“You are far too capable, I think. It will be good for you to let me tend to you.”
Her mind whirled as she tried to think of ways he might accomplish something so astounding when they were back in London and she was once more helming her school. But no, she mustn’t ruin what time she had in this idyll with him. She would fret later.
“Sometimes, I worry that I’m not capable enough,” she admitted quietly as he continued his ministrations, plucking her hand from the water and soaping it carefully before moving to her wrist and then higher still. “What if my school is doomed to failure, even with the funds you’ve given me? If I cannot attract a sufficient number of pupils, I will never be able to continue when my coffers run dry. I don’t know what I would do should that come to pass. For so long, I have carried on, with the school as my sole objective.”
She didn’t reveal the rest of what worried her—that she would be forced to beg for a roof over her head or for her supper, accepting the alms of her friends forever. When she had left Ammondale, she had been so certain of her future. So determined to succeed. And yet, it had proven a struggle, and many days, she had felt as if she were attempting to dig herself out of a hole that was far too deep, thanks to the scandal of her divorce.
“Your school is not doomed,” he told her softly, the cloth traveling along her shoulder now, following her collarbone. “Your creations are nothing short of glorious. Not only do they look beautiful, but they taste divine.” The cloth dipped, and he soaped her breast. “Beyond all that, your determination to succeed and your steadfast devotion to your school will make failure an impossibility.”
She wished she could be so sure. The cloth moved over her aching nipple, and she stole a glance at him through her lashes. His countenance was stern and yet tender, the mask he so oft wore—that of cavalier rake—stripped from him. He washed her stomach, her other breast, and then her arm in silence as she contemplated his words.
“Thank you,” she said.
Not because his words were kind and much-needed—which they were. But because he believed them. Because he believed, quite specifically, in her.
“You needn’t thank me, kitten.” He gave her a wry half smile as he swirled the cloth over her skin beneath the water’s surface. “I’m simply stating truth. I admire you. I’ve known many women, but not one who is so willing to be bold and to seize what she wants.”
The cloth ghosted over her most intimate flesh right then, making her think of what else she wanted. But just as quickly, he moved away, finishing his task before taking up her shampoo. “Time for your hair.”
Obligingly, she leaned her head back and dunked it low, enjoying the play of the hot water on her scalp. How wondrous it felt, being washed by him. She felt like a creature of pure hedonism. A wanton.
And for the first time, that feeling came without shame.
She could seize what she wanted. She could indulge in this secret affair.
When Miranda lifted her head from the water, Rhys was already situated behind her, his hands ready with the sweet-scented shampoo. Roses and orange blossoms hung heavy on the air. Her senses were intensely heightened, so much so that when his fingers began to massage her scalp, she purred like a cat, her eyes fluttering closed.
She felt the soft graze of his lips on her forehead, as quick and light as a butterfly, so rushed she would have thought she’d imagined it if he hadn’t lingered long enough to press another kiss to the bridge of her nose. Miranda opened her eyes and reached for him, not caring that her hand was wet, cupping the back of his head and holding him to her as she kissed him, openmouthed and hungry, upside down.
The sensation was novel, her upper lip fitting over the fullness of his lower. She fed him her tongue, and he suckled, his fingers pausing their massage on her scalp as he surrendered himself to the kiss. She was ravenous for him anew, twisting in the bath, her breasts rising above the surface, water splashing from the tub, soaking his dressing gown. And she didn’t care. He groaned, his tongue gliding against hers.
When it was finally over, she was dizzied with want, and his breathing was ragged.
“I do believe I’m clean enough,” she murmured, dunking her head backward again, allowing the shampoo to rinse from her hair.
He watched her, his face hovering above, unreadable. She wondered what he was thinking. His hands were yet lathered with shampoo. No one had ever treated her with such care. Her marriage with Ammondale had been loveless and cold. He had resented and disapproved of her, and she had grown to loathe him for his callous treatment. Being with Rhys was like exploring a new city. She wanted to savor every moment. To explore every corner, experience everything.
“If I could paint, I would capture you here in this moment,” he said, his voice low, silk and sin and velvet. “I’d call itAphrodite at Her Bath.”
What a fanciful notion. She stared at him as she floated in the water, her hair spread like a halo on its surface, and realized she was falling in love with him.
“You would cause quite a scandal with such a painting,” she pointed out breathlessly, shifting to a sitting position once more and turning in the tub so that she faced him.
He dipped his hands in the water, rinsing them. “No one else would ever know it existed. I’d be far too jealous to allow anyone else to see it. The painting would be for my eyes only.”
She stood, water running down her body in rivulets as his eyes feasted on her. “I’ve finished my bath, page. Perhaps you could help me to dry off.”
He stood with a helpless sound of need. “What you do to me, woman.”
And then he snatched her from the tub, taking her up in his arms and carrying her to the bed. She was still soaked, and she shivered at the chill air on her wet skin as he laid her in the center of the mattress.
He clawed at his dressing gown like a man possessed, flinging it to the floor. She had a moment to drink in the sight of him—all stern, masculine angles and sinewy muscle, his cock ruddy and ready—before he was upon her. He settled between her thighs, nudging them wide, and then lowered his head, lapping at her clitoris with slow, steady strokes that had her writhing beneath him. Then he sucked, the sound wet and sinful, as he sank two fingers deep inside her.
The steady seduction of the evening—words and washing and so much more—already had her at desperation’s edge. When he twisted his fingers and nipped her simultaneously, she came apart, clenching on him as she reached her release fast and hard.
“My name,” he growled, his fingers still buried deep within her. “Say my name when you come.”
She was breathless, feeling like a new woman entirely as she said, “Make me come again, and I will.”
