I crossed to the nightstand.
The book—When the Dragon Swallowed the Moon—waited where I’d left it, but the tassel sat further along.
You read more, Tora? Very naughty. Couldn’t wait, could you? Next time, I’ll hide the book from you.
A childish annoyance cut through my ribs. I wanted to read the story to her from now on, be the voice that carried those words into her ear. I imagined my Tiger curled against me, listening, her breathing syncing to the story’s rhythm. Her eyes roaming where I would be guiding them. I considered the joy it would be to see her eyes widen at the exciting new things to come for Sol and her two ferocious dragons.
Has she met Korin’s twin brother yet? I hope not. I want to do that voice for her.
I even pictured how hot it would be to read the nasty sex scenes soon to come in the book. Then, touch her pussy, feel her wetness, and fuck her hard.
Yes. Next time you open that book, it will be us reading it together.
The sound of water spilling continued from the bathroom.
Then it stopped.
My Tiger, what are you doing?
I moved toward the bathroom, the steam parting for me in slow, reluctant curls. The heat from the bath pressed against my skin, and the new smell of lavender filled the space.
Mmmm.
The fragrance loosened my shoulders.
The last twenty-four hours had stacked inside me—orders, detonations stopped and detonations done, the weight of three hundred men’s lives.
My skin felt too tight over the muscle, my skull too small for my thoughts.
The pressure in my chest still had not left.
Release.
I needed it like air.
Tora. . .help me. . .
I shifted into a predator, hunting its seductive prey. My pulse pounded through my veins. I padded lightly across the room. When I reached the threshold, I nudged the door further open and stepped inside.
Aww. There is my Tiger.
The bathroom was a temple, and she was its priestess.
Black stone framed my massive tub set deep in the floor. Gushes of perfumed steam rose from the rippling surface. Rose petals lazily drifted.
Candlelight burned along the perimeter despite the hour, steady points of gold caught in the stone, in the water, in the sheen on her throat.
The glass shower to the right gleamed with its rainfall heads and the waiting bench.
To the left, the gold-rimmed vanity usually held an army of brushed metal and glass—lotions, oils, combs, lip color in a line that looked like ammunition.
But today. . .other things lay on the surface.
A coiled length of braided silk rope, dark as midnight, still damp at the tips as if it had just been pulled from water.
A pair of silver clamps rested on a folded square of black cloth.
And there were other things—a thin, clear tube, a glass wand, a slick, black whip.
