“Here,” I say. “Let me help.” And I step forward and take the cloth from his hand.
Pashov looks surprised, and then delighted. His simple pleasure breaks my heart and makes me want to do more. I want to have that silly look of joy on his face all the time. To think that such a small thing—washing his chest for him—can make him so happy.
I can do a lot more than just wash his chest to bring him pleasure.
I take the berries from his hand and squeeze them over the water, making my movements slow and sensual because I know he’s watching me. I make sure to lean over, thrusting my ass out as I do so, and dip the cloth into the pouch. When it’s wet and sudsy, I straighten and turn back around to him.
He’s watching me with eyes that burn like coals, and I know I’ve got his full attention. My skin prickles with awareness, and I gently drag the wet cloth over his chest. “Do you remember the times I used to do this for you?”
I watch as his throat works, and he swallows hard. “No.”
I nod, because I expected that. It’s all right that he doesn’t remember. We can make new memories. I’m suddenly excited at the thought of teasing my mate. This is all new for him. For Pashov, this is the first time his mate has given him a sexy bath. He doesn’t remember all of the playful things we used to do together, and he sure doesn’t remember his first blow job. I shiver, because this is going to be fun. So fun.
But I’ll start out slow. “Is there any part of you that is particularly dirty?” I ask, my voice all innocence.
He watches me hotly for a moment, and realizes I’m waiting for an answer. “Dirty?” he echoes.
“Anything in particular you’d like for me to clean?”
That scorching look flares in his eyes again. He thrusts out an arm.
Not the answer I was expecting, but a good place to start. I smile as I rub the soapy cloth up and down his muscular arm. I’ve missed touching him. The feel of his skin against mine is wonderful, and he’s warm and sweaty-smoky-smelling, but I don’t mind that at all. I love the scent of him almost as much as I love touching him.
Pashov extends his other arm, and I obediently move to that side, dragging the cloth up one bicep and then down his forearm. I think about telling him another story of us—maybe of Pacy’s birth—but this moment feels so intense that I don’t want to distract from it. He’s silent, the only sound his harsh breathing and the flicking, distracted whisk of his tail against the floor.
And the rumble of his khui, of course. I can hear it, just as I can feel my own humming in my chest at my arousal. I slide the cloth over his shoulder and move it slowly over one pectoral. I should probably re-wet it, but I’m not all that interested in the water aspect of this bath at the moment. I’m far more interested in his reaction to my touch, because Pashov has never been very good at hiding how he feels. I don’t have to look in his eyes to know that his gaze is intent on my face. I can feel them, burning. I’m utterly aware of everything he’s doing, the little movements of his body as he shifts on his feet, the unceasing flicking of his tail, thepounding of his heart making a rhythm against the song of his khui. His hands clench at his sides, and I suspect he wants to touch me but is trying very hard not to in case he scares me off.
I’m not going anywhere.
I trail the cloth down his hard abdomen. He’s nothing but rock-hard muscle in his stomach, without an ounce of fat. I love tracing the lines between each muscle, counting the six-pack that’s so clearly defined. The thick protective plating on the center of his chest ends near his navel, and then it’s nothing but soft blue skin. I swipe my cloth there, too, because I know he’ll be able to feel it even more down here. I peek down, and his massive erection is straining hard against the breechcloth he’s sporting.
My mouth goes dry at the sight. How long has it been since we had sex? A few days at least. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t have sex with Pashov again until I was centered and I was sure I wouldn’t cry. I definitely don’t feel like crying right now. It doesn’t have to be sex, though. It can be touching, just for the pure pleasure of caressing my mate and seeing his reaction.
There’s so much I need to teach him again.
“Do you remember me touching you?” I ask him, the cloth hovering at his navel.
He groans heavily. “I wish.”
“Then you don’t remember all the times I touched you…like this?” With my free hand, I drag my hand along the length of his cock.
The breath hisses between his teeth. “Keep going. I will see if it stirs my memory.”
I chuckle, amused. My sweet Pashov. So funny and flirty, even in moments like this. I gaze up at him, and he’s watching me with hooded eyes, arousal stamped clearly on his strong face. I stroke my hand up and down his cock again, through the leather, and watch his mouth tighten imperceptibly.
His tail flicks hard against my leg.
“Shall I stop?” I ask lightly.
“Never.”
“Thought that might be the answer.” I tilt my head and pretend to study him. “Should I take off your loincloth?”
His slow, intense nod is delicious.
Tomorrow, I decide, I’m going to teach him how to kiss again. Not right now, because I don’t want to distract from what I’m doing and the fact that tonight is going to be all about me pleasuring him. Tomorrow, I’ll show him how to kiss again—long, slow kisses and short, passionate ones and all the kisses in-between. Tomorrow, I’ll make a game of it.
Today, though, I’m in the mood to tease. And so I’m not stopping what I’m doing. I toss the wet cloth aside, all pretense of washing him gone. After I’m done with him, he can scrub himself as much as he wants. I don’t think he’s going to mind where this is going. I tug on one side of his breechcloth, and the ties come apart in my hand. The leather slides away and falls down his leg and his cock is exposed, thrusting into the open air, so thick and eager for my touch that it’s practically rubbing against his spur.
