I knew what some of these did.
The others. . .I wasn’t sure.
Not yet.
And the not knowing twisted a heat in my gut.
I raised my eyebrows.
This will not be a normal bath. . .
I fixed my gaze to her.
Earlier, she’d worn a black pencil skirt, sheer white top, and those red stilettos.
I’d imagined tearing all of it off—splitting the seams, hearing the fabric surrender—then bending her over with the heels still on, letting that flash of red stay in my peripheral vision while I slammed my cock into her over and over until she forgot her own name.
But she had changed the game once again.
Nyomi stood at the far edge of the pool in a shiny silk robe the color of ripe plum. It stopped at the mid-point of her thighs. The robe didn’t hide her curves, just traced over the slope of her full breasts, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips.
Mmmm.
Her hair was pinned up in a loose knot that made my palms ache to pull it down.
Steam curled around her calves and climbed, licking the undersides of her thighs and worshipping her like I planned to soon.
Her dark brown skin glowed against the dreamy haze, making her appear almost untouchable.
She was so full of surprises—constantly having me on edge, in the most maddening, and endearing ways.
From just seeing her, some pressure eased in my chest. Not all of it, but enough to remind me I could breathe better now.
And then something caught my attention, I looked down and saw two leather cuffs anchored to the black stone lip of the tub.
What?
I peered at the water. Gold hooks shimmered deep in the water. There were two of them at the bottom of the tub.
But why? Are those handcuffs? Or metal straps? Is she going to. . .strap me into the tub? Bind me somehow in the water?
My mouth went dry. A new tightness pressed the old tightness lower. My mind—filled with plans, contingencies, and strategies—went quiet.
I had spent the last hours deciding which streets would catch fire first, which men would eat and which would starve, who got to hold their child tonight and who would possibly leave a widow later this week.
I contemplated all the ways to find my brother and father and rip their fucking heads off.
I’d had to be the Dragon.
The monster.
The cruel violent beast.
But in here. . .in this bathroom. . .my Tiger meant to put me in water, strip the scales from my skin, dampen the fire, and remind me I was still a man made of flesh and bone. A man with a heart that could be soothed.
Here, in this heat and candle-glow, where petals drifted and lavender wrote poetic words in the air, I was just a body that belonged to her.
Oh, Tora. . .
