Her eyes return to my body like she can’t help herself, and a flush spreads down her throat and across her chest.
I cross to the tub and step in.
The water rises as I lower myself down, lapping at the copper walls and sloshing against her. I settle against the opposite end with my legs stretched out on either side of her, close enough that I could touch her if I wanted to.
I don’t. Not yet.
She’s pressed against the far end of the tub, her shoulders hunched, her arms still wrapped around her drawn up knees.
“Come here.”
She doesn’t move.
“Alleria.” I let her name fall off my tongue, low and dark. “Come here.”
Slowly, she uncurls herself and moves through the water toward me, reluctantly. When she’s close enough, I catch her hips and pull her over my legs. Her thighs spread over mine, her breasts press against my chest, and my erection is trapped between us, hard against the soft skin of her stomach.
She inhales sharply, every muscle in her body locking tight.
I keep my hands on her hips and hold still, letting her feel the heat of my skin against hers.
She won’t meet my eyes. Her hands hover at her sides, uncertain where to put them, and her breathing is shallow and quick.
I slide one hand up her side, over the curve of her ribs, and up until my fingertips skirt the edge of her breast. Goosebumps rise on her skin beneath my palm. My hand continues upward,over her shoulder, the side of her neck, until I can wrap my fingers into her hair, and tilt her head to one side, baring the long line of her throat.
The bruise I left there is dark against her pale skin. I lean in and press my mouth to it. A shiver runs through her, and her hands come up to brace against my shoulders. I don’t move, my lips resting against the mark I made, letting her pulse hammer against my mouth. Then I trace my tongue along the edge of it, and a small, startled sound escapes her.
Her fingernails bite into my shoulders. I ignore her, taking my time with her throat. There’s no rush. I have until sunrise, and I intend to use every moment of it. I work my way along her neck, up to her ear, making her breath catch, along her jaw, down to the hollow of her throat where the collar I gave her rests, and back to the pulse that flutters against my tongue.
By the time I lift my head, some of the tension has bled out of her body. Her head has fallen back, her eyes are closed, and her breathing has deepened, becoming slower and heavier. She’s not completely relaxed, but she’s no longer holding herself like she’s expecting me to hurt her.
“Put your hands on my chest.”
Her eyes open, and she blinks, then presses her palms flat against me in a hesitant move.
“Follow the marks with your fingertips.”
Her fingers find the edge of one of the black lines, one that curves from my shoulder down across my chest, and she traces it lightly. Down over my ribs, to where the mark branches and spreads, and back up to where another line cuts horizontally beneath my collarbone.
I watch her face as she explores me. The furrow of concentration between her brows. The way her lips have parted slightly. The curiosity that’s slowly replacing the fear in her eyes.
Her fingers brush my nipple and I inhale sharply before I can stop myself.
She pulls back, eyes darting to mine.
“Do it again.”
Her eyes search my face, but she does as I ask, slower this time, watching me as her fingers circle and press. Heat lances through me, and my hands tighten on her hips. She does it again … then again … each touch a little more confident, as she realizes she can affect me, that she has some power here.
Her other hand slides lower, following the mark that runs down my stomach. And stops.
Her fingers are inches away from where I’m pressed against her. The pulse in her neck is racing, and she’s looking at me now, uncertain what to do.
“Keep going.”
Her fingers stroke along my length, and then wrap around me. Her grip is too loose, holding me as though she’s not quite sure what to do. I cover her hand with mine, tightening her grip, and move her along me, up and down, in firm hard strokes. A rough sound escapes my throat.
Her eyes fly to my face, and she watches me, cataloging my reactions, noting what makes me groan, what makes my breath catch, and what makes my hips shift beneath her. The pressure builds with each stroke, and my head falls back against the edge of the tub, my eyes closing as I lose myself in her touch.
