“In this much water?” I brush my palms over the sudsy puddle, popping the lingering bubbles. “I may like defying the odds, but—”
Please.
That single word makes me heft myself out of the bath and crawl into bed. I moan when the sheets kiss my skin and my cheek meets the pillow. “I’m broken, Morrgot. You broke me.”
I think I hear him sigh, but that sound could very well have come from my lips.
Rest, Behach Éan.
“You still haven’t told me what that means,” I mumble against the pillow.
If he does give me the answer, I’m too deeply gone to hear it.
Fifty-Seven
Iwake to the most divine feeling in the world—soft hands kneading the sore muscles of my back. I think I’ve died and gone to the overworld. Or I’m still asleep and this is a dream. Or Sewell is in my room.
That last one jars me awake. I turn, but there is only darkness behind me. I let my lids drift shut again and groan, willing the fantastic dream back.
As though by magic, the fingers reappear and trace the shape of my bones before dipping into knotted sinews and manipulating them until they soften like cocoa butter.
I’m sorry for being so harsh on you, Behach Éan.
Not only do I get a massage from a fantasy therapist, but I get an apology from my winged companion?
Best. Dream. Ever.
I sink into the straw mattress.
Sink into the phantom fingers plying my sore skin and the cool haze buffeting my nape.
“I’m not your enemy, Morrgot,” I murmur before untethering myself from the real world with all of its artifices and hurts to penetrate this dream one where only the pursuit of bliss and pleasure exists.
The hands coast down my back, drawing small, slow arcs along my spine. I stretch out onto my stomach to let my fantasy masseur have easier access, although fantasy masseurs probably don’t require easier access. They’re made of air and starlight—or something divine like that. I’ve no doubt their ethereal fingers could slip right through my rib cage and caress my heart.
The stroking halts at my waist, as though my illusory well-being attendant is hesitant to slip farther down my body.
I appreciate gallantry in real life, but, Gods . . . these imaginary hands have carte blanche to do whatever they please with my body.
“Don’t stop,” I whine.
I’m pretty certain I sound like a doxy, and that every one of my moans is resonating throughout my kind host’s house, yet I cannot seem to care.
The palms that had yet to move lower, finally glide across my waist, then past it, slipping down, down, down. In one smooth stroke, they reach my ankles, dip into the arch of my foot before sweeping back up the hills and hollows of my calves, thighs, and buttocks.
“Oh, Gods,” I moan.
This dream is almost better than the one I had about the canal water transforming into strawberry gelato.
The fingertips breeze across the outline of my body, gentle . . . gentle.
Scratch my previous contemplation.
This dream has my ice-cream kingdom beat.
Although I never want it to end, I slide into a vortex of pitch-darkness anew.
* * *
