"Tub or shower?" Luka turns back to me, head quirked to one side.
"Tub," I respond, when I spot the jets in the sides and the long bench seats.
"As you wish," he replies with a wink.
He brings our linked hands to his lips and places a quick kiss on my knuckles before he moves to the three faucets spaced around the tub and turns them on.
He helps me step into the tub, and I sink onto one of the seats as he strides off to a side cabinet.
"Robes in here. And towels. Do you want shower gel or something? Or plain soap?" Across the room, he bends to scan the options and looks just as serious about vanilla-jasmine scent versus peach-cinnamon as he does when he's explaining hand-to-hand combat.
His level of focus is a bit adorable.
"Just soap," I call out.
He pads back over with his arms full of things and lays them out as methodically as a surgeon. And overkill is an understatement. He's brought me three bars of soap and a liquid version, just in case I change my mind. He's got a loofah, a scrub brush that looks like it belongs outside next to a barbecue grill thatimmediately has me shaking my head, and four washrags from different sets of towels.
He holds up a rag in each hand. "Feel these. I think the left is thicker, but the right is softer. What do you prefer?"
I reach out and touch each one, surprised to find myself instantly repelled by the thicker rag. "Softer."
Luka responds calmly, "I thought so. Are your senses feeling heightened?"
I swirl my ankle in the water as I try to gauge whether or not that's the case. The rag thing was odd, but I'm not feeling overwhelmed by anything else at the moment. Other than my nearly nuclear emotional meltdown over nothing.
I glide my hands over the cool marble and swish my feet through the rising tide of warm water. Both feel as they should.
"I don't think so?" I reply.
But then he opens the soap.
One of the soaps was wrapped in a wax paper package; it likely came from one of those homemade hobby shops. One of my mother's rare indulgences is strolling through craft fairs for homemade soaps and candles. She loves the intensity of their scents. But the one Luka unwraps is a horrid, biting clove.
If life were a video game, evil green swirls would be erupting from that tiny bar.
My arm immediately flies up to cover my nose. "Not that one!"
With my nose still tucked into my elbow, I swipe my hand through the air in a gesture to tell him to get rid of it.
When I start to gag, he bolts for the door and chucks the entire bar out into the hall.
"It's gone. It's gone!"
A series ofthunkssounds as the soap hits the wall and then the floor as he shuts the door and swiftly searches for the fan switch.
Gradually, the horrid smell fades, and I glance up at him bashfully. "I guess I am feeling a little more sensitive than usual. Sorry."
He shakes his head as a tiny smile lights up his features. "Don't be sorry. You went into heat for us." His tone drops an octave as he strides closer. "You know what that means?"
That drop in his tone creates a wave of sensation that batters me with such intensity that my vision sways. My mouth pops open when he leans forward over the edge of the tub, one fingertip tracing the side of my face.
"It means you're ours."
Those claiming words set me on fire.
A flaming tornado whips wildly through my insides. Spinning and churning. Embers spitting and flying in every direction. Red flecks even speckle my vision as my fingertips feel like they're melting off. But the heart of this inferno is low in my belly. Right at my core. If I put my hand on my slit right now, I'd probably suffer third-degree burns.
Heated slick starts to collect, and a pulse rollicks through me.
