She turned her attention to his fingernails, where dried blood outlined the nail beds. His fall on the mountain had clearly hurt him worse than he’d wanted to mention. “Does this hurt?” she asked, running the rag gently into the crevices. Julian shook his head. After she finished one hand, she laid it against her cheek, reveling in the wide palms and calloused fingers.
He stroked her face with his thumb, and when she turned to his other hand, he let that one fall, tracing along her neck, her clavicle, her shoulder. His palm grazed her breast, and they both sucked in air at the contact, but he skimmed his hand back up to her hair, as if he wasn’t ready to go further.
But she was ready to go further. After she cleaned the other hand, she kissed the nail of his middle finger. His dark eyebrow went up, a spark evident in his eye. Slowly, experimentally, he pressed the finger on her bottom lip. She didn’t know how she knew what to do, only that he was asking for something, and she wanted to give it. She opened her mouth, and he slid his finger inside. The rough callous of his finger was a harsh texture against her tongue, and Julian exhaled sharply as she licked.
He withdrew his finger, and she rewet and rung the rag again, now with both of his hands roaming. Between her legs, her own pulse had quickened, and she felt a longing for what she had felt before. Starting at his neck, she drew lower, descending down towards his waistline. He groaned and one hand palmed her arse, while the other reached up to cup her breast.
Her eyes fluttered shut at his touch. So welcome. So wanted. “I’m never going to finish washing you at this rate.”
He chuckled and reached up to slip her dressing gown off her shoulders. It fell to the floor in a heap. Ophelia kicked it away. Julian pulled her down to take her nipple into his mouth through the sheer chemise fabric. After the physical abuse of the day, the sensation felt decadent. He kneaded her arse as he sucked, only making her feel drowsy with desire.
“I will have to clean you before you get into my bed,” she whispered, barely able to form words.
He grunted. “But you taste so good.” He took her other nipple into his mouth.
She let him go longer until she could barely stand it, wanting his fingers between her legs, wanting to have a turn enjoying his body as he enjoyed hers. “You must stand.”
With a frustrated groan, he pulled away, leaving two wet spots on her chemise and her nipples hard and aching. He stood, and there was a moment of delight for her to see how much taller he was. Broader. Different. She unbuttoned his trousers and let them fall.
She picked up the rag absently, staring at his cock jutting up out of the thick thatch of dark hair.
“Please don’t make me wait, Ophelia.”
She dragged her attention back up to his eyes, where she could see barely restrained desire. It matched hers. And she liked hearing him beg. She took the rag to his hips, and he gasped at the cool water combined with her hot touch. His thighs were corded with muscle, defined from hours spent in the mountains. She cleaned front and back, taking a moment to cup his firm arse as he had hers. The thought of him thrusting into her while she dug her fingers into his firm buttock was intoxicating.
Begrudgingly, she continued down to his shapely calves and then to his foot. And then she rewet the rag and started the process on the other side, lingering again on his thigh and his arse. A drop of liquid formed on his cock, which waved and pulsed of its own accord. “Do you not have control of it?” she asked as it bobbed.
He laughed hoarsely. “Not right now.”
After the other leg was clean, she rinsed the rag and set about cleaning the last spot. Gently, she brought it between his legs, cupping him there, and suddenly his hands gripped her wrist. He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes.
“Careful there. I want to be inside you, and I can’t if I climax too soon.”
“Guide me,” she said. Covering her hand with his, he pulled her slowly over his testicles and along the solid length of his cock. She couldn’t decide where to watch, the fascinating ways his cock changed with her hand, or the expression of pleasure on Julian’s beautiful face.
“I can’t last much longer, Ophelia, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t ever be sorry, Julian,” she said, taking the rag and dropping it back in the washbasin. She pulled him over to the narrow bed, and then took her chemise off. His rough hand skimmed the side of her body, his touch so light that her flesh prickled.
“Do you know how much I love you?” he asked, pulling at her hair, running his fingers down her neck. Every single one of his touches both more than she ever could have asked for, and yet, still not enough.
“You’ve never told me.” Her heart pounded harder, waiting to hear this one confirmation: that he did love her.
“I couldn’t sleep when we were apart. I thought of you constantly. I was so ashamed to think that I had hurt you, or belittled you, or ruined you.”
“The idea that I could be ruined is—”
He captured her mouth, thumbing her nipple and pulling her thigh around his. Her wetness caught the cool air of the room. “No politics. No world. Just us.”
“Just us,” she repeated and laid back onto the bed, pulling him on top of her. She liked the weight of him, the pressure of his body on hers, even though he braced himself on his elbows.
One hand drifted down her body and in between her legs. He stroked there, slow and full. She was exhausted and needy, straining and relaxed, and the opposing feelings quieted all her thoughts and stoked her desire more and more. She forced her eyes open, her muscles tensing.
“Are you almost there?” he asked.
“Yes,” she panted.
He stopped stroking with his hand, and instead gripped himself, using the head of his cock to run the length of her. “I’m glad you’re wet. I want us to be together when we climax.”
