She unbuttons her jeans. The zipper hisses. She shimmies them down, stepping out of them and kicking them aside. She’s left in the grey bra and simple white panties.
"Everything," I say.
She creates a small, choked sound, but she reaches back and unclasps the bra. It falls. Her breasts are small, perfect, the nipples hardened into tight peaks from the cold and the fear.
She hooks her thumbs into her panties and pushes them down.
When she steps out of them, she tries to cover herself with her hands, curling inward, trying to disappear.
"Get in the water," I order, my voice rougher than I intended. My cock is straining against my trousers, a painful, throbbing demand. I want to touch her. I want to mark her. But not yet.
She scrambles into the tub, sinking into the steaming water until it laps at her chin. The water turns slightly cloudy, the oil swirling around her. She pulls her knees to her chest, hiding her body from me.
I walk to the edge of the tub and pick up the sponge and the bar of French milled soap.
"Sit up," I say.
"I can do it myself," she snaps, though her teeth are chattering.
"I didn't ask if you could." I kneel beside the tub, ignoring the dampness seeping into my dress trousers. "Sit up, Ivy. Don't make me drag you up."
She glares at me—a spark of fire that I want to fan into an inferno—but she obeys. She unfurls her legs and sits up. The water lowers to her waist, exposing her torso.
I lather the sponge. The smell of roses fills the small space between us.
I reach out and touch the sponge to her shoulder.
She flinches violently, water sloshing over the side of the tub.
"Easy," I murmur. "I’m not going to hurt you."
"You already have," she whispers.
I ignore that. I begin to scrub.
I start at her neck, working around the diamond choker. I don't take it off. I washaroundit. It stays.
I move to her shoulders, scrubbing away the invisible weight of her father’s debts. I wash her arms, her elbows, her wrists. My movements are methodical, heavy. I am claiming every inch of skin I touch.
I move the sponge over her chest. She holds her breath. I wash her breasts, my hand grazing the sensitive skin. She trembles, her nipples reacting instantly to the friction. I pretend not to notice, but my eyes devour the sight.
"Lift your arms," I say.
She obeys like a doll. I wash her sides, tracing the line of her ribs. I frown at the prominence of the bones.
"I’m going to fatten you up," I mutter, more to myself than her. "You feel like you’re made of glass."
"I’m not hungry," she says sullenly.
"You will be."
I drop the sponge into the water and pick up the shampoo. "Lean back."
She hesitates, then leans her head back against the rim of the stone tub. Her hair floats in the water like a dark halo.
I pour warm water over her hair, cupping the back of her head with my large hand. Her skull feels delicate in my grip. One squeeze, and I could crush her. But I am infinitely gentle.
I massage the shampoo into her scalp. My fingers dig in, deep and slow. I watch her face. Her eyes are closed now. The tension is slowly bleeding out of her shoulders. The heat of the water and the rhythm of my hands are lulling her into a trance.
