The scarlet lines were closely-threaded over the firm muscles, testament to their long night of erotic interplay of pain and pleasure. Delaying would do his lover no good.
Carrick drew another fingerful of ointment from the jar and, working as lightly as he could, spread it over the worst of the whip marks. Were he soothing a slave boy who had offered himself up to his master's brutal pleasure, Carrick would have murmured wordless soothing sounds, stroking and caressing as the boy wept and shuddered under his touch before letting the broken mortal curl up against him and rest in immortal arms. Russell, as Carrick had thought to himself before, was no slave boy. The fire in the other man's heart and eyes were what drew him in - his own cold dark nature drawn inexorably to this being of fire and light. To treat him the same way as a submissive boy would be a betrayal of every feeling that was beginning to stir in Carrick's dark heart whenever he was near the other man.
He had always known his lover was strong, so he kept silent and did not hesitate as he continued to spread the cooling salve over the worst of the whip marks.
When it was finally done, he lay down next to Russell and kissed him softly.