two-a-penny. His grin fell away a little, and he blinked, refocusing his attention.<br/><br/>Master Ryan was moving, opening a draw. Atticus’ grace lost the brief battle it waged with his curiosity, and he lifted his head the few inches he could, trying to catch a glimpse of what the Master of the House would keep close at hand at night. Some oil was an obvious one, but that couldn’t be the extent of it. Perhaps there were some sort of performance aid or stimulus, or small devices. Maybe he kept more personal things close, letters, trinkets from past bedmates, or even a religious text. Atticus’ stomach clenched as he held back the urge to laugh and dropped his head back to the bed, Squeezing shut his eyes for a moment to calm himself.<br/><br/>He wasn’t ready when he felt the mattress roll, but he lost all desire to laugh when his eyelids snapped open, his one-eyed gaze following the man’s approach. He felt a longing for his left eye to see clearly with a pure, selfish pang, sure that would be the only way to make what he saw any more perfect. Dark silk on the palest of porcelain, and a gaze that speared him through-and-through and it was just like he had imagined only better, stronger. As Master Ryan settled over him, flesh-warmed silk mocking him with its thin barrier, Atticus forgot. Forgot there was more in the world than just the bed they were on, forgot he was more than just skin and hunger, forgot there was more to the past and future than one breath and the next.<br/><br/>When Master Ryan’s weight settled half-an-inch too high, Atticus couldn’t hold back a grunt of frustration, his hips twitching with a desperate demand. When fingers traced his skin, light as a breath, Atticus flinched, not in fear of pain but reacting to the tickle. He couldn’t look from Master Ryan’s gaze, and he kept losing where the man’s fingers were, some places of his skin numb. When the moved onto more sensitive flesh, he twitched again, his breath catching, hands flexing, feet shifting restlessly.<br/><br/>When the man lowered his head and licked, soft strands of hair falling to either side of that hotwet point, and it was not so black-and-white as the light caress had been. Some sensation was muted, almost totally in one or two places, but in others it was much more acute, the old damage sensitising. Atticus trembled and arched, offering every inch of skin he owned to the Master’s attention.<br/><br/>That mouth was a wonderful, terrible thing, moving, tasting, teasing. The slow drag of those dark threads was a similar torment. It was his wish granted, but he hadn’t taken into account his own sensitivity, or lack there-of, though he felt enough to fan the liquid, twisting flames in his belly. His breath rushed from his lungs in an annoyed huff, and started to reach down, planning on grasping Master Ryan’s hips and moving him lower, or even rolling them over and fucking him into the bed – but the movement was caught short, stiff leather keeping his hands still. “Pox’d!” he hissed, twisting his wrists restlessly, hips giving a strong buck and teeth flashing in a snarl before he could control himself.<br/>