Yeah. He’s not lacking. Not in theslightest.
And gods help me, Istare.
For too long.
He notices. Of course he does. His mouth curves into that infuriatingly smug half-smile. “Like what you see, little flame?”
“I’m just... analyzing the enemy,” I manage, voice way too breathy to sound convincing.
He chuckles, low and knowing, and steps into the water with the kind of fluid grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size. Steam clings to him like a lover.
He leans back, arms spreading along the rim of the tub, eyes never leaving mine. “Then come. Do your duty.”
My face flushes hot. “You really know how to kill the mood.”
But I move anyway. My fingers tremble slightly as I reach for the washcloth and begin lathering it with the special soap. My hands dip into the water—hiswater—and I start with his shoulders.
It’s supposed to be clinical. It’s not.
My fingers brush over the curve of his deltoid, and the muscle beneath shifts, warm and hard and unyielding. His skin is smooth, but every inch radiates danger. Heat. Power.
“Harder,” he rumbles.
I apply more pressure.
My fingers trace along his shoulder blades, down his back, then circle to his chest. Ishouldstop. Ishouldn’tlet my touch linger.
But I do.
Because I want to.
His breath catches. Just a little. Barely audible. But it makes my heart do a somersault. I glance up—and find him watching me with eyes that glow molten red in the steam.
“You’re not resisting,” he says.
“I’m not obeying either,” I snap back.
“Is that what you think?” His voice is low now, velvet wrapped around steel. “That I want obedience?”
“You want control.”
“I alreadyhavecontrol.”
I hate that he’s right. I hate it and want more of it in the same breath.
My hand dips lower, brushing against his abdomen. His skin tightens beneath my palm. My fingers hesitate there, tracing the ridges.
Then—almost without thinking—I touch him again.
Not to wash.
Not to serve.
Tofeel.
Just for a second.
His hand shoots out, grips my wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop my breath in my throat.
