Page 125 of Of Masks and Fury

My breath shuddered out of me.

I turned again and ran my hands over his chest and shoulders. “My turn to wash you.”

He started to object, probably state some noble concern about letting me serve him, or perhaps remind me he was in control of this situation, but I cut him off with a look.

“I said it’s my turn,” I said firmly. “And I plan to be thorough.”

His expression shifted, his surprise giving way to heated interest. “How thorough?”

“Everywhere.” I traced one finger down the center of his chest, watching his pupils dilate. “I’m going to learn every scar and sensitive spot. I’m going to discover what makes the mighty rebel king beg.”

His breathing hitched. “Isi.”

“What’s wrong?” I let innocence color my voice while my hands mapped the hard planes of his abdomen. “Losing your nerve?”

“Never.” But his voice came out strained when I traced the line of muscle that disappeared beneath the water’s surface. “Just wondering what happened to my sweet princess.”

“She grew claws.” I nipped at his jaw. “And teeth.”

I cupped water in my palms and smoothed it over his skin, learning the landscape of him through touch.

When I reached the marks on his ribs, I paused. “Do they still hurt?”

“Sometimes. I’d take them again right now if it kept you safe.”

I kissed them again like he’d kissed my scars, my lips trailing over each line.

His hands fisted at his sides, his control fraying.

“Isi.” My name came out as warning and plea.

“Hmm?”

“You’re testing my restraint.”

“I don’t want your restraint.” I looked up at him through my lashes. “I want every wild and kind part of you.”

His control snapped. His hands shot out, gripping my hips and pulling me flush against him. The evidence of his desire pressed hard against my stomach.

“You have me,” he growled. “I’m yours to command, to break, or to bind. Whisper your desires, and I’ll kneel at your feet, worshiping your every curve.”

“Then kneel, my rebel king.”

His kiss was possessive, his tongue sweeping into my mouth as his hands roamed over my body. Every touch made my skin feel too tight, too hot.

I pressed closer, needing more contact, more of him.

“Hair,” he said against my mouth. “Need to wash your hair.”

“Later.”

“Now.” He pulled back, his breathing ragged. “Because if I don’t do this properly, I’m going to take you right here without finishing what I started, and you deserve better than that.”

The care in his voice undid me.

“Fine,” I said. “Wash my hair.”

His smile was full of pure masculine satisfaction. He guided me to a shallower part of the pool where I could sit on a submerged ledge. Then his fingers threaded into my tangled hair, working through the knots with surprising gentleness.