She’s shaking. A fine tremor that runs through her whole body.
“Get into the tub.”
She glares at me, then walks to the tub, her movements stiff. She climbs in with her back to me, sinking into the water until it covers her to the shoulders. A brief sigh escapes her, probably relief at having somewhere to hide. She draws her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them, making herself as small as possible.
I turn the chair beside the fireplace to face her, then settle back into it.
She watches me from the tub, confusion flickering across her face. She expected me to follow, it’s written across her features. She thought I’d climb in and take what she agreed to give me. Instead, I’m sitting here, ten feet away, watching her.
“Wash yourself.”
“With you watching?”
“You watched me at the stream. Now I’m looking. Wash.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. She reaches for the soap, and starts with her arms, scrubbing quickly.
“Slower,Moirthalen. You’re not scrubbing a floor.”
Her hands pause. Her jaw tightens with an irritation she can’t hide. “I’m not performing for you.”
“Yes, you are. That’s what you agreed to.”
For a moment, I think she’s going to refuse. Then her hands start moving again, dragging the soap along her skin with more care. She washes her arms, her shoulders, the column of her throat. There’s something almost hypnotic about it, the slide of her hands over wet skin, the way the firelight catches the water droplets on her shoulders. She’s not looking at me. Her gaze is fixed on the water, on her own hands, on anything except me.
When she reaches her breasts, she hesitates.
“Keep going.”
Her eyes flash, but the soap moves over the curves of her chest. Her nipples harden further under her own touch, and her breath hitches slightly.
“Lower.”
Her hands slide down her stomach, dipping below the surface of the water.
“Slower.”
A small sound escapes her, but she obeys. The tension in her shoulders, the stiffness of her spine, makes it clear how much she hates this. Hates being watched, hates being told what to do, and hates that she agreed to any of it.
“Stop.”
Her hands still. I stand and begin to undress. Shirt first, pulling it over my head and letting her see the marks that trace across my chest, ribs, and arms—the black lines that speak of rank and victories, of battles fought before her grandmother’s grandmother was born. I’ve done this a thousand times. Stripped for someone’s pleasure, let them watch while I revealed myself piece by piece.
But those times I had no choice. The collar burned if I refused, and the alternative was worse than compliance.
This is different. This time, I’m the one who set the terms.
I unlace my boots and pull them off. Then my hands go to the laces of my pants … and I pause. For a moment I’m somewhere else—in a bedchamber with silk sheets and the cloying smell of perfume, with a woman who watches me out of hungry eyes while I strip.
I stop, and force myself to breathe. Focus on the floor beneath my feet, and the crackle of the fire behind me.
I’m here. In this room. And the female in the tub agreed to this.
I push the fabric down and step out.
Her eyes drop down to where I’m already hard and she looks away quickly. Then back. Then away again.
“You can look.” I’m surprised at how amused I sound.
