"We don't have ta," Lorcan replies, settling behind me. His legs stretch on either side of mine as he leans back, pulling me with him until my back is settled against his chest. "If ya don't want to."
"Oh, I don't mind. In fact, this is… lovely. Nice. Grand, as you would say."
I can feel him chuckle as he grabs a bar of sweet-smelling soap from a dish on a black marble table next to the tub. "I don't know how Giovanni handles aftercare these days. Or Jino. But this is how I do it."
And then he begins to soap me up.
Just like Jino does.
Nothingat alllike Jino does.
Because Jino does it from outside the tub. At a distance.
Bathing, as far as Jino is concerned, is training.
Bathing, according to Saint Lorcan, is indulgence.
I sigh. Letting go of the stress that's kept me in a spiral for the last twenty-four hours.
"That's it," my Saint says. "Let it all go." He pushes me forward a little, breaking our skin-to-skin contact. And I'm just about to protest when a cupful of hot water is poured down the back of my head. "We're gonna wash away all your problems now,a stór…"
I close my eyes. Leaning forward, head bowed as he caresses me with cups of water poured over my body.
The tub fills.
I float.
He cleans me.
Washes away every single doubt in my head.
He shampoos and conditions my hair.
Combs it out.
Teases me a little between my legs with the bar of soap.
Fondles my breasts.
Talks to me in lyrical Irish words I have no hope of pronouncing, let alone understanding.
And the next thing I know, he's drying me off with a warm towel, pulling a t-shirt over my head, and putting me to bed.
He gets in the bed next to me.
We're going to sleep together. Not like slave and master. Not like subject and king.
Like…
The thought is so traitorous, I can't even think it.
17
The texture on my ceiling looks like an octopus—eight arms, bulbous head, the whole deal.
Fun facts about octopi: they have three hearts and are a symbol of erotic fantasies. Tentacle porn dates back to 1814.
Ask me how I know this.
